John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

CHAPTER IX.

A RIFT IN THE CLOUD.

ON the day after his return to Oxford, John Tincroft entered upon his temporary lodgings at Jericho—an outlying district of the university city. I need not stop to explain how it came to bear this Oriental name.

On taking possession of the little sitting-room, John made a great show of literary industry. He covered the round table with papers, and all the minuter paraphernalia of a diligent student. He piled up his books of reference and instruction within reach of his hand, when seated at the aforesaid table, in the arm-chair placed at his disposal. He hung upon the walls his store of maps and diagrams of the Indian dependencies and their cities; and he rather ostentatiously displayed, spread open on a second chair, his bulky dictionary of some unknown tongue, perhaps (for who is without some weakness?) to strike with astonishment the brisk college scout, should he happen to enter the room in his absence, or the equally brisk little wife who undertook to take care of the lodger's apartments, also of his outer and his inner man.

For Barry was a married man, without encumbrances however; much to the comfort of the student, to whom a squalling infant would at that time have been, as he said, an unbearable nuisance.

The little wife, though she kept no servant girl, was not the only female in the establishment, as Tincroft soon learned. There was upstairs, in a back apartment, a mysterious old lady, the mother of the Oxford scout. I say mysterious, simply because John Tincroft chose to make a mystery of her, on the ground that he had been in the enjoyment of his lodgings some days before he heard of her existence, and because he was then told that she very rarely left her room. Once, indeed, as he was ascending from his room below to his chamber above, he caught a glimpse on the landing-place of a very broad back and shoulders in feminine gear, and a high white muslin cap above the shoulders; but these disappeared within the doorway of the back apartment before he arrived at the top stairs, and for that time, and during the whole time of his sojourn in Jericho, he beheld the vision no more. It did not matter to him, John thought, and as he dismissed the mystery from his mind as soon as formed, we also may dismiss it too for the present.

Great as was the show our friend Tincroft made of his studious inclinations and intentions, he was never less inclined to set to work than at this present time; and when he forced himself to begin, his vagrant thoughts perpetually forced him to lay down his books or his pen (whichever might be in his hand) in despair.

"For which I ought to be whipped if there were anybody to take me in hand," quoth John to himself, in a scold.

But there was not anybody to do it, so the experiment was not tried. Perhaps it would have failed if it had been, for John's wandering ideas were very stubborn, though they were limited to two or three separate topics.

First of all, his failure at Saddlebrook dwelt on his mind. Up to the time of that excursion into Sussex, Tincroft had thought but lightly of his chances of success in the Chancery suit. Possibly he might win, and then so much the better. But the greater probability was that he would lose, so his guardian had always averred; for what chance had he against his prosperous rival and competitor? True, he had occasionally boasted, as to Mark Wilson, for instance, of his great prospects; but this was with the natural desire, and yielding to the natural temptation, to stand at as high a figure as he could in the eyes of that besotted lump of humanity, as the guest of his friend and Mark's landlord, Grigson; and not himself believing in his own "tall talk."

The truth is, John would have abandoned the suit on his first coming of age, or would have sold his pretensions for a very inconsiderable sum of money down, if he could have thus got rid of any future demands on his purse. But he was told then that neither of these courses could be thought of, and that the suit must be carried on. Now, however, a little clearer light had broken in upon his dull comprehension. Mr. Roundhand's explanations had done something in this direction. There wanted only one link, it seemed, in the chain of evidence, and this had been almost in his grasp, but not quite. His expectations had been raised, but only to be disappointed. No doubt the lawyer had, since his return, endeavoured to raise his hope that something might be made of the Saddlebrook notes of his clerk. But Tincroft saw, or thought he saw, that this was to let him down gently. At any rate, he did not implicitly believe in Mr. Roundhand's representations.

But, notwithstanding this, since the vision of property, if not, of great wealth, had loomed with more distinctness on his mind, he could not help thinking what a very pleasant thing it would be, could these expectations be realised. The ideal of a leisurely life of ease had grown upon him more distinctly during his visit to the Manor House in—no, I shall not write the name—in that distant county.

His destination to India had never been very much to John's taste. There was too much work in it, both present and in prospect, to suit his inherent love of inertness and ease—an inclination probably inherited from his father, the literary busy idler. It was not then, as it once had been, or was supposed to have been, that a man had only to get to India and shake the pagoda tree, and then come home with a disordered liver and a fabulous fortune. John, dull as he was, knew better than this; and only for the necessity laid upon him by circumstances, he would willingly long ago have abandoned his Oriental studies and prospects.

And during his sojourn in the Manor House, John had seen so much that was inviting in a life of moneyed ease, that he had thought how cruel it was to be shut out from it. Not that he would ever have emulated or imitated Mr. Richard Grigson in his preposterous activity, with his hunting, and shooting, and cricketing, and other unnecessary occupations, which his (John's) soul abhorred. But to have a quiet home, a sufficient income, a tolerable library, gardens and greenhouses, a corresponding establishment of servants, and—to crown all—a wife!

Poor John Tincroft! Take which way he would to it, there was the ultimatum of bliss—those pretty curls, those bright and beaming eyes, those soft cheeks and pouting lips, that alabaster neck, those gentle hands!

