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Mark contrived to throw himself a good deal in her way at this time, far more than her mother liked, but Mr Rothwell himself seemed bent on promoting the intimacy, and his son laid himself out to please. There was, moreover, rankling in Mary's heart the impression that Mark was being harshly judged by her mother; this helped to draw her closer to him.
"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."
He turned to Rothwell for a moment. "If he should turn up here, 'phone to Waters at the Northborough theatre, won't you?" he said. "We'll look in there as soon as we arrive." He hurried out with Copplestone and together they drove up to the station, where an express was just leaving for the south. Once on their way to Northborough, Stafford turned to his companion with a grave shake of the head.
"A pleasant sight, these little ones enjoying themselves," said Mr Rothwell, coming up. Mr Tankardew seemed scarcely to hear him, and returned to his place by Mrs Franklin. "Enjoying themselves!" he exclaimed, in an undertone, "call it pampering the flesh, killing the soul, and courting the devil."
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.
Mary and her mother are sitting together, the former adding some little adornments to her evening dress, and the latter knitting. "Don't you like Mark Rothwell, mamma?" "No, my child." "Oh! Mamma! What a cruelly direct answer!" "Shouldn't I speak the direct truth, Mary?" "Oh! Yes, certainly the truth, only you might have softened it off a little, because I think you must like some things in him."
Rothwell came hurrying on to the stage from the opposite wings. He hastened across to Stafford and drew him and Copplestone a little aside. "I've heard from Northborough," he said. "I 'phoned Waters, the manager there, to run across to the 'Golden Apple' and make inquiries. The 'Golden Apple' people say that Oliver left there at eleven o'clock yesterday morning. He was alone.
"Well, then he was at Northborough at that time," remarked Rothwell. "Look here, Stafford, we'd better telephone to Northborough, to his hotel. The 'Golden Apple, wasn't it?" "No good," replied Stafford, shaking his head. "The 'Golden Apple' isn't on the 'phone old-fashioned place. We'd better wire." "Too slow," said Rothwell.
"Well," said Mr Rothwell, "I suppose it won't do to decline; the old gentleman means it, no doubt, as an attention, and it would not be politic to vex him." "I am sure, my dear," said his wife, "I can't think of going. I shall be bored to death; you must make my excuses and accept the invitation for the girls.
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.
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