CHAPTER XIV.
JOHN TINCROFT'S BOLD STROKE.
HELPLESS widow Mark and poor Sarah were seated together one chilly evening in spring, some ten days after the funeral, by a poor fire in their brick-floored kitchen. They had no attendant now, for the tender-hearted Meg had been dismissed on the giving up of the farm, so that all the work, rough and smooth, of the house had fallen almost entirely on Sarah, who had no time now to sit at her ease, the sultana of the shabby parlour, with its knobby-seated chairs, even if she had wished to do so. And for all other purposes, the kitchen did as well.
They were sadly disconsolate, the two poor women, and they were very lonely. As was to be expected, little sympathy had been shown to them by their relatives, even in the first bouts of their bereavement; and that little had entirely ceased. Had they been of the labouring class, they would have fared better in this respect, for the poor, in a country village at least, do feel for one another, and help each other when in sorrow. But the Wilsons were above them, while those on their own level, or higher in station, "passed by on the other side."
The only one exception to this was found in our friend Mr. Rubric. Probably his position as parish clergyman laid a kind of obligation upon him to weep with those who wept. But besides this, he really and unofficially would have done the same thing if he had never worn a surplice nor had a bishop's hands laid on his head. We have seen how he had made friends of the mammon of unrighteousness on behalf of his destitute parishioners in the case of John Tincroft; and that, with a less satisfactory result, he had made the same efforts in other quarters.
It was owing to the assistance afforded by Mr. Rubric, backed up by John Tincroft's remittance, that the widow and her daughter were not already separated—the first taking her way to the parish "refuge for the destitute," the second to the situation of "maid of all work," which had been offered her in a neighbouring farmer's domicile. But the time of parting, though postponed, was inevitable; and this evening they were helplessly and sorrowfully bemoaning their hard lot, not altogether waiving mutual reproaches of each other, and joint censures against the dead and buried, forgetful, if they had ever heard of the charitable maxim, De mortuis nil nisi bonum.
A hesitating, timid knock at the door interrupted the painful talk, and on opening it, Sarah Wilson saw herself confronted by John Tincroft.
Her that impulse was to close the door in his face, and to run upstairs and hide herself under the bed, or elsewhere; and no wonder, perhaps, as she looked upon John as the cause of her irreconcilable quarrel with her cousin and lover. She thought better of this, however, on remembering John's recent kindness—reflecting likewise that, in the former case, it was not Mr. Tincroft so much as her mischief-making cousin Elizabeth who was really in fault. So when the awkward and unexpected visitor stammered out an apology for his intrusion, she offered him her hand in amity, and invited him to walk in and draw up to the fire.
There was a strange alteration in John since she saw him last, the maiden thought. He was pale and thin, and looked troubled. The same thought crossed Tincroft's mind as he looked at Sarah.
"Poor thing!" he mentally ejaculated; "she has passed through deep waters, so no wonder she has lost some of the bloom I was so foolish as to admire."
He did not say this, of course. Indeed, his eyes rested only for a moment on the younger woman.
"I heard of your great sorrow," said he, softly, turning to the widow, "only a few days ago, and I think you will believe that I feel deeply distressed on your account, Mrs. Wilson, and on your daughter's also. I could not rest till I had seen you," he added, "so I came down by the Tally-ho as soon as I could get away from Oxford."
It was very good of Mr. Tincroft to think of them at all, Mrs. Mark sobbed. Sarah did not speak.
"And I am afraid, too," continued John, "that you have other sorrows besides that of your great loss."
The flood-gates were opened now. Other sorrows! Indeed! And then came out the old string and bead-roll of grievances, with many new beads added, about the unnatural conduct of Matthew Wilson to his poor brother while living, and of his cruelty to herself and Sarah since his death. Then there was Walter too, and his base desertion of poor Sarah, who would now have to go out to service, while she herself, her widowed self—but there, it didn't matter what became of an old woman like her. A workhouse was good enough, too good, in fact; and anyhow it wouldn't be for long. And then, overcome by her emotions, the unhappy bereaved broke out into loud wailings and hysterical tears, in the full flow of which she retired to her room above to "lay down for a bit" as she sobbed.
All this time the daughter had taken no part in the conversation, to which, indeed, she had seemed to pay but little heed. No doubt she was accustomed to these or similar complainings and outbursts of futile grief. She had her own sorrows to bear, but she endured them, if not more resignedly, certainly less noisily; but that she felt them John was sure, when he glanced at her worn countenance, and the occasional nervous twitching of her upper lip.
