"No, not if you say so, Tom. But I am so bewildered with your news that I don't know what to think." And John pressed his two hands against his forehead. "To think that the poor thing should be suffering through my fault!" he added.
"I don't see much fault in it, Tincroft," argued Tom Grigson. "Of course, if you had never seen Miss Wilson, this could not have happened. And if you hadn't gone up to her father's house so often, it might not have happened."
"True, true, true," groaned John.
"But as what can't be cured, must be endured, we had better drop the subject, my boy."
"Ha! I'll think about it, that will be best," said John, dreamily, as was his wont when his mind was otherwise occupied than with the exact words he was speaking.
"I don't know about thinking, dear fellow. Thinking doesn't always do good. I have been thinking all day what a blockhead I have been not to tell Dick about that horribly long bill of Dry's; but I didn't tell him, and I don't like to write directly after coming up. So I have made up my mind not to think about it all this term. I recommend the same to you. You'll forget it all the sooner through not thinking about it."
"But not thinking about Dry's bill won't pay it, Tom, will it?" asked Tincroft, gravely.
"No, that's the worst of it," laughed Grigson; "so I shall be obliged to think about it some day, whether I like it or not."
"Ah! Just so!" said John; and then the friends separated.
John did think about it. He passed an almost sleepless night in troubled thought; and the next morning after chapel, drawing his friend Grigson aside, he proposed a walk round the Magdalen Water Walk.
"Very good, John, it will give us an appetite for breakfast."
"Grigson," said John, after they had gone round and round the walk, almost in silence, and they were returning into the High Street through the cloisters, "I am off by the Tally-ho to-day. Can I do anything for you at the Manor House!"
"The Manor House! Tally-ho! What is the meaning of this sudden freak, Tincroft?" his friend naturally enough asked.
"I don't wonder at your wondering. Look here, Tom, I have been thinking all night of what you told me yesterday, and though I know very well that I am a blockhead, and you know it too—"
"I know nothing of the sort. You are one of the best fellows I know. You have kept me out of a world of mischief here, and if you are not up to some things that some of us know too much of, you are none the worse for that."
"Well, blockhead or not, Grigson, I have made up my mind not to be a knave."
"Ho! Ho! Sets the wind in that quarter?" thought Tom, within himself. And then he said, rather sharply, "You don't mean to finish up by marrying that girl yourself after all, do you?"
"No," said John, mildly. "I don't wonder at your thinking so, of course. But that isn't my meaning. For all that, I have done her great wrong, not wilfully, not wickedly, I hope not, at least not intentionally, only as there is sin in most folly, and if not sin there is harm. Yes, I have harmed the poor girl," continued John, sadly. "I see it all now, and I must undo it if I can."
"If I can understand what you are aiming at, may I be carbonadoed, dear fellow," rejoined Tom.
"I'll explain my meaning, if I can. You see, don't, you? That by going so often as I did to High Beech Farm, I laid myself open to suspicion."
"Well, if you come to that, of course the idea was that you were smitten. I know more about that sort of thing than I did then, for I know, before I came up, there was no road so pleasant to me as the road to the Mumbles. An abominable road it is to be sure, but then there was a Kate at the end of it; and so I made a point of riding out there every day almost."
"A gate?" said John, whose mind, occupied with one idea, could with difficulty take in another.
"A gate! No, no, a Kate—Kate Elliston."
"I see, I see! My dear fellow, I wish you joy and success. But, as I was saying, I did lay myself open to suspicion. And I was warned about it. Your brother warned me, and so did Mr. Rubric; and at the time I am afraid I was more vexed than pleased with their kind intentions. But that does not matter—my being suspected. The worst of it was, the poor girl came to be suspected too. And then, it seems, stories have been told about her, and she has lost a husband that was to be, and all through me. You said as much as this last night, Tom."
"Did I? I don't know that I did, Tincroft."
"Oh, but you did. And now, the least I can do, and the only thing I can do, as an honourable man, is to try and make things straight again between young Wilson and his poor cousin."
"You'll be a clever fellow to do that, John," observed his friend, thoughtfully, and inwardly quoting a couplet he had somewhere met with in his reading—
"Who now to sense, and now to nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about his 'meaning.'"
"And how in the world will you set about it?" he asked.
"Ah! There I want your advice, Tom. I don't think it will do for me to go to the farm. There would be more suspicions then, I suppose."
"Yes, decidedly, I should say. No, I wouldn't go to the farm if I were you."
"I am glad you think as I do about that," rejoined John Tincroft, beamingly. "For, to tell you the truth—may I, Tom? I know I may, though, and that you won't betray me."
