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Ebook has 355 lines and 32975 words, and 8 pages

Illustrator: M. D. H.

Nearly Lost but Dearly Won

It's quite a good story, but I think its trouble is, that it is neither a book that would appeal directly to teenagers, which one supposes was its target audience, nor yet to young adults. There is nothing like the amount of action we saw in "Frank Oldfield."

NEARLY LOST BUT DEARLY WON

BY THE REVEREND T.P. WILSON, M.A.

ESAU TANKARDEW.

And yet Mr Tankardew was a man of education and a gentleman, and you knew it before you had been five minutes in his company. He was the owner of the house he lived in, on the outskirts of the small town of Hopeworth, and also of considerable property in the neighbourhood. Amongst other possessions, he was the landlord of two houses of some pretensions, a little out in the country, which were prettily situated in the midst of shrubberies and orchards. In one of these houses lived a Mr Rothwell, a gentleman of independent means; in the other a Mrs Franklin, the widow of an officer, with her daughter Mary, now about fifteen years of age.

Mr Tankardew employed no agent, but collected his own rents; which he required to be paid to himself half-yearly, in the beginning of January and July, at his own residence.

It was on one crisp, frosty, cheery January morning that Mr Rothwell, and his son Mark, a young lad of eighteen, were ushered into Mr Tankardew's sitting-room; if that could be properly called a sitting- room, in which nobody seemed ever to sit, to judge by the deep unruffled coating of dust which reposed on every article, the chairs included. Respect for their own garments caused father and son to stand while they waited for their landlord; but, before he made his appearance, two more visitors were introduced, or rather let into the room by old Molly, who, considering her duty done when she had given them an entrance into the apartment, never troubled herself as to their further comfort and accommodation.

A strange contrast were these visitors to the old room and its furniture. Mr Rothwell was a tall and rather portly man with a pleasant countenance, a little flushed, indicating a somewhat free indulgence in what is certainly miscalled "good living." The cast of his features was that of a person easy-going, good-tempered, and happy; but a line or two of care here and there, and an occasional wrinkling up of the forehead showed that the surface was not to be trusted. Mark, his son, was like him, and the very picture of good humour and light- heartedness; so buoyant, indeed, that at times he seemed indebted to spirits something more than "animal." But the brightness had not yet had any of the gilding rubbed off--everyone liked him, no one could be dull where he was. Mrs Franklin, how sweet and lovable her gentle face! You could tell that, whatever she might have lost, she had gained grace--a glow from the Better Land gave her a heavenly cheerfulness. And Mary--she had all her mother's sweetness without the shadow from past sorrows, and her laugh was as bright and joyous as the sunlit ripple on a lake in summer time.

The Rothwells and Franklins, as old friends, exchanged a hearty but whispered greeting.

"I daren't speak out loud," said Mark to Mary, "for fear of raising the dust, for that'll set me sneezing, and then good-bye to one another; for the first sneeze 'll raise such a cloud that we shall never see each other till we get out of doors again."

"O Mark, don't be foolish! You'll make me laugh, and we shall offend poor Mr Tankardew; but it is very odd. I never was here before, but mamma wished me to come with her, as a sort of protection, for she's half afraid of the old gentleman."

"Your first visit to our landlord, I think?" said Mr Rothwell.

"Yes," replied Mrs Franklin. "I sent my last half-year's rent by Thomas, but as there are some little alterations I want doing at the house, and Mr Tankardew, I'm told, will never listen to anything on this subject second-hand, I have come myself and brought Mary with me."

"Just exactly my own case," said Mr Rothwell; "and Mark has given me his company, just for the sake of the walk. I think you have never met our landlord?"

"No, never!--and I must confess that I feel considerably relieved that our interview will be less private than I had anticipated."

The room in which he met his tenants was thoroughly in keeping with its owner: old and dignified, panelled in dark wood, with a curiously-carved chimneypiece, and a ceiling apparently adorned with some historical or allegorical painting, if you could only have seen it.

How Mr Tankardew got into the room on the present occasion was by no means clear, for nobody saw him enter.

Mark suggested to Mary, in a whisper, that he had come up through a trap door. At any rate he was there, and greeted his visitors without embarrassment.

"Pray don't mention it," replied both his tenants, and then proceeded to business.

The rent had been paid and receipts duly given, when the old man raised his eyes and fixed them on Mary's face. She had been sitting back in the deep recess of a window, terribly afraid of a mirthful explosion from Mark, and therefore drawing herself as far out of sight as possible; but now a bright ray of sunshine cast itself full on her sweet, loving features, and as Mr Tankardew caught their expression he uttered a sudden exclamation, and stood for a moment as if transfixed to the spot. Mary felt and looked half-confused, half-frightened, but the next moment Mr Tankardew turned away, muttered 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."

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.

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 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, you must exert yourselves, you know it only comes once a year."

"Ay, once too often, mamma!"

"I'm sure," cries little Alice, "I shall enjoy the party very much: it'll be jolly, as Mark says, only I wish I wasn't so tired just now: ah! Dear me!"

"Oh! Child, don't yawn!" says her mother; "you'll make me more fatigued than I am, and I'm quite sinking now. Jane, do just pour me out another glass of sherry. Thank you, I can sip a little as I want it. Take some yourself, my dear, it'll do you good."

"And me too, mamma," cries Alice, stretching out her hand.

"Really, Alice, you're too young; you mustn't be getting into wanting wine so early in the day, it'll spoil your digestion."

"Oh! Nonsense, mamma! Everybody takes it now; it'll do me good, you'll see. Mark often gives me wine; he's a dear good brother is Mark."

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