And so, travelling from Tincroft house and estate to Saddlebrook, and from Saddlebrook to Oxford, and from Oxford to Calcutta, or elsewhere in India, and then back again in a trice to Blankshire in England, John Tincroft's vagabond imagination never halted till it rested on that ark of no promise to him, the shabby parlour of High Beech farmhouse, with its knobby-seated chair.

IL was to no purpose that John argued within himself, as he sometimes did, that all this was vain and even sinful.

"I verily believe," said he to himself on one occasion, "that I am led captive of the devil at his will," and he dashed the book he was trying to read on to the floor with such violence that little Mrs. Barry rushed from the kitchen below in alarm to ask if anything was the matter, which for the time brought John to his senses.

But again and again, day after day, the image of the enchantress rose before his thoughts; and not the less so that he well knew, as a man and a gentleman, that Sarah Wilson could be no more to him than a bewitching and distracting though delightful memory of the past.

Thus three or four weeks passed away, with little addition to John Tincroft's stores of Oriental erudition; and the time came when he must quit the retirement of Jericho for the more classic shades of Queen's College, with his two solitary rooms therein. Meanwhile, as he was contemplating this flight, the following epistle reached him:

   "DEAR TINCROFT,—This has been a horrid bad season for birds (videlicet, partridges). The wet weeks at hatching time, and the rats and weasels, have brought down our bags to a minimum. I was out all day, the 25th inst., and only bagged a brace and a half. Luckily, there is a good promise of pheasants; and pheasant-shooting, you know, begins to-morrow. And then there's a splendid lot of hares, to say nothing of foxes, on Dick's happy hunting-ground. So I don't mean to see Oxford till Lent term begins. I shan't lose much by dropping Michaelmas term, I reckon; and I shall manage to get an excuse."

   "Please make all needful arrangements about my rooms and books, and so forth, and call on Dry, my tailor, in the High Street, and one or two others that you know of, to set their minds at rest that I haven't run away."

   "There is not much going on down here. Rubric isn't come back yet from the Continent, and we have got a Cambridge man to do duty for him—a good sort of fellow enough, but he can't shoot."

   "The harvest is all got in now, though a late one, and the wheat has turned out an average crop, Dick says. Ditto the barley; and turnips are splendid. But I forget, you are no Agricola. I wish I was going to be one, that's all."

   "By the way, I have been over to the Mumbles a few times since you ran away from us. I wish you had gone; I should like to have your opinion of Kate Elliston."

   "Dick sends his messages, and says when you like to have another turn out, you know the way to, and the ways of, Liberty Hall. So says also—"

"TOM GRIGSON."

Matters were not much improved with Tincroft when he got, back to his old rooms at Queen's—not at first, that is; but gradually, he slid back into his old habits, and, partially at least, forgot the disturbances of the last three months of his existence. In other words, there was a lull in the visible current of the maelstrom, that was all.

One day came the scout Barry to his room, with a face full of importance.

"Very busy, Mr. Tincroft?"

"Not very—not more than usual. What is it, Barry?"

"I wouldn't trouble you, sir; but my mother is in such a way."

"Your mother?"

"She keeps going on at me for not telling her before. You know my mother, sir?"

"I can't say that I do," said John, wondering whether the scout had lost his senses. "I know you have a mother—that is, I heard as much from your wife while I was staying at Jericho. But I never had the pleasure of seeing her, except, to be sure, her back once," added John, with a strict regard to veracity.

"That's very true, sir. You see she doesn't like to be stared at, mother doesn't; that's why, Mr. Tincroft."

"Was she afraid that your lodger would stare at her?" asked John, without much apparent curiosity.

"Well, partly, sir; otherwise, she is afraid of being stared at when she goes out, which she never does if she can help it, letting alone the getting up and down stairs."

"Ah! How so?" asked John, crossing his legs, and biting the feather end of his pen.

"The truth is, she is so uncommon stout, and she doesn't like it to be seen or known. It isn't her fault, sir; she starves herself to keep it down: that's what mother does. But the more she starves, the fatter she gets, poor thing," said Barry, pathetically.

"Oh," said John, "then I think I should leave off starving myself if I were in her place."

"That's what I tell her, but what's the use? None at all," remarked the affectionate son, in a tone of pathetic remonstrance. "But that's neither here nor there," added he, reverting to his primary topic. "Mother's uncommon sorry she didn't know about who it was had our rooms till you was gone, not till a week ago: and ever since she has been going on in a way, sir; ever since she knowed you was a Tincroft."

"And why—why?" asked John, with a new interest awakened. "I mean, what reason has she to care about my being a Tincroft?"

"Well," said Scout, "that's what I wanted to know of mother."

"Yes; well?"

"Oh!" says mother. "I have known Tincrofts before in my time. You see, sir, before mother got so overgrowed with starving, she was out and about a good deal, here and there as a monthly—" and here Mr. Barry jerked his head once or twice knowingly—

("Monthly! What's that?" John put to himself, mentally, for the term was lost upon him. Not to appear ignorant, however, he nodded his head, too; and Barry went on.)

"And so got acquainted with a many high families. And by reason of this," continued the dutiful, "she laid up a good bit of money against the rainy day; so now she lives comfortable if it wasn't for her fatness, which is none of her choosing, if you'll believe me, sir."

John Tincroft showed no signs of disbelief, so Mr. Barry still proceeded.

"The house we live in is mother's, sir; she bought it and paid for it, and set me up with furniture, wife and all, fifteen years ago, bless her; and I'm down in her will for everything when she dies, which," added the son, "won't be for many years to come, if God pleases. Only as she is five-and-seventy, if ever a day, and with her fat, too, much isn't to be expected."