"Not I, John. Say on."
"Well—" and then he whispered in his friend's ear, "if things hadn't been as they were with me, and if Sarah Wilson had been free, I should have been proud to make her my wife; but under all the circumstances of the case, it wasn't to be dreamt of for a moment. I didn't think so much about it then as I ought to have done. And I ought to have kept away on that very account. But I have seen my terrible mistake since, and must do my best to remedy it."
"Whew!" whistled Tom. "You want to put yourself out of temptation, then?"
"No, the temptation is past and gone, I hope. At least, I know I have striven and prayed against it. No, it is not of myself I am thinking, but of her. And it strikes me—doesn't it you?—that if I were to go and see your brother and Mr. Rubric, and tell them honestly that all the fault was mine, and that the poor girl was as innocent of anything like flirting as any modest girl could be, don't you think they would believe me, and try to sot matters straight again?"
"They would believe you, of course, John, as readily and strongly as I do. But as to setting matters straight—well, I think it likely they would try. I know they feel a good deal for—well, say for Walter Wilson, and I daresay they will for his cousin when things are put before them in the way you have put them now."
"Thank you, Tom; I should not care undergoing any mortification."
"Oh, no occasion for mortification that I can see," said Tom Grigson, cheerily. "There's no mortification in doing what is right, I think; and you are right in this, old fellow."
"Thank you heartily, Tom," said John, warmly. "Then we'll turn back, and I'll take my place for the Tally-ho, and then go and pack up a few things for the journey."
"But, I say John," said his friend presently, as they were emerging into the High Street, "suppose things shouldn't turn out as you wish to make them; what then?"
"I would rather not think about it," quoth John. "But now, can I do anything for you with Mr. Richard about that bill of Dry's?"
"Thank you, John; no, I think not; I fancy you have as much on your hands already as you can well manage," replied Tom Grigson, with a merry laugh.
And then presently they reached Queen's, and each went to his own rooms.
"As good a fellow as ever lived, and as honourable a man as ever breathed; and his honour will undo him. If he doesn't marry S. Wilson after all, I'll be—carbonadoed. There! Shall I go after him, and tell him so? No, I don't think I will."
CHAPTER XII.
THE LION'S MOUTH.
WE won't laugh again at John Tincroft and his awkwardness, if it so please you, reader. We see him now under a new phase; his awkward shyness vanished, he is coming out a man, a gentleman, and if it so please you, as I hope it does, a Christian. I have said that John was no hero. I revoke the charge. He is a hero now, and I am absolutely proud of him, as I see him, on that cold January day, on the top of the Tally-ho, dragging on through snowdrifts; for a snowstorm had set in at midday, which had also covered him with its hoary fleece.
It was late at night when he reached the town nearest the Manor House, for the coach was delayed by the snow, which partially blocked the road, and there being no dog-cart to meet him on this occasion, he was obliged to put up at an inn.
The next morning, however, saw him on foot, unencumbered with luggage, for he meant to decline the hospitality which he knew would be offered him, and having transacted his business, to return at once to Oxford. So he plodded on through the snow, which was sometimes up to his knees, and sometimes higher, over the six or seven miles of country road that separated him from the goal of his high duty—which he reached at last.
"I tell you what, my dear Tincroft," said Mr. Richard Grigson to him, when John's story was told: "I am heartily glad to see you, and it is all nonsense about your not stopping here two or three days, or as long as you like, for that matter. Come, draw nearer the fire; you must be frozen inside as well as out."
This was spoken as the two were seated at lunch, after John had, by the help of his friend's wardrobe, changed his wet stockings, boots, and nether garments.
"Thank you, thank you, heartily, Mr. Grigson; but you see I must get back to my rooms at college as soon as I can. This is my last term, and I have no time to waste. But I could not rest satisfied till I had done what I could for the poor girl."
"And that is what I was coming to, Tincroft. I am afraid, as for as that is concerned, yours is a lost journey. Of course, I know all about it, and how innocent you are—"
"No, no; don't say that. I am not innocent, being the cause of all the mischief. It is the poor girl, Sarah Wilson, who is the innocent sufferer from my blunders."
"Well, well, put it that way if you like; but what I was going to say is that I, as far as I am concerned, think it a good thing for young Wilson—Walter—that the whole affair is ended."
"Do you really mean that, Mr. Grigson?" asked John in a troubled tone.
"Yes, I do. I have nothing to say against the girl particularly; but I don't approve of cousins marrying, in any case. And in this case, the young fellow may do better for himself, and can scarcely do worse, than by marrying that young woman."