"You have not spoken—you do not speak—of your own troubles, Miss Wilson," said he presently, after an awkward silence, when the mother had left the room.
"Why should I, Mr. Tincroft? What would be the use?" Sarah asked, impatiently.
"Perhaps not much, miss; except that sometimes the heart is relieved by the—the outspeaking of the mouth. It isn't the deepest-felt trials that are the loudest in general, I think. But if you will not speak of yours, may I put a few questions?" John timidly asked.
"It must be as you like, Mr. Tincroft."
John paused a second or two; then he said, still timidly—
"It is true, I am afraid, that your uncle and aunt are unkind to you in your distress?"
"It seems so to us, Mr. Tincroft," replied Sarah, with a little of her old spirit flashing from her eyes; "but I daresay they would tell you different; and, if you please, I would rather not hear or say anything about them."
"Well, well, I will not distress you unnecessarily. But, believe me," said John, kindly, "I have reason for asking. And will you mind telling me truly if—if you still have any—what shall I say?—any hope or expectation—you know what I mean?" went on poor Tincroft, scarcely knowing what he said, or how he said it.
"I don't know what you mean, sir," said Sarah, when John came to a sudden halt.
"You know," said he, changing his conversational position, "I took a journey down into the north, not so very long ago, in your interest, as I at the time firmly believed, Miss Wilson. I did this without asking your permission; but I hope my motive was not—has not been misinterpreted by you."
"I daresay you meant well, sir," said the young lady, coldly.
"But I did not do well. True, I candidly confess it; and I see now that the embassage was injured by the ambassador. At any rate, my journey proved worse than useless, as it then seemed. But possibly since then—I have reasons for asking, Miss Wilson—possibly since then your cousin Walter—"
"And if he had, sir," said Sarah, interpreting, as it seemed, what John was so methodically and carefully, but yet stumblingly, trying to enunciate; and, speaking with an energy and spirit with which he was inwardly pleased—"If he had, do you think I would have listened to him after—" Sarah's bosom heaved as she spoke, and her pent-up feelings found vent in tears. Presently, when calmed down, she resumed, "I am much obliged to you, Mr. Tincroft, for your good meanings; but Walter Wilson is nothing to me now, nor will he ever be."
Another awkward pause, and then again John broke the ice—
"I have not much more to ask, Miss Wilson, and believe me when I assure you that mine are not idle or impertinent questions; but is it true that you have no other resource than that mentioned by your mother? Is it possible that you will have to go into domestic service?"
"It seems so, Mr. Tincroft; I don't know of anything else I am fit for, if I am fit for that," said Sarah, with quivering lips.
"You are fit for something better than that," said John, softly; "and you are fit for something better than I can offer. But if you wouldn't mind being a poor man's wife—" And here again John came to a pause.
"I don't know what you can mean, Mr. Tincroft." This was said in a tone of unfeigned surprise, accompanied by a look of alarmed pride. "I hope you don't mean to insult me because everybody else does the same."
"I am very far from intending this," replied John. "And I would not make you an offer if I could think of anything better for you. I know," he went on, "that in some respects we are not entirely suited to each other—at least, that I am not everything you might look for. I am a recluse, and shy, and much more that isn't agreeable; but I know I am honest in my wish to make you happy."
"Mr. Tincroft, what do you mean?" exclaimed Sarah, wildly.
And by degrees John told the damsel what he meant, namely, that the only compensation he could make to her for the unintentional mischief he had wrought, was to take her himself for better, for worse, for richer or poorer, and so on, till death should them part. He begged her to understand that he was very poor, that he had no certain prospect of an income after the little that remained of his property was gone; for he had determined on giving up his appointment, if Sarah would agree to his proposal.
And as to the Tincroft estate, of which he had once vainly boasted, he had lost all faith in that. But there was enough, he went on to say, to maintain them (and Sarah's mother too, if she would live with them) in very strict economy for a year or two; and John thought he might get some employment in teaching, perhaps, or in some other way. But as he had always been under a cloud, so he expected to be to the end of the chapter.
"And so, Miss Wilson, you see," added he, by way of summing up, "it is but little that I can offer you. Still, if you will accept it, I will promise to be your faithful husband."
Poor Sarah! She could scarcely believe her own ears for wild, blank amazement.
"I do not ask for your answer to-night, Miss Wilson," John said; and then he added, "I am staying with Mr. Rubric, who knows why I came on here this evening, and he will call on you to-morrow for your decision. So let us say 'Good-night' now."