"I dare say not," said John, dreamily, for he was wondering what would come next. Then he added, "And your good mother, did you say she wishes to see me?"

"Ever since she heard of your being a Tincroft, sir; and more particularly when I happened to mention your having come up from Sussex, where you had been on some law business, as you told me, sir. I hope there was no harm in mentioning that?" said Barry, solicitously.

"None at all."

"Thank ye, sir."

"But why should the old lady be concerned about my having been down to Sussex?" John wanted to be told.

"Why, sir, she says of course then you must be one of the Sussex Tincrofts, begging your pardon for using mother's words."

"Oh! No harm in that; and as to that, I am one of the Sussex Tincrofts, the only one left," said John. "Did she say any more?" he asked, his interest growing stronger.

"Yes, sir. She asked your given name; and when I said it was John, she was rather put out, and said it ought to have been Josiah, or else Makepeace."

John Tincroft started from his chair, and then took what Barry afterwards described as "three skips and a jump to the window just like a flea." And as that useful personage was bedmaker by profession, there was less that was startling and odd in his simile. After looking out of the window, and making sure that the dome of the Radcliffe Library was in its proper place, he turned again to the half-alarmed scout, with a—

"Dear me, Barry! Why, my father's name was Josiah, and my grandfather's was Makepeace. And what came next?" he demanded, wildly.

"Why, sir, she said she nursed a little Josiah Tincroft when he was brought into the world, and Makepeace Tincroft was his father."

"Come with me, Barry; come with me this instant," shouted John, as, rushing to the scout and clutching his arm, he dragged him to the door. "You must go with me to my lawyer, Roundhand, you know, in St. Aldates."

"Yes, sir, yes, certainly, Mr. Tincroft; but won't you put on your cap and gown, sir?"

"Ah! Yes, yes," and John relinquished his hold.

"And excuse me, sir, you have only got your slippers on. Here are your boots, Mr. Tincroft."

"Thank you, Barry. Ah! I forget myself sometimes," said John, as he properly equipped himself. "And now I am ready," he added.

"But, Barry," said he, as they, having taken a short cut, were crossing the Peckwater Quadrangle of Christ Church, "there must be some mistake, I think. For I happen to know that the nurse's name on that occasion was Elizabeth Foold; and your mother's is Barry."

"That's just it, sir," replied the scout, without showing any symptoms of surprise, happening to be tolerably well acquainted with John's absence of mind. "You see most girls or women take another name when they get married; and that's how mother's name is Barry now. Otherwise for five-and-thirty years or more, before she fell in with my father (and lost him ten years after), her name was Elizabeth Foold; and so it stands in her old Bible and her Rippon's hymn-book, that she used to take to chapel with her. For mother's a Baptist, sir; but a good woman for all that, and one that would not deceive you for anything you could name, Mr. Tincroft—not if she knew it."

The information conveyed to Mr. Roundhand by his client and the unexpected witness was too important, as well as welcome, not to be immediately turned to account. Proceeding at once to Jericho, and the old lady having forgotten or overcome her aversion to being made a sight of in her eagerness to behold the grandson of the "dear good gentleman, Makepeace Tincroft, and his lovely, patient Susannah," the two visitors were at once admitted to an audience.

"To think—" exclaimed the amiable obesity, as she filled up the whole space of a ponderous and well-seasoned and doubly-strengthened easy-chair, large enough to accommodate a pair of ordinary-sized mortals with comfort, "To think," said she, as tears of gladness rolled down her plump cheeks, "that I should ever be permitted to set eyes on the only son of that dear little infant that I fed with pap, yes I did, more than fifty years ago! And he is gone, the poor dear! Ah, well, we must all go, my dear," she added, addressing John; "some sooner, some later—"

"Like crowded forest trees we stand
    And some are marked to fall."

"It is a blessed thing to be prepared, my dear."

It was a little while before the old lady could be made fully to comprehend what was wanted of her. But as soon as the matter was explained by the lawyer, she entered into it with great heartiness. Even the terrors of having to take a journey to London, and give evidence before the Lord Chancellor or his Vice, were counterbalanced by the ardent desire to see dear little Josiah's son righted. Meanwhile she recognised, and was ready to swear before the Mayor of Oxford to her signature on the certificate. And in confirmation of truthfulness, in respect of that handwriting, she produced her old pocket Bible and her Rippon's hymn-book, in which her name was written in full. Manifestly the writing tallied.

The reader will be mistaken, however, if he thinks that the way was even yet clear for the ending of the Chancery suit. Like a wounded snake, it dragged its slow length along more than two years before it was finally settled.

And we must refer the curious inquirer to the law reports of that time for further particulars. We also must leave John Tincroft to his interrupted Oriental studies—if he still pursued them—for a space of three months or thereabouts, while we take up another of the threads of our story.

CHAPTER X.

IN THE FILBERT ALLEY.

"AND this is all you have to say to me, Sarah?"

"It is all I mean to say about the miserable affair, Walter. If you like to believe me, you can; and if you won't believe me, you may leave it alone."

"And you won't make any confession or apology?"

"What have I got to confess, Walter? And what apology do you expect me to make, I should like to know?"

"Didn't you encourage that college man to come to see you? Didn't you have games with him here in this very garden, and this very walk, and in that very summer-house?" asked poor Walter Wilson, bitterly.