"I am afraid, then, that I am not to have your help," said John, dolefully.
"Not in patching up the quarrel, just because I think it is a good thing they did quarrel."
"But think of the poor young person," John pleaded.
Mr. Grigson smiled. "You take a great interest in the poor young person," said he.
And John acknowledged that he did.
"Now, I don't," said the squire, bluntly; "for I think she is feather-brained, and won't make a good wife for any man. Look at her up-bringing."
"But that is not her fault," argued John.
"No; but it is her misfortune."
"Then you won't make an effort to set things straight between the two cousins?"
"I really would rather not, my dear Tincroft," said Mr. Richard.
John did not succeed much better in his interview with his clerical friend Mr. Rubric, upon whom he presently called.
Mr. Rubric received the collegian graciously, and would have set lunch before him, if John had not already undergone and duly performed that operation. But he had not much to say in praise of our hero's amiable quixotism.
"Let the matter rest, Mr. Tincroft; you will do no good," said he. "Of course," he added, "I look upon such engagements as being very serious and solemn; and I did what I could to make things straight when young Wilson honoured me with his confidence. But he is an obstinate young man, I am afraid. At least, I could make no impression upon him. And perhaps, after all, it is best as it is, Mr. Tincroft. And let me tell you, my dear friend—" this was spoken in a soft, confidential tone, "that your interference will be interpreted—shall I say?—interpreted unfavourably against yourself. Just consider, Mr. Tincroft."
"Mr. Rubric—" said John, not without dignity, for there is dignity in holiest feeling and intentions, and in taking an honest course, even if the honesty be clumsy, "will you, if you have it in your power, kindly let me know Mr. Walter Wilson's address?"
Mr. Rubric could and did give the address. "But you won't write to him, will you?"
"No, sir; I will go and see him," said John.
The rector looked aghast. "My very good friend, don't think of such a thing," said he. "You don't know what a strong feeling there is against you in that quarter. Why, you will be eaten up alive! Absolutely rushing to the lion's mouth!"
"I think not," said John, serenely. "At all events, I'll run the risk."
That same afternoon saw John trudging back to the little town where he had left his portmanteau, to pass another night at the Saracen's Head. The next day, instead of returning to Oxford, he secured a place in the mail, and at night was on his travels due north, whither we must precede him.
When Walter Wilson returned from his journey homewards to his professional pursuits, there was no need for his friends Ralph and Mary to question him as to his speed. A few words were indeed spoken; but at Walter's rather stern request that nothing more might be said on the subject, or rather on the object of his journey, they silently acquiesced.
From that time onward, Walter paid more attention, if that were possible, to business, but his whole nature seemed changed. The frank good humour which, unless he were over-tired or in any respect put out of his way, generally marked him, had departed; and even to Mary Burgess his entire manner was altered. As to his constant pipe, it seemed to have lost its charm. He smoked more than ever, it is true; but he brooded over it.
"I must have some talk with Wilson," said Ralph to his sister one evening, as they were sitting together after a hard day's work.
"No, don't, Ralph. He will come to his old self again soon, I hope. Poor fellow, he has been sadly disappointed, you know."
"In that stupid love affair, you mean. Well, I suppose he has, but that needn't make him so mopish. There are as good fish in the sea as there are out of it, as your favourite, John Newton, says in one of his letters. There, you see, I can quote John Newton as well as you, Mary."
Mary smiled, and then sighed.
"And as to Walter having been crossed in love, after the specimen he has given of being in that happy state, I think I would rather keep out of it altogether, though it is love that 'makes the world go round, go round.'"
Many conversations of a like sort had been held between the brother and sister, but no improvement had taken place in the subject of them, who, on the contrary, seemed to grow more dissatisfied, morose, and silent.
One day, a month or so after Christmas, when both Ralph and Walter were from home, a knock at the front door announced a visitor, and the servant subsequently announced to Miss Burgess that a gentleman, who sent in his card, wished to see Mr. Wilson. The card had on it the name—
"Ask the gentleman to come in," Mary said, after a moment's thought. "I will speak to him."
The gentleman accordingly entered the room, and was rather ceremoniously invited to be seated.
"Walter is not within now, but he soon will be, if you would like to wait," said Mary Burgess.
"I can call again," replied John. "I came in by coach an hour or two ago, and shall not be leaving till to-morrow. I can therefore adapt my time to your friend's leisure. Or, probably, when he sees my card, he will prefer seeing me at the inn where I am now staying;" and Tincroft named a certain inn near at hand.