Their hands met, and while John's trembled with excitement, he could feel that Sarah's was deadly cold. In another moment, Sarah was left alone.
Then a low, sobbing cry broke from her, and her piteous exclamation "Oh! What shall I do? What shall I do?" was followed by a flood of tears which relieved her full heart.
It was true, as Tincroft had said, that on first entering the village that evening, he had taken his way to the rectory, where, to the intense astonishment of Mr. Rubric, he had laid bare his determination to take Sarah Wilson to wife, if she would have him, and thus remedy to the extent of his means the trouble he had occasioned.
"Is it possible that I understand you aright? Are you really serious in what you are saying?" ejaculated the rector.
John was perfectly serious, and he said so.
"But only consider, my good friend. Think how this is likely to end. You yourself say that Sarah Wilson is not the person whom, if left to your free choice, you would fix upon as a companion for life; that in marrying any one at this present time, your prospects would be destroyed; that you may have immediately to take your name from the college books, just too when by your final examinations you might obtain your degree; and that you will have to settle down as a broken man (excuse my plain speaking), and go into that precarious occupation, classical teaching, to earn a scanty livelihood. Think of this, Mr. Tincroft."
John had thought of it, he averred.
"And then, again, you have friends to whom you must thenceforth be a stranger—at least, in all probability. To say the least of it, Mr. Richard Grigson and his brother, who are really attached to you, would find it difficult to surmount their prejudices and swallow their disappointment, even should they be disposed to maintain their present relations with you."
"I should take care not to put their friendship to such a trial. I mean, I should take for granted that henceforth all intercourse with them must cease," said John, sadly but firmly.
"And you are prepared for this?"
Yes, John was prepared.
"Lastly, though I have hinted this before, you do not expect much future happiness in such an ill-assorted match?"
"I should endeavour to adapt myself to circumstances," said Tincroft. "It is possible, and almost certain, I am afraid, that I am naturally unadapted for wedded life; but since it has come upon me—if it should so prove—I daresay I shall take to it as well as others; and if not perfectly happy myself, I would endeavour to make my partner at least contented with her lot."
"Tincroft, I don't know what to make of you," broke out Mr. Rubric, abruptly.
John smiled faintly. "I often say so to myself," he said.
"But I cannot let you go on in this—pardon my calling it a—wild goose chase without putting the consequences before you. You remember my telling you of my old college friend and his imprudent marriage, and his subsequent disappointment?"
John smiled again.
"Yes, I remember," said he; "and also how you spoke of him as having taken the only honourable course open to him. Now that, as it seems to me, is what I have to do, and leave the event. It may be, poor Sarah will—"
"Decline the honour you are intending her," intimated the rector, seeing that Tincroft hesitated.
"No, no; don't put it so. Decline doing me the honour, if you like."
"Yes, put it in that way; and in that case you will be free. But, to tell you the truth, my opinion is that she will not decline it. But is there no other way of making amends?"
"I think not—I am sure there is not," said John.
Now, this conversation, or something like it, took place before the unexpected visit of John Tincroft to High Beech, as recorded in the last chapter, and it ended in John's being invited to return to the rectory, and to sleep there, with a promise on the part of Mr. Rubric to help his friend through the maze in which he was plunged, so far as he could do so with the consent of his own judgment. To tell the truth, Mr. Rubric sympathised to a considerable extent with Tincroft's conscientious desire to do right, regardless of consequences, while he inwardly hoped that his singular and highly eccentric suit might not prosper.
John had little to tell when he returned to the rectory. What that little was the reader is already acquainted with. He had something more decisive to hear when Mr. Rubric returned on the following day from his mission to High Beech.
Yes, Sarah Wilson would accept John Tincroft as her husband. She was so flurried overnight, she explained, that she was not able to give a proper answer then; but now, thanking John very much for his goodness, she would do her best to please him, and try to make him as comfortable as she could when they were married. All this and more Mr. Rubric reported, with a grim smile.
"I was on honour with you, you see, Tincroft," said he. "I promised that neither by word nor sign would I attempt to influence Sarah Wilson's decision. Not that it would have been of any use," he added, "for, as was to be expected, she was prepared with her answer."
"Why to be expected?" John asked.
"Well, it was not likely that she would refuse your offer. Her circumstances are very low, if not desperate; and besides that, I am not sure that she has not a real regard for you. Let us hope so, at all events. And then, the providing a home for her mother, as you have promised to do, may have had something to do with her prompt acquiescence in your proposal."