"If you think I did, sir," retorted his cousin, passionately, "it is time we parted."

"Parted, Sarah?"

"Yes, parted for ever. If you choose to believe others before me, it shows you haven't much love for me left."

"You don't mean what you say, I am sure, Sarah," exclaimed the bewildered lover.

"Yes, I do; and a good deal more, if I choose to say it. And I will say it," passionately responded the young lady, who, though equally agitated and troubled, was not going to show it, as she afterwards declared. "Yes, I will say it; and I say that you have used me very badly, Walter Wilson, to be hearing all the ill-natured, spiteful, mean stories Elizabeth has been all along stuffing you up with. Here you have been days and days in this very place, and never coming near me—"

"I have been at my father's house, my old home," put in Walter.

"Yes, you have, I know; and you have been listening to all their wicked inventions about me."

"I had a right to know what father and mother had got to say, let alone Elizabeth and the rest," pleaded the young man, thus put upon his defence.

"No, you hadn't when it was about me; you know you hadn't. I was the first you ought to have come to, and would have come to if you hadn't been tired of me, and wanted to get rid of me. But I know what it is, that Mary Burgess—"

Walter started from Sarah's side—they had been walking in the old lovers' walk side by side, but not arm-in-arm, or arm-encircled—and paced several steps rapidly forward. Then he turned, but did not retrace his steps.

"Have you anything more to say?" he asked, hoarsely.

"Yes, I have, and I will say it. Wasn't it mean of you to be making up to another, and all the while—" She almost broke down here, for her voice faltered, but she presently rallied again and went on, scarcely knowing what she said, or how she said it, "And wasn't it mean of that Mary Burgess—"

"Silence!" shouted Walter, as much beside himself, as Sarah was beside herself. "If you knew as much of that—that young person as I do, you would be sorry for ever having had a hard thought of her. She is as much above me, to say nothing of other things that you don't know of—"

"As I am below you, you mean. Well, I always did hear it said of you that you would be sure to rise in the world, Walter Wilson, so no wonder you are looking above you," cried Sarah, with an attempt at witticism which was a lamentable failure, for she burst into a flood of hysterical tears.

Walter walked further away, partly perhaps to avoid seeing this sudden distress, and partly to recover himself. When he presently returned to where the damsel was yet standing, only the traces of tears remained.

"Let us talk over the matter coolly," he said, "and understand one another."

"Yes, it is all very well for you to say 'talk it over coolly' after going about taking away my character."

"Which I have not done," said Walter.

"You have, and you know it—writing to Mr. Rubric, and all, to find out what he had got to say against me. You can't deny that you did."

"I do not intend to deny it, Sarah. I told you just now that I wrote to him two months ago."

"And wasn't that mean?"

I shall write down no more of this lovers' quarrel, which began in this wise.

During the interval which has been occupied by several of our preceding chapters, and while our friend Tincroft was pursuing his investigations in Sussex, and afterwards quietly settling himself down at Queen's, poor Walter was fretting and fuming under the smart of wounded love, and nursing his wrath against the unhappy damsel, who was as yet unconscious that she had given such grievous offence to her lover. This wrath increased in strength as week after week passed without a reply from Mr. Rubric to the letter which, as our readers are aware, that gentleman had not received.

"I won't write to her again till these stories have been properly contradicted and cleared up," said he to himself.

And the blank silence on his part was met by a corresponding determination on that of his betrothed, who said within herself, as weeks slipped by and no letter reached High Beech Farm—for her at least, "So, my gentleman is in the sulks, is he? I shall wait till he is out of them, then; for I am not going to write to him again till he has written to me."

Poor Sarah had, in fact, enough to think about and to do without writing love-letters. The busy harvest-time gave her abundant employment as a farmer's daughter; and the culminating ruin which hung over her home occupied more and more of her thoughts, as she more clearly saw that that ruin could not be much longer staved off. While good average crops, as we have seen, were being gathered in all the country round, Mark Wilson's farm presented as miserable a specimen of bad husbandry and neglect as could have been met with in a day's march. Poor lean crops overrun with weeds were the rule from one end of the arable land to the other; and Sarah well knew—for who could help knowing?—that the small amount of money the corn would bring in, when thrashed, would not be a tithe that was wanted to clear her father from his accumulated and constantly accumulating difficulties.

And as to Mark, he was becoming more and more infatuated in his vicious course; and it was openly talked about now that at Christmas time the squire would distrain for his rent, and that at Ladytide, when the lease was out, Mark Wilson would have to turn out of High Beech, beggared by his own folly and sin.

No wonder, then, that seeing all this before her, Sarah had but little mind for thinking on anything besides.

Walter might have reflected on all this; but he did not. He must have known how near his uncle's ruinous course was drawing to an end; but his knowledge made but little difference to his state of feeling at that time. There is a form of arrogant egotism not unfrequently to be witnessed. Do we not know that there are persons who, though in some respects estimable, set themselves and their own fancied demands upon others, as above all other considerations, small or large?

"Oh yes," says one; "I knew your son was seriously ill, and you feared he would not recover; but that was no reason why I shouldn't have been attended to directly I wrote to you."

"To be sure," says another, "I daresay you were overwhelmed with family cares at that time, and didn't know which way to turn to make the most of the little time on your hands at that juncture; but I'll never forgive you, if you don't write a humble apology for neglecting to walk three miles out and home, and waste half a day, when I invited you, and indeed made a point of requesting you to come to my house."

