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Updated: June 29, 2025
"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?"
"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.
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.
"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." Mrs Rothwell sighs, and takes a sip of sherry: she is beginning to brighten up.
"This way, this way," said Mr Tankardew, utterly unmoved by the expression of angry astonishment on the face of Mark Rothwell at the sudden conversion of his cup of liquid fire into harmless flame "Come this way, come this way, Mrs and Miss Franklin: Tom, give me the lantern, I'll take the ladies to Sam Hodges' farm, and do you be so good as to see this young gentleman across to the `Wheatsheaf'; Jones will look well after them all, I know."
The gardener hearing the cries hurried up, and, lending his powerful help, Mary was delivered from her peril, and was carried, fainting and bruised, into the house by her two rescuers, before Mark Rothwell had fairly recovered himself from the fall which John Randolph had given him in his haste.
Rothwell, this is Mr. Richard Copplestone, author of the new play that Mr. Oliver's going to produce next month. Mr. Copplestone got a wire from him yesterday, asking him to come here today at one o'clock, He's travelled all night to get here."
The little brook had become a torrent deep and strong. "Oh! For goodness' sake, stop! Stop! Let us get out," screamed the Misses Rothwell. "In with it! In with it!" roared Mark to the driver; "dash through like a trump." "Tchuck, tchuck," was the half-drunken driver's reply, as he lashed his horses and urged them into the stream. Down they went: splash! Dash! Plunge!
I resolved when I heard it that never would I under any circumstances offer intoxicating drinks to others, as I had previously, while myself a total abstainer, occasionally done." "But surely," said Mr Rothwell, "we are not answerable for the abuse which others may make of what is lawful and useful if taken in moderation.
How unjust!" exclaimed Mary, when Mr Tankardew was gone. "Poor Mark! Every one strikes at him." But was it cruel? was it unjust? Let us go with Mark Rothwell himself, as he leaves his house that very night, sneaking out at the backdoor like a felon.
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