"I think you had better see him here, if you are really anxious for an interview, Mr. Tincroft," said the lady, hesitatingly. "You see I have soon learned your name, sir. But excuse me," she added, "are you not putting your hand too near the lion's mouth?"
"I really beg your pardon, madam—" John looked rather nervously round as he spoke, especially as these or similar words of warning had been uttered by Mr. Rubric, only two days before; "but—I do not understand your meaning."
"I should apologise, then, for speaking in figures. I mean, are you prepared to quarrel with Walter Wilson, or is it your purpose to quarrel with him?"
"Assuredly not; quite the contrary; but—"
"But you do not yet understand me. The fact is, Mr. Tincroft, your name is not strange to me; and excuse me for saying that I am afraid it will have an unpleasant effect on my friend Mr. Wilson."
"I am also almost afraid that it will, at first; but I also trust that he will ultimately see no reason to regret that I have taken this long journey for the sake of a personal interview. At any rate, I must see him if possible." John added, "May I be so bold as to ask—" and here he stopped short.
"To ask in what way your name came to be so familiar to me?"
"Yes;" John acknowledged that the thought had occurred to him.
"In the simplest of all ways, Mr. Tincroft. In having heard it repeatedly at some former time, but not lately, from the lips of my friend Mr. Wilson; and also from having seen it in letters which he put into my hands."
John looked up inquisitively, but did not speak.
"I am dealing openly with you, you see, sir," continued the lady.
"And no doubt—" John found tongue at last to say, "no doubt your impressions or preconceptions are not altogether in my favour."
Mary Burgess now hesitated; in a moment or two, however, she said, "I would rather not speak of my previous impressions. It is more to the purpose to say that both my brother—"
"It is Miss Burgess, then, whom I have the honour of addressing?"
"I am Mary Burgess, yes; but, as I was remarking, it is more to the purpose to say that both my brother and Walter Wilson are strongly prejudiced against you; and unless your design in coming here is clearly and plainly of a friendly and honourable nature, I am sorry you should have come at all."
"My motive is both honourable and friendly, I know," said John, quietly, "and I trust it will be so understood. Unfortunately, it should be otherwise, I for one shall deeply regret it."
There was another awkward silence; and then again the lady spoke.
"Mr. Tincroft," she said, "I have read somewhere that half the troubles in life—the minor troubles I mean, of course—would be escaped, if those who live in the world would be but true to each other, open and straightforward. And I very much believe it. Now we two are thrown into each other's society under rather exceptional circumstances, and, at any rate, we are strangers to each other. Is it not so?"
It certainly was so, John admitted.
"But that is no reason why we should not be plain and outspoken. I told you a minute ago that I would rather not speak of my preconceptions of the Mr. Tincroft of whom I had heard. Let me say now that those preconceptions, as far as they may have been unfavourable, are to a great extent removed. At any rate, I believe I may trust you."
"You do me great honour," said John, with a kind of pleasurable emotion.
"And I ask you, Mr. Tincroft, to trust me. Do you think you can?"
John had never been addressed in this way before by any living woman. Have we not said that it was his misfortune to have been, from childhood, almost bereft of female society? To be sure, of late, he had known Sarah Wilson, and had seen something—a very little—of Mrs. Mark Wilson; he had been intimate also with good obese Mrs. Barry, and had been waited on by Mrs. Barry the younger. But here, setting aside the female domestics of the Manor House, his experience almost ended.
It was a wonderful thing to John to be appealed to with such confidence, and in such well-chosen language, as he thought it, by a ladylike woman to whom, less than an hour ago, he had been a complete stranger, and to be thought by her as worthy of trust.
"Could he trust her?" Yes, to be sure he could; and he answered her with a little more enthusiasm than was his wont that he could and would. "If I only had a sister to have advised with and consulted, mine would have been in many respects a different and a happier life," he silently reflected.
I am not sure, and John was not sure, that this lurking regret might not have been half-revealed to the gentlewoman on the opposite side of the hearth, by the sigh which accompanied it. At any rate, she said, with a half-smile,—
"Think of me for the little while we are together as a sister."
"I will indeed," said Tincroft.
"Allow me then to ask—you said a minute or two ago that your intentions are honourable and friendly—allow me to ask you to confide those intentions to me."
And John did. He told his whole story from beginning to end. He stammered awkwardly at first, perhaps; but he gained courage as he went on. He did not spare himself in the least. He painted himself in darker colours, or, at least, he placed himself in a more preposterous light than that in which we have represented him. He declared himself so heartily ashamed of his folly in that last month of his sojourn at the Manor House, that his fair auditor had to check his self-accusations. On the other hand, he warmly vindicated poor Sarah from any intentional or unintentional cause for real blame; while, with much good feeling, he described the unhappy circumstances by which she had been and was still surrounded—her wretched home, her unkind relatives at Low Beech, the scandal-loving and scandal-breathing social atmosphere of the place, and a great deal more of the same sort.