I am afraid there was a little too much of this exacting spirit in Walter Wilson at all times, and especially at the time to which our history has brought us. It need scarcely be added that in indulging such a disposition, a man becomes his own worst enemy and tormentor.

"I won't write another line to her till she writes again to me, or not till I have heard from Mr. Rubric," said Walter, and he stuck to his determination.

Meanwhile, if Sarah and Mr. Rubric did not write, others did. To be sure, there was nothing new to be told about Sarah's "goings on;" but the old stories could be repeated. And besides this, every letter from his home now teemed with prognostications, ripened into certainties of "Uncle Mark's" speedy downfall, as well as details of his "shameful, disgraceful doings." And in the more recent ones, Walter was informed that "father has pretty near as good as got Squire Grigson's promise of High Beech Farm when uncle is turned out."

"I can't bear this any longer," said Walter one day to his two counsellors, as they sat together. "I shall go home and see all about it."

"I should if I were you, Walter," responded Ralph. "Don't you think so too, Mary?"

Mary was not quite sure. "You have not written to your cousin since you received her last letter—the one you gave us to read," she said.

"No, Miss Burgess, I haven't," replied Walter, bluntly.

"And that letter came nearly two months ago."

"Yes, I daresay it was as long ago as that. It seems to me a good bit longer," quoth he.

"Don't you think you ought to have answered it?" she asked, insinuatingly.

"I don't. What could I say, after reading that and Elizabeth's? Besides, I have been waiting to hear from Mr. Rubric; and he hasn't written."

"Which seems odd and suspicious, as if he had nothing pleasant to tell you, and doesn't want to make further mischief," added Ralph.

"I do not see that that follows," rejoined May. "He may be away from home, or ill, or may have mislaid your letter, or altogether forgotten it. I should rather think either of these things than what Ralph says, if I were you, Walter. And then as to what you could, or could not, write to your cousin, would it not have been a good plan to have told her what has been on your mind, and asked her to tell you faithfully whether she wishes to break off the connection? I am a poor, inexperienced hand in these affairs," added the invalid, with a pleasant smile, which had no unhappiness or regret in it; "but I fancy that in love, as in everything also, open straightforwardness is the best plan to adopt."

"Just so, and as it is never too late to mend, that's the plan I mean to adopt now. Not in writing—I don't meant that, for letters may get twisted about any way and every way, so as to read crooked. No, I'll go and see into it all myself, offhand. We are not quite so busy now, you know, Ralph, and I can be spared for a week or two, eh?"

"My dear fellow, you needn't ask that question. Go, by all means; I'll work for us both till you come back," said Ralph, heartily.

And so it was decided that Walter should start early in the next week, which he did, the last words of his friend Miss Burgess, as she bade him good-bye, being, "Speak kindly to your cousin, Walter, and don't suffer yourself to be set against her by anything you hear behind her back; but go and see her at once, and get her explanation of all that has happened; and be sure you think kindly of her, and be kind to her. Remember she is a woman, and is young, and is to be your wife some day."

And Walter, perhaps, meant to do and be all this; but when he arrived at his home, late one evening—too late to go up to High Beech then—he suffered to be poured into his ears a great deal more than I should think proper to write. And after this he was the more easily persuaded by his sister to put off seeing Sarah till he had examined certain witnesses whom she had taken care to subpœna, and had heard what they had got to say. This took up two or three days. And then he might as well go and see Mr. Rubric, who by this time had returned from his foreign tour, and of whose long absence from his parish Walter was now, for the first time, made aware.

Now, Mr. Rubric was a good, kind-hearted sort of gentleman, and the perusal of Walter's letter, which he had received only a few days before, after its long wanderings, had thrown him into grave perplexity, for he was as conscientious as he was good-natured; and this unexpected visit from the young man increased that feeling. He would gladly have assured Walter that there was nothing in what he had heard to give him any alarm, as Sarah's affianced; but he felt it impossible to do this, for though he had seen little, he had heard much that was calculated, as he believed, to throw great doubts on that young woman's propriety of conduct, to say the least of it; and he had seen enough, as he thought, to confirm these reports.

We have seen how seriously he looked upon the visits of John Tincroft to High Beech, and he could not help concluding—that is to say, he did conclude—that if John had not been encouraged, he would not have made such frequent calls, nor stayed so long when he did call, at the farm. In short, in good Mr. Rubric's opinion, Sarah was a determined coquette and a flirt; and though he would not, on any account, have placed an obstacle in the way of her marriage with her cousin (for he looked upon such engagements as almost indelibly sacred), he sincerely pitied the man who should be tied for life to such a vain, feather-brained piece of womanhood.

In all this, and arguing upon false premises, the good rector was much too severe and sweeping in his private judgment of the case, though he was desirous to shield, as far as lay in his power, both the farmer's daughter and the young man from Oxford from the grave charges brought against them by Walter's sister and family in general.

Waller soon perceived Mr. Rubric's embarrassment, and drew from it the very worst auguries.

"Don't say any more, sir," he said huskily. "I see what you mean, sir, and I am much obliged to you for not deceiving me."