"And now," said John, "the sooner we can bring it to a conclusion the better. I shall go at once and see Sarah, and then return this evening to Oxford to wind up my affairs there, and make a few preparations for a married life."
"My poor friend!" sighed the rector.
"Pray don't pity me," said John, smiling; "you ought to congratulate me."
"So I do—on your possessing such high principle. And you really mean to throw up your appointment?"
"I have no alternative. I cannot go out as a married man."
"Would it not be possible to leave your wife in England," Mr. Rubric had half said; but he checked himself with "No, of course, it would not be. But you will look in at the Manor House before you return to Oxford?"
But Tincroft would not do this. He must submit himself to the consequences of his own act and deed, he said, and he could not expect Mr. Grigson to look upon him in any other light than as a lost man. And as he did not want to be either scorned or pitied, he would leave it to the squire to make any reapproaches. From this determination John was not to be moved, and he accordingly carried out his former programme. There was a hurried walk to High Beech, and a lengthened conference there in the character of an accepted lover, a return to the rectory to luncheon, a solitary tramp to the coaching town, in time for a night mail, and a night journey to Oxford. All this needs not many words.
Nor is much explanation needed to inform the reader of the steps taken by John Tincroft on his return to the university. It is enough to say that before the necessary time had elapsed for the publication of the banns of matrimony in due order, the gownsman's name had been removed from the college books; Mr. Rackstraw had been duly informed that his distant relative had altered his mind, and intended to remain in England; a small cottage near to his friends the Barrys, at Jericho, had been taken by John, and economically furnished out of the funds still remaining in the hands of his lawyer, who lifted up his hands in silent astonishment when his client put him in possession of the facts of the case.
All this was done by John with a degree of stoicism very wonderful and instructive to behold. He made no boast of his self-sacrifice, neither did he express regret at the abandonment of his former plans and expectations. He was in the path of duty—whether rightly or mistakenly, he believed this; and he went forward in it, looking neither to the right hand nor the left.
It was the more consolatory to Tincroft, therefore, as well as a pleasant surprise, when one day—before all his arrangements were quite completed, and before he had finally taken leave of his rooms at Queen's—Tom Grigson broke in upon him with an extraordinary outburst of voice, something like a view-hallo, and caught him by the hand in such a grip that John winced under the infliction.
"John, you are a splendid fellow!" said he.
John did not think so of himself, and he said he did not.
"True greatness is always modest," said Tom; "and, by the way," he added, "that's no discovery of mine, so don't give me credit for it. But I say you are a noble fellow; only I want to know why you have kept all this from me, most admirable Crichton?"
"Why should I have troubled—"
"Nonsense about trouble! But I know all about it from Dick. By the way, he has sent me a cheque that will clear Dry's bill; but this isn't what I was going to say. Why, Dick worships you, that's what he does; and he says if you don't keep your wedding at the Manor, he'll never forgive you. And I am to go down and see you turned off—I beg your pardon, John, but you are such a fellow, you know; and if we don't have such a picnic of it as was never known before at the old place, it won't be Dick's fault. And I wish you joy, John, and happiness, and success, and all that sort of thing; so there!"
And he wrung Tincroft's hand again, till tears started from his eyes.
"It is very good of you," said John, "and of Mr. Richard; but I would rather the wedding should go off quietly."
But it did not go off quietly. Perhaps, however, one picnic in a story is enough, and it will be sufficient to place on record here that on a certain day in June, years ago, but in less than a year from the date of our first chapter, was married in the parish church of a certain village in Blankshire, John Tincroft, gentleman, of Oxford, to Sarah Wilson, spinster, of the above parish.
CHAPTER XV.
FIREWORKS.
YEARS ago there lived in a small house—one of a row of similar tenements, dignified by the name of terrace—in the suburbs of Oxford, known as Jericho, a young married couple who had but few acquaintances in the city, and who probably had no desire to make them. They were poor; their home was scantily furnished, and the only inmate of their dwelling, besides themselves, was an elderly, slatternly woman, who was understood to be the mother of the young wife. They had been married more than a year at the time when we take up their story, and a little weakly blossom of mortality had a short while before struggled into existence, to the unbounded astonishment of those most immediately concerned in its advent. But as it had soon afterwards made its escape from a world which certainly did not look over-inviting, nothing more need be said on this particular topic.