"I am come," said John, "to say all this to Walter Wilson. I have made up my mind, of course, to hear myself harshly abused, because I really deserve to be abused by him. I will submit to any mortifications and humiliations he may see fit to demand from me. I will do anything in my power—and I wish more were in my power-if only the mischief I have so foolishly and wrongfully done may be remedied. I hope you believe me in this, Miss Burgess," he added.
"I believe you to be sincere and honest in all you have said," the lady responded; "and now I will be open and candid with you. It is an unusual course I am taking, perhaps, and I suppose the polite world with which you are acquainted—"
"Not a bit of it," thought John.
"Would say that I am very bold at the least; but then I do not belong to the polite world."
"Nor do I," said John aloud; "and if you can only assure me that I may hope to be the means of reconciling the two cousins, I shall be satisfied. I shall not care—I shall not so much care, at any rate—what is thought of me."
"We will not discuss that, Mr. Tincroft. But I must tell you, having promised to be candid, that from what I know of Walter Wilson, your appearance here will probably so rouse his passion that you will not get even a hearing."
"I am sorry for that," said John.
"He will only think, and perhaps say, that being already tired of your new toy, you are only anxious to resign it to the old possessor."
"But you do not think so, Miss Burgess?" John asked, anxiously.
"No, I do not; but our judgments of each other so much depend on the points of view from which they are taken. Now, my friend Walter has been wounded in his love for his cousin, and also, I may say (having promised to be candid), in his self-love. He looks upon you as the destroyer of his peace, and he will naturally attribute to you the worst motives for what others would, it may be, consider very generous and self-denying."
"I see all this, Miss Burgess," said the penitent; "but what better can I do?"
"Will you entrust your cause to an advocate?"
"Willingly; but you see it is not my cause so much as that of others. It is Miss Wilson's cause, and not only hers, it is Walter Wilson's cause also."
"You are right; and the greater the need of an advocate. A man needs a strong, or at least an unexceptionable advocate, when he is at odds with himself. Now, I am almost sure Walter will not hear you. Will you place your cause—his, I mean, and his cousin's—in my hands?"
"Gladly," said Tincroft, "if—"
"If—But let me explain myself more clearly. My brother and Walter Wilson will be in very soon now," said Mary Burgess, looking at the timepiece in the room, and speaking hurriedly. "If they find you here, your name will greatly excite them both, I am sure; and I doubt whether Walter would hear a word from your lips. Go now, and leave me to do your errand. I will tell them all that you have said—"
"Don't forget to say that it was all my fault, Miss Burgess."
"No, I will not forget that; and I will try and smooth the way for a meeting between you and Walter to-morrow. I believe, and am sure, this is the best thing to be done. And you shall have a note from me in the morning. Where are you staying?"
John named the inn.
"Do you agree to this, Mr. Tincroft?"
John did agree to it. What else could he do? And then he took his departure.
"If I had but had a sister—and such a sister!" quoth John, sorrowfully, as he took his way to his inn.
A meeting did take place between John Tincroft and Walter Wilson on the morrow; but the reader shall be spared the particulars of this interview. It is enough to say that John had, metaphorically speaking, put his hand into the lion's mouth.
Some of our former chapters will have shown that Walter Wilson, though sterling in principle, and true-hearted as far as he knew himself, was egotistical, dogmatical, and hard judging. These characteristics showed themselves forcibly and unpleasantly on the preceding evening, when, on his return home, Mary Burgess performed her promise to John Tincroft. It was a disagreeable office she had undertaken, and we may say, in passing, that any one proposing to be a mediator or mediatrix between contending parties should expect no selfish pleasure to spring from the efforts thus made. Miss Burgess had no such expectations, but she did not shrink from the self-imposed task.
At the first mention of Tincroft's name, and of his near vicinity, Walter started to his feet, and would have rushed out then to "have it out," he said (whatever this might mean), "with the miscreant." But he was restrained by the interposition of Ralph, who also persuaded his friend to hear all his sister had to tell.
As Mary went on, describing John's honest, compunctious self-accusation, Walter uttered not a word, but smiled bitterly and contemptuously. But when, with kindling eloquence and womanly sympathy, she spoke of his cousin's unhappy surroundings, and of her guilelessness, notwithstanding the rancour with which she had been slanderously assailed—a guilelessness in which the amiable advocate believed—he rudely interrupted her, and bade her cease dinning him with her pleadings.
