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Certainly, Mr Tankardew was not a pattern of cleanliness, either in his house or his person. Someone had said of him sarcastically, "that there was nothing clean in his house but his towels;" and there was a great deal of truth in the remark. He seemed to dwell in an element of cobwebs; the atmosphere in which he lived, rather than breathed, was apparently a mixture of fog and dust.
Mrs Franklin said some kind words expressive of her pleasure in seeing the gratification Mr Tankardew felt in this renewal of acquaintance. "Ah! Yes," said the old man; "you may well say gratification. Why, I've known this young gentleman's father ever since I can remember.
"No, never! and I must confess that I feel considerably relieved that our interview will be less private than I had anticipated." Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr Tankardew himself. He was tall and very grey, with strongly-marked features, and deeply-furrowed cheeks and forehead.
Mark crept close up to Mary and squeezed his white gloves into ropes; the next moment Mr Tankardew entered. Marvellous transformation! The faded garments had entirely disappeared. Was this the man of dilapidation? Yes, it was Mr Tankardew.
Several weeks had passed by after the accident and timely rescue, weeks of anxious watching and tender nursing, before Mary Franklin was sufficiently recovered from the shock and injuries she had received to appear again among her friends. Many had been the inquiries made by Mark and Mr Tankardew, and once or twice by John Randolph.
Mrs Franklin sighed, and Mary looked very thoughtful. Mr Tankardew was about to speak when a faint halloo was heard above the noise of the storm, which was now again raging without. All paused to listen. It was repeated again, and this time nearer. "Somebody missed his road, I should think," said Mr Tankardew. "Maybe, sir; I'll go out and see."
"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."
These were produced, and were principally in water colours, evidently being the work of a master's hand. As he turned to a rather un-English scene, the young artist sighed and said, "I have some very sad remembrances connected with that sketch." "Pray let us have them," said Mr Tankardew.
He was, besides, an excellent performer on the flute, and would sometimes come over on lesson mornings and accompany her, much to the annoyance of her instructor. On one of these occasions, a little more than a year after the party at his house, Mr Tankardew was present, having made an unusually early call. When he was gone, the old man looked keenly at mother and daughter.
Mark stretched out the cup towards her, but before a drop could be taken the tall stranger had stepped forward, and snatching it, had emptied its contents on the glowing coals. Up there shot a brilliant dazzling flame to the smoky roof, and in that vivid blaze Mrs Franklin and Mary both recognised in their timely helper none other than Mr Esau Tankardew.
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