"Nay, but my good Walter, do not think worse of the matter than there is occasion for. I trust and believe that your cousin is heart-whole; and I am sure she has been, and I trust she is, strongly attached to you; and that if there has been a little undue familiarity, and I don't say that this has been the case, but if there should have been, and if female vanity (she is but young, you know, your cousin, I mean) has been somewhat excited and flattered, I do hope, now the cause is removed, she will come round again all right."

The excellent divine floundered through this long sentence, which he had made all the more complicated by not knowing how he should end it when he began. Presently he went on—

"I am an elderly man, Mr. Wilson, and have some notions I daresay at variance with the greater liberty allowed to young people in the present day in matters of this sort; and besides, my profession as a clergyman makes it essential that I should give no countenance to things which may be lawful but not expedient. I hope you understand me, my dear young friend."

Walter was not at all sure that he did understand all that his clerical friend and former religious instructor had been giving words to, but he understood some parts of it too well. There was nothing more to be made of it, at any rate; and without stopping to mark, much less to inwardly digest, an exhortation which followed regarding the exorcise of charity, the chief of the three heavenly trances, the impetuous young man thanked the rector and hastened away, half determined to return to the far-off field of his business labours, without even an interview with his cousin.

On second thoughts, however, he decided that this course would be cowardly; and then some yearning towards the old and happy days of early love prompted him to the following course. He would go and see his cousin, would lay before her very plainly her misdeeds, and would then, if she seemed penitent, offer her his forgiveness (he intended to be very magnanimous, you see) on condition that she made full confession of all that she had been charged with, and humbly sued for his mercy.

The visit to High Beech was accordingly paid, but not till after the lapse of another day or two, which he required for setting all his arguments and reproaches and reproofs in due methodical order. Then he took the road he had so often, under happier circumstances, and at other times, taken. Almost as a matter of course, his uncle Mark was not about home; and Walter so timed the visit that, almost as a matter of course also (it being afternoon), his aunt was having her diurnal "lay down."

The first greeting with his cousin was short and incisive on both sides, for Sarah had her grounds of resentment in the fact, which had come to her knowledge, that her lover had been a week almost within sight of her home without deigning to see her, or even to send a message.

"We had better go into the garden and say what we have to say, Sarah; we shall be more out of hearing there," said Walter, and, without knowing what she did, the poor girl obeyed the imperious and dictatorial invitation.

Then Walter commenced his attack. For a time Sarah heard what he urged with a flushed cheek and a heaving bosom, but in silence. At length she said—

"And that is what you have got to tell me; and that is your love for me, is it, Walter?"

And then, having recovered her thoughts, she found words for them, as volubly at least as Walter had found words for his. A small part of the dialogue has already been given at the commencement of this chapter, and the two misguided and mistaken young persons were still in the flushed and fevered excitement of their lovers' quarrel, when, just as they emerged into the open garden, heavy, stumbling footsteps approached, unnoticed by them, however, till the thick and uncertain voice of Mark Wilson fell upon their ears in some such words as these—

"Ho! Ho! Master Walter; so you are turned up, are you? Now, let me tell you, you are come where you are not wanted, not a bit of it. It'll be time enough for you to be poking about these premises when your father has got the farm; and the sooner you make yourself scarce now the better. And you, girl, had better go indoors and see to your mother, and your proper work."

"Father, father!" cried the agitated girl, very softly, for if she felt angry with her lover, and reproachfully towards him, her heart was not so untrue to him as he thought it to be.

"And you needn't think, Master Walter, that Sarah is anything to you any more, or you to her," the insensate man went on, without heeding his daughter's agonised look. "We've a better match in store, and a better husband, too, haven't we, girl? You've heard of Master Tincroft, I daresay, nephew; and if you haven't, you may hear of him now. A true gentleman, and none of your low-bred sort, like you; and coming into a fortune, too, when he gets his rights. There, what do you think of that?"

Until the sot came to this pause it was next to impossible for either the daughter or nephew to say a word to any effect. Now, however, the voice of Sarah rang through the air, in a long wailing cry—

"Oh, father, father! What have you done? What have you said?"

"Nothing but the truth, and I am obliged to him for saying it, if for nothing else," said Walter, bitterly. "There is no need for more words," he added, "except to say that I won't trespass on forbidden grounds any longer. Good-bye, Sarah. It is all over between us two now."

And the young man walked rapidly away.

"Stop him, stop him, father!" shrieked the unhappy girl. "Oh, father, father! You don't know what you have done! Walter—dear Walter!"

But Walter was gone.

The next day, when Sarah, unable to leave her bed, after the fearful hysterical fit in which she had on the previous evening been found by the sympathising servant-of-all-work, was trying to recall the particulars of that last meeting and parting, a packet was placed in her hands by her attendant. Tremblingly she opened it. It was as she thought. It contained all the little love-gifts she had in days gone by made over to her cousin Walter, and all the letters she had ever written to him. There was no other writing; not a scrap from him to soften the terrible blow. Yes, it was all over between the two.

"Darling, darling, don't take on so, don't 'ee then?" sobbed Meg, the handmaiden, when Sarah once and again gave way to paroxysms of grief. "Oh, deary, deary me; what is to be done? And didn't I think how it would turn out? But don't 'ee fret so, darling! It'll all come round again, it will, if you only keep up a good heart."

But Sarah knew better than this.

That same day Walter left his home, and travelled, with as hot speed as he could, to rejoin his friend Ralph.

CHAPTER XI.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT.