"I made Sarah a fair offer the last time I saw her," he said, fiercely. "I told her that if she would confess and apologise—"
"Confess what?—apologise for what?" his friend asked, mildly.
"To having deceived me; for having laid traps for that Tincroft, meaning to turn me off when she had secured her richer prize. That's what I meant, and what I said."
"But knowing that she was not guilty of such baseness, how could she make such a confession and apology? Did she not deny the charge?"
"Deny! What has that to do with it? Deny! Of course she denied it. Oh yes—yes, she could talk fair enough, calling me 'Dear Walter,' and all that sort of thing. But do you think I was going to believe her?"
"But after she denied it, and explained—did she not explain?"
"Oh, to be sure: she was ready enough with her explanations."
"And after that, if in her sorrow for having offended you, she had confessed to an untruth, should you have believed her then?"
"I might, or I might not," said the unhappy young man, sullenly. "At any rate, it is all over with us now," he added; "and as to that canting hypocrite who has come over you—"
Here he was interrupted by the strong, determined voice of Ralph Burgess, saying gravely, but good-temperedly notwithstanding—
"That will do. You must not abuse my sister, Walter. You don't know what you are saying, or how you are saying it. If you were not beside yourself, you would not do as you are doing. For my party I think your cousin has had a happy escape. There are two words which I have somewhere met with in the Bible that describe your feelings towards her, and these are 'implacable and unmerciful.' And if you don't mind my saying it, or if you do it doesn't much matter, there is another word that tells how you are conducting yourself now, and that is 'arrogantly.'"
"Oh, that is it! Is it?" said Walter, as leaving the room, he lighted his chamber-candle and was seen no more that night.
A brief note from Miss Burgess informed John Tincroft of the non-success of her attempted mediation. And while he was pondering what next he should do, the door of the room at the inn in which he had taken breakfast opened and admitted Wilson. The interview was short and sharp. Much abuse was heaped upon the head of poor John, who bore it patiently. And then, with a declaration that he had done with his cousin for ever, Walter said that the other might take his leavings and welcome.
"You will some day be sorry for the injustice you are now doing to your cousin," said John, sorrowfully; but the latch of the door was in Walter's hand as he spoke, and in the next instant he was gone.
There was nothing more for John after this but to return, not to the Manor House, but to Oxford, which place he disconsolately reached on the fifth day after his departure from it.
CHAPTER XIII.
MR. RUBRIC'S LETTER.
IT was no easy matter for John Tincroft to settle himself down again in his dull college-room. His thoughts would wander to the not very distant past, in spite of himself and his resolutions. Especially, he thought with some indignation and disgust of the treatment he had received from young Wilson, but he checked himself in this direction.
"I should have been unreasonable, too, if I had been in his place, and he or anybody else in mine," he said to himself. "And I have brought all this mortification on myself by my monstrous folly."
Then his reflections shifted to the unhappy damsel at High Beech Farm.
"If it hadn't, been for me," he sadly argued, "she might have had a husband, or been looking forward to one, who, if not a very kind one—for I don't believe he would have been kind to her—nor a very wealthy one, would at least have rescued her from her miserable home, and been her bread-winner and protector. And now—"
But what was the use of thinking all this? What more could John do to undo the mischief he had wrought? He did not know. As to the thinking of Sarah Wilson as his own wife—the idea was too preposterous to be entertained. No doubt, to a certain extent, and in a certain way, the young person had pleased him. It had been agreeable to him to gaze on her flaxen locks, her blue sparkling eyes, and all the rest of those personal charms; and he had been foolish enough to give himself up to the soft delirium. But Tincroft knew, when he came to think of it, that, even supposing he were in a condition to marry, and supposing also that Sarah Wilson would take him as a husband, she was no more suited to him than he was to her.
But he was not in a position to take a wife. His patrimony had been almost swallowed up in that unhappy Chancery suit, which, notwithstanding the new witness who had come forward on his side, seemed to be as far-off as ever from its termination; for whether her testimony would be of the least use in the world began to be questioned. Well then, what had he to look forward to but his appointment in India? And should he marry in England, under present circumstances at any rate, the appointment would have to be abandoned. And then—
And so John went on meditating; and all the schooling he had given himself was inoperative here; for was he not right in considering his ways?
He had not ceased these considerations, which so sorely disturbed his peace by day, and broke his rest by night, when, about a month after his return from his unsuccessful mission in the north, he received a letter from Mr. Rubric, which put the coping-stone upon his massive fabric of self-reproaches. We give the letter entire:
"MY DEAR TINCROFT," so the letter began.