The husband was a quiet, gentlemanly sort of man, who obtained a scanty enough subsistence, but paid his way notwithstanding, as a teacher of mathematics and classics at one or two boarding schools in the neighbourhood of Oxford, where his rather shabby costume, his ill-got-up linen, his oddity of manner, and his frequent absences of mind, gave abundant scope for merriment among his pupils. They liked him notwithstanding, for he was "a good sort of fellow," they said, "and never got a chap into trouble" with the principal.
It was known by the neighbours around—the dwellers in Jericho, I mean—that Mr. Tincroft (for that was the gentleman's name) had been formerly a gownsman of the university; but that, in consequence of his marrying beneath him, he had been obliged to relinquish his prospects, and to take to teaching, which, in their opinion, evidently was something near akin to scavengering; and if he hadn't had "something to fall back upon," they did not see how he could manage to rub along at all. What this something was nobody knew, and, as it was no matter of theirs, they didn't want to know. It being no matter of ours either, we may as well share in their blissful ignorance, only adding that although "under a cloud," it was sagely believed that, some day or other, the object of their contemplation would emerge from his obscurity.
"He will be a rich man when he wins his lawsuit," was whispered.
I am rather inclined to think that this whisper about a mysterious lawsuit was intentionally set afloat by a good-natured gownsman (Tincroft's almost only university acquaintance), Tom Grigson by name, who persisted in taking his supper with the Tincrofts at least once a week, and in dragging out the male Tincroft for a constitutional, as he termed it, at all times, seasonable or unseasonable, whenever he was to be found at home.
"You shan't vegetate while I am here, John," said Tom, on one such occasion; "when I am gone you must do as you like, I suppose."
Let me do Tom the justice, moreover, of saying that, like a preux chevalier—or, rather, like a true gentleman—he paid all due courtesies to the young wife of his friend. There are different ways of showing such courtesies. Tom chose the right way—he treated poor Sarah as though she were in every particular his equal. He made no condescending efforts to seem at his ease in her society. He placed himself on a right footing by the respect he paid to her.
One summer evening, more than a year, as I have said, after the marriage of John and Sarah, Tom made his appearance at their cottage. John was at home.
"You'll go and see the fireworks, John?" said Tom.
"Fireworks? What—where?"
"In Christchurch meadow, by the water-side. Haven't you heard about them?"
"No," John knew nothing about the fireworks.
"Oh! Then I am the first to tell you of them. There's to be a grand display to-night in honour of somebody, or something or other—I don't know what."
"Oh!" said Tincroft.
"And you must go and see them, Mrs. Tincroft, too."
"Really," said John, "I don't know. I don't care much for sights, you know; and I daresay Sarah would rather be at home."
"Nonsense. One would think you were too wise to be pleased with anything. I know better—don't you, Mrs. Tincroft?"
"John is always pleased when he sees you, Mr. Grigson," said Sarah.
"I am glad of it. You must persuade him then to go with us to see the sight, for you and I are not too clever to be amused, are we? Come, John, there's a good fellow—"
"'Doff your doublet, your best coat put on;
Make haste, or we shall find the sport begun!'"
John did as he was bid, and half an hour later the three were on their way to the meadow. Presently, as the darkness increased, the fireworks began to fizz and explode. The display was good, and John was contented with being a spectator. Sarah was delighted, like a child, as in some respects she was.
"It was very kind of you to make him come out," said she, turning to Tom, who was by their side.
"Oh see! How lovely bright!" she exclaimed, as a brilliant blue light suddenly lighted up the river-side, and the whole of the ground on which the spectators were standing, till all around for a few moments was as clear as in daylight.
At this moment a faint shriek from Sarah roused the attention of her husband. At the same moment Grigson disappeared from their side.
"What is it, Sarah?" John asked, tenderly.
"Oh! Nothing, nothing;" but she clung closer to John's arm, and asked him to remove a little farther from the fireworks, which somehow dazzled her, which he did.
Meanwhile Tom Grigson had darted into the thick of the crowd, and laid his hand on the arm of a stranger, a tall, pale young man who had been standing not many yards off and watching, not the fireworks, but Tom's friends and companions.
"Walter Wilson!"
"Mr. Grigson."
"What brings you here?" asked Tom, sternly.
"I am going abroad," answered Walter, submissively; "I can't stop in England, and I am going to Australia. But I didn't think it any harm to have a last look at Sarah before going. I didn't mean any harm," he added.
"I daresay not, Wilson; but after all that has passed, I think you are very unwise."