LEAVING the stormy latitude of High Beech, we retrace our steps to the classic shades of Oxford, where we find the undergraduate Tincroft, some three months after our last parting with him, again quietly ensconced in his rather dingy rooms at Queen's. The time which had thus passed away had not been altogether unprofitably spent by him. He had, for one thing, put himself to school. It is said that a man who is his own lawyer has a fool for a client; and I have been told that when a doctor is seriously ill, he generally consults a brother Galen—whether or not it is because he has little faith in his own prescriptions, I have no means of knowing.

On a parity of reasoning, and on the same principle, it would seem that when a man sees occasion to put himself to school, he should not be his own schoolmaster; and yet it is not so. There is, of course, one Teacher of whom all ought to learn, and the neglect of whose instructions is infinite loss. But next to Divine instructions, it is almost important that every man should school himself, listening to his own reason and conscience. And this John Tincroft had done.

First, as to his faint hopes of ever succeeding to the inheritance which he believed to be his, he was kindly enough but faithfully recommended by his monitor to forget them. He was reminded of the law's proverbial delays, and especially of the wearying and wearing and disappointing perplexities of a Chancery suit.

He was told in this new school (for it was new to him) that even if he could and did obtain possession of the Tincroft estate, to which he thought he had a right, and which it now seemed possible would be his—say, if he should live another fifty years—it would not be worth having.

"Therefore," said the schoolmaster, "dismiss it from your mind altogether; and if it must be still battled about, let the lawyers do it."

And John said, "I will."

Next, "You have been shamefully neglecting your preparations for India these many weeks," quoth the schoolmaster; "you know you have."

John hung his head.

"Now this won't do. You know quite well, John, that you are not over-bright. You have no genius; you are not a genius."

"Not a bit of one," John readily acknowledged.

"You have not much talent, even."

John admitted this with a sorrowful shake of his head.

"But you have a little, perhaps, and you used what little you had with a proper amount of industry for a time. But now, what have you been doing since you came back from that harum-scarum—"

"Please, don't. Yes, yes, I know. What have I been doing? Nothing, nothing," John confessed, dolefully.

"For which you ought to be ashamed," said the schoolmaster; "but if you will set to at once, and make up for lost time, we shall get you through your examinations. And you know, John, that you can do nothing better than take that appointment. You won't get rich out there, I daresay. You haven't the talent for that sort, of thing; but then you will, at all events, be doing something for yourself; and, in fact, it is the road plainly pointed out to you by circumstances, and you ought to walk in it."

"True, true," responded John.

"And not falteringly or imperfectly. Whatsoever your hand findeth to do, do it with all your might."

"I will, God helping me," John aspirated.

"The wisest thing I have heard you say yet, John," quoth the schoolmaster; "keep to that, and you will do. 'In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.' And there's another matter in which you require that help. You know what I mean."

John again hung his head and blushed deep red.

"That folly, and worse than folly, of yours, down in the country."

"I was very foolish, very; but was there anything worse than that in it?" John pondered.

"The thought of foolishness is sin," observed the schoolmaster, severely.

"God forgive me!" prayed John, penitently.

"He will if you ask Him truly and sincerely. And He will help you too; but you have something to do for yourself, in which you must ask this help. You must put away from you those vain thoughts, those captivating remembrances. You have no business to be thinking admiringly of any daughter of Eve just now; and of her (you know who I mean) least of all."

"True, true," John confessed.

"Well, then, what a blockhead you must be to go about dreaming and mooning as you have done since you got back to Oxford. Why, the other evening, when you went for that stroll round the Magdalen Water Walk, you looked so distraught, and played such moon-struck antics, that a pair of undergraduates burst out in a merry laugh when you passed them."

"I heard them," John reflected.

"You must have done with this nonsense," the schoolmaster went on. "You have done mischief enough down there already, for anything we know: and the only wise thing you did was when you ran away from the place. Now you must abandon all that folly, and pray to be forgiven the sin there was in it, whether more or less."

"God helping me, I will," said John again, and the best thing he could do or say, it was.

These conferences and lectures went on from day to day, and from the time they commenced John Tincroft began to amend. I am not quite sure that his internal schoolmaster did not—or rather, I am not quite of opinion that he did—receive some assistance from no less a personage than the good old stout Baptist lady at Jericho, who, having been brought into personal acquaintance with the veritable son of the dear little Josiah at Saddlebrook, desired to make his further acquaintance if the gownsman of Queen's would so far condescend as to notice one so far beneath him.

John did not profess to condescend, and he would not have known how to do it, if he had tried. It was out of his line, he said, and so it was; but his good-nature induced him to give ear to the request; and the subsequent intercourse with the pleasant and not vulgar, though fat, proprietress of "Rippon's Selection" redounded to John's advantage, though, perhaps, he was not at the time conscious of it.

Not that he had anything further to learn about the signature, which had, by the promptitude of Mr. Roundhand, been duly and legally attested. That subject was altogether exhausted and done with, so far as John was concerned. Neither did good Mrs. Barry and John enter into any discussions respecting the differences which existed between their several and separate religious communities. Indeed, if the compilation of hymns just referred to had not so constantly lain on Mrs. Barry's table, as her favourite book next to the Bible, John would almost have forgotten all about his new friend being a Baptist.

But the charm of the intercourse was that, in the company of the motherly old lady, John could forget his isolation and loneliness, and receive sympathy and kindly regard from one of the softer sex, without the possible intrusion of such wild vagrant thoughts as those which had entranced, yet troubled him, at High Beech Farm.