"I am afraid that what I have to write will distress you; and I
would spare you the pain, only that I believe it will be succeeded by
the satisfaction you will undoubtedly feel, if it should be in your
power to give some little assistance in the case I am about to
mention."
"The short of the matter is, your friends at High Beech, in whom you
have taken so much kindly interest, are just now plunged in deeper
sorrow than even when you were last in this neighbourhood. Poor Mark
Wilson is dead: so far as this world is concerned, his troubles,
self-wrought as they were, are over. His health, already undermined
by his many years' excesses, broke down soon after his relinquishment
of the farm; and he never rallied. It was hoped by some that he would
have been led to reflection by the blow which had descended upon him,
and that he would have awoke to a sense of his former conduct, so as to
have become a wiser, if a sadder, man. But his misfortunes did not have
this effect upon him."
"We are told on the highest authority that though the spirit of a
man may sustain his infirmity, the burden of a wounded spirit is
insupportable. It was so with Mark Wilson. There had been a time when
it was said of him that he was a good fellow, and nobody's enemy but
his own. A wretched fallacy, this when said of any one; for we know
that none of us liveth to himself, and that no man can injure himself
without injury being inflicted or reflected upon others. Mark's
experience must have taught him this; but instead of turning from the
vices which had ruined him and his, he clung to them to the last,
desperately abandoning himself to intemperance; and so he died, and was
buried not many days ago."
"And now comes my story. Not only are the widow and daughter in deep
distress on account of this bereavement—for they had not lost all love,
though they must long since have parted with any real respect for the
unhappy man—but they are in positive destitution. I am afraid the
brother, Matthew Wilson, is not kindly disposed. No doubt, he had much
to try him in respect of Mark; and he may feel that he is not bound to
keep his sister-in-law and niece in idleness. At any rate, whatever
may be his feelings, he has announced to them that they must leave the
house, which, such as it is, he wants for his son George, who is about
to be married; and that he has no intention of continuing the weekly
payments he made to his brother whilst living, under pretence of being
wages for his work on the farm."
"I have laid the case before our friend, Mr. Richard Grigson. But,
I am sorry to say, his prejudices are at present so strong on the
subject, that he declines to interfere in any way. He says, truly
enough, that he lost much money by Mark Wilson as a tenant, and he
gives this as a reason for throwing of any kind of solicitude for the
wife and daughter of the unhappy man. He says, also, that there are
better born and bred women than Mrs. Mark in the parish poorhouse, and
she must go there; while the daughter must make up her mind to go to
service. And no doubt this is a utilitarian way of looking at the
subject; but it presses very hardly upon the widow and the fatherless
girl, in both of whom I am bound to take an interest as my own
parishioners."
"My object in writing to you, dear Tincroft, is simply to ask if
you are able, and feel disposed, to assist me in helping these poor
creatures. I have an idea that, if a little time were given to them,
some plan might be devised for their advantage—at any rate, to save one
of them from the degradation of pauperism. Perhaps, indeed, domestic
service might be the best thing for Sarah Wilson, if she could be
brought to see it so; but then the mother must be left untended, and
it appears to me that the daughter's proper place at present is home,
if a home can be procured—to say nothing of the poor child's unfitness
for hard work among strangers, for servant girls in these parts have
very little kindness or sympathy shown to them in general. I am doing
what I can, but I am quite, or almost, working alone in the matter; and
any small mite, if you can entrust it in my hands, shall be used to the
best of my ability on their behalf. Only remember, dear friend, the old
saying, Bis dat qui cito dat.—I am, etc. etc."
"THEOPHILUS RUBRIC."
There was a postscript to this letter, as follows:—
"I should not have written to you on this matter but for the part you
have recently taken in Sarah Wilson's affairs, and for my entire trust
in your strict honour. I know that Sarah can be nothing to you more
than an object of sympathy and kindness, and I deeply regret that any
former unfortunate contretemps, misunderstood at the time, should ever
have led me to do you a moment's injustice. Pray pardon me."
"I may as well add that Walter Wilson has written a letter home,
which I have seen, and which proves to a certainty that he will never
be reconciled to his unfortunate cousin."
John Tincroft read Mr. Rubric's letter, paced his room silently, then re-read it. When he came to the postscript, he not only read, but studied it.
"I don't precisely see what it means," he said to himself; "but there's one thing to do, that's plain; I must see Mr. Roundhand. I suppose he will let me have it."
In another five minutes the gownsman, equipped in his academics, was making his way across the High Street, and then through the Peckwater to St. Aldates.