And so, as we have said, three months passed away the short vacation was over, and with the commencement of Lent term came up Tom Grigson, fresh from the field, and fit for the first week to talk of nothing else but horses, dogs, foxes, and hares.

"By the way, Tincroft, I have been back a week or more, and you have never spoken a word nor asked a question about your old friends at High Beech. Where's your curiosity?"

"I have not thought much about them lately," said John, reddening rather. "The truth is—" he added, and then he stopped short with, "I suppose there is nothing new to tell."

"Isn't there, though? For one thing, it is all done and done for with Mark Wilson."

"I am sorry to hear it. Your brother carried out his threat, then?"

"No, not so bad as that. Brother Dick's bark is worse than his bite generally; and it was so in this case. I don't think in any case he would choose to sell up an old tenant, at least he never has done it. And as to Mark Wilson, the truth is he would have got very little by it, for the live and dead stock, crops and implements altogether, if sold, wouldn't much more than have paid expenses. No, he didn't sell him up. But the fact is, things had got so bad that a week or two before Christmas, Mark himself came and offered to put himself into Dick's hands, to do what he liked with him and his belongings."

"The most sensible thing he could do under the circumstances, I suppose," said John. "And what followed?"

"Why, Richard offered to forgive him his rent—the rector did the same about his tithes—and to let him remain for a time in the house, which isn't much of a place, you know, and to keep his household furniture, which isn't any better, if he would give up possession of the farm at once, which he was glad enough to do."

"Who has the farm, then?"

"Oh, Matthew Wilson, of course, Mark's brother. He has had half a promise of it a good while, supposing Mark should have to leave. And it was only fair that Matthew should get it, if he can make anything out of it, for by all accounts, he has lost a good bit of money by that sottish brother of his."

"Ah!" ejaculated John, mentally. "To be sure. I heard something of this that evening of the picnic." He did not say this, however, but substituted for it, "And what will the poor man do now he has no farm to attend to?"

"Not to attend to, you mean. Well, his brother has promised to employ him on the farm, if the stupid fellow will work; and, at any rate, to take some care of Mrs. Mark and the daughter. But it will be hard lines with them all, for Matthew Wilson is rather a sharp hand, and there isn't much love lost between any of them, I expect."

"A good thing for Miss Sarah that she is engaged to be married. I am glad to think that she will escape from this state of pauperism, at all events," said John, thoughtfully.

"Ah! But there's something else I have to tell you, Tincroft. That affair is all broken off. She and her cousin have had a quarrel, and there is an end to that connection."

"Do you really mean that, Grigson?" demanded John, visibly startled.

"I do mean it; and I reckon that's why Matthew is more willing than he would have been to lend the wife and Sarah a helping hand. Depend on it, he would have had nothing to say to them if Walter Wilson had gone on with his courtship."

"But—but I don't understand it at all. There was nothing amiss, was there, when I came away?"

"No, I suppose not; but a month or two ago, it must have been, the young fellow came post-haste, and quite unexpectedly, from the north, where he had been the last two years, and had a desperate quarrel with the girl. You haven't heard about it before, I suppose, Tincroft?" said Tom, interrupting himself, and looking keenly into his friend's face.

"Of course not, Grigson. How should I have known anything on the subject?" John wished to be told, wincing a little beneath Tom's inquisitive look.

"Ah, well, I don't know, I'm sure; but I am glad you have not heard of it before from any other quarter, for the truth is—I am rather loth to mention it, but the truth is (it all came out afterwards through Rubric, who told Dick all about it, and Dick told me) that you, John—there don't be alarmed, dear fellow—" for John began to show lively signs of astonishment, "that you had something to do with the quarrel."

And then, by cautious degrees, and tenderly (for Tom Grigson was a true-hearted friend), came out the whole story, much as I have told it.

"But don't take it to heart, Tincroft," added the good fellow; "Dick and I both thought it right you should know what has been talked about. But, of course, it is no fault of yours. If the poor girl has been silly, or her father stupid, or that Walter Wilson outrageously and madly jealous, you can't help it, you know. So think no more about it; I shouldn't if I were you."

"How can I help it?" asked John, sadly. "For it is my fault—it is all my fault. I see it now. But I must know more about it, Tom, if I can. The poor girl—poor Sarah; how does she take it?"

"Why, she is sadly enough, by all accounts. But no wonder, you see, considering the trouble that has fallen on the whole of them."

"And, Tom—tell me true, dear Tom—don't you think the young fellow, Walter Wilson, will come round again? Lovers' quarrels, you know, are said to be only the renewal, or revival, or something of the sort, of love. Not that I know anything about it; but don't you think he will come round again?" asked Tincroft.

"Why, how should I know?" responded Tom, laughing a little at John's earnestness. Then he added, "Nobody believes it will be, or can be made up. The fact is (it may as well come out), young Wilson has been crammed with so many stories, and is consequently so sure that you did make love to Mark's daughter, and that she encouraged you, on the principle of having two strings to a bow (in this affair I should say two beaux to her string), that he is determined never to speak to her again. At least, this is what I have heard."

"But, Tom, you don't believe what they say about me and Sarah Wilson, do you?" John Tincroft asked piteously.

"No, of course, I don't, my good fellow, and Richard doesn't believe it either. Why, you don't think we believe it, do you?"