"I want twenty pounds, Mr. Roundhand," said John to his lawyer, who was also to some extent his banker, inasmuch as he managed the young man's money affairs, such as they were, as well as his Chancery suit.
"It is a curious thing," said the lawyer, laughing, "but I rarely meet with a man who does not want twenty pounds."
"You are right, I daresay," said John; "but I not only want it, but want you to supply the want."
Mr. Roundhand dropped his smile. "Really," he began, but Tincroft stopped him.
"I know what you are going to say,—that I have already drawn the greater part of this present quarter's interest. Never mind; it must be taken out of the next."
"I was going to say something more, friend Tincroft. Do you know the extent, or non-extent, of your present entire resources? I am afraid you have not studied the last statement I handed to you."
John acknowledged that he trusted so completely to his adviser, and placed himself so entirely in his hands, that he had scarcely glanced at the important document.
"Just so; as I supposed. And perhaps you will be surprised to learn that, what with your college expenses and the costs of your Chancery suit, which I assure you are managed as economically as possible—"
"I wish the Chancery suit were at the bottom of the sea," interpolated John.
"Yes, yes; but that is out of court altogether; and you would not want the Tincroft estate to bear the suit company, I suppose?"
John did not know about that.
"But to go on with what I was saying," resumed the lawyer. "Would you be surprised to learn that all you have in the world amounts to—" and he whispered a few words in his client's ear.
John turned slightly pale, but he soon rallied. "I daresay you are right, Mr. Roundhand. But, what you tell me only confirms me in what has been some time on my mind."
"And that is—"
"To have done with the Chancery suit altogether."
"Impossible, my dear friend. It must go on—that is," added the lawyer, "until the whole estate itself is swallowed up—"
"In the sea? Well, that is what I said, isn't it?" John asked.
"Yes, in the sea, if you like; or the whirlpool of law, if you like it better. However, so the case stands; and sooner than give it up, I will carry it on at my own cost. What do you think? Since I saw you last, I have been hunting up that Saddlebrook doctor's will in Doctors' Commons; have compared signatures, end submitted both to an expert; and—and we shall carry the day after all."
"Well, then," said Tincroft, who seemed very little elated with the promise which had been so often repeated and disappointed, that it was like the "hope deferred" which "maketh the heart sick." "Well, then, there will be less difficulty in your making the advance I ask for. I really must have that twenty pounds."
But Mr. Roundhead had something else to say. "Every pound you spend now—pray consider, Mr. Tincroft, for I only speak in your own interests—every pound you spend now, unnecessarily I mean, will be so much deducted from what you will positively require for your outfit to India."
"But if the Chancery suit is so sure of being soon terminated in my favour, perhaps I shall not need to go to India after all," said John.
Mr. Roundhand shook his head doubtfully, as implying that the Tincroft estate might not, if obtained, hold out a sufficient inducement to alter his client's plans.
"At any rate, I question whether I shall not throw up the appointment," John added.
"You don't mean that, surely?" said the lawyer, who was himself surprised now.
"It will depend on circumstances," said John, quietly; "and if my having the twenty pounds I want to-day, or not having it, were to make all the difference between my going to India or staying in England, I should take the money and stay."
"There's nothing more to be said, then," remarked Mr. Roundhand, "except that a wilful will, will have its way, and that I don't understand you—"
"I doubt whether I understand myself," sighed John, inwardly.
"But the money is yours to do what you like with, Mr. Tincroft;" and saying this, the lawyer opened his chequebook, and filled up a cheque. "You know where to cash it," he added as he placed it in John's hand.
Yes, John knew where to cash it. Ten minutes afterwards, he was at the counter of the Oxford Old Bank, exchanging it for a crisp ten-pound Bank of England note, and the rest in gold.
The bank-note did not remain long in John Tincroft's possession. Hastening back to his room, it was securely enclosed and sealed up with black wax, in a sheet of Bath post, on which were scribbled these lines:
"MY DEAR SIR—Many thanks for your confidence in me, and for having
brought the distressing case to my knowledge. Please apply the enclosed
as you best think fit, immediately; and do not be surprised should I
follow in the course of a few days."
Having post-paid and posted this packet, John returned to his rooms, shut himself in, and was seen no more that day. The next two days, he mechanically went the daily round of his early chapel and subsequent studies; but he was missed in the dining-hall. When Tom Grigson went on the second evening to see what ailed his friend, he found, to his surprise, that the outer door of John's room was fast shut.
"Sported the oak, has he?" said Tom to himself. "Never knew him to do that before. What is the matter now, I wonder?"