"I have been a fool from beginning to end," said Walter, impetuously. "I was a fool to listen to what they said at home about Sarah. I was a fool not to listen to what Tincroft would have told me; but I wouldn't hear him. And I am a fool now, I daresay, for coming all this way to ask Sarah's pardon, as I mean to do, for having mistrusted her ever, before going out of the country. But this is what I am come here for."
"Come this way, Wilson, and tell me all about it," said Tom Grigson, more mildly, as he drew the young man from the thickest of the crowd into the more secluded parts of the river-side walk.
Walter's story was soon told. By some means or other, which we need not stay to explain, he had been convinced of the wrong he had done to his cousin by his unworthy suspicion. Torn with remorse for his unkindness, and indignant with the mischief-mongers who had stepped in between himself and his long-hoped-for happiness, he was seized with serious illness, which for a time threatened first his life and then his reason. From this danger, however, he was rescued mainly by the care and sympathy of his friends the Burgesses; and eventually recovering, humbled also by the severe discipline he had undergone, he endeavoured to settle down again to business. But the attempt was unsuccessful.
The object of life, so far as his future happiness was concerned, was lost; and alienated from his own family, he suddenly resolved to banish himself for ever from the scene of his bitter disappointment. It was at a time when wonderful stories were told of the opening for industry and enterprise in the Australian colonies; and what could he do better than put half the circumference of the world between himself and his lost hopes? He had earned the means for the voyage, and something more, during his business connection with his friend Ralph; and, better than this, he had obtained a practical knowledge of the profession which, above all others, was at that time in request in the strange land of which so much began to be told.
But he must see his cousin before bidding farewell to home—must ask her forgiveness for his cruelty—must be reconciled to his successful rival, and then—
"You must do nothing of the sort, Wilson," said Tom, who had listened to him patiently thus far, and who had witnessed the effect of Walter's unexpected appearance. "But you have not yet explained by what evil chance you came upon us just now."
It was easily explained, Walter said. He knew of his cousin's being in Oxford, and he had journeyed thither from London, where he had already taken his passage, and whence he was to sail on the following week. It was by the merest accident that on this, the very day of his arrival, he had, while wandering through the streets, caught a glimpse of his cousin, her husband, and their friend when on their way to the meadow. Concealing himself from them as he best could, he had followed them, and kept near to them in the increasing dusk of evening, waiting only a favourable opportunity of making himself known.
"Which you have no right to do," said Tom, quietly. "Look here, Walter; you, with your bad temper and your ridiculous jealousy, and all that sort of thing, have done mischief enough already, and you are not going to do more, if I can help it. You have seen your cousin—that's enough for you; and if it is any pleasure for you to know it, she has a good husband, who knows, at any rate, how to behave kindly to her. Now I don't leave you till I see you safe off again to London. So come."
It may be that Tom Grigson used other arguments; but whether he did or not, I am sure of one thing—that a night coach conveyed Walter Wilson back again whence he came before three hours were over, and Oxford saw him no more.
CHAPTER XVI.
JOHN TINCROFT STILL UNDER A CLOUD.
A LONG half-year after the events recorded in the foregoing chapter, John Tincroft received a visit from his lawyer.
"I am going to London to-morrow," he said.
"I hope you will have a pleasant journey," John responded.
"Well, yes, I hope so too. I think I shall," said Mr. Roundhand.
"If it is about my affairs—" John began.
"It is about your affairs. The cause comes on the day after to-morrow. That is, it is down for hearing then."
"You know," said John, hastily, "that I have wiped my hands of it long ago."
"Oh yes, I know; and you have left us poor lawyers to take our chances of victory or defeat at our own cost. Come now; what shall I pay you down for the Tincroft estate in nubibus?—win or lose."
John shook his head. "I never gamble," said he.
"And you are wise. Look here, Tincroft; since we last talked about this business, and that was a good while ago, some changes have been going on in the world."
"No doubt; but I don't see the papers now," said stolid John.
"You ought to see them. But I suppose you think that because the old Greeks and Romans did without newspapers you can do without them too. But you are wrong. By the way, you have heard of the Augean stables, no doubt?"
John thought he had—was sure he had.
"And of the labours of Hercules?"
"Yes," John had heard of them too—strange if he hadn't.
"Well, Hercules is come to life again, and has got a new broom, and our Augean stables are being swept out. But I am talking Greek to you, I suppose."
"Worse than Greek. I don't understand you a bit, Mr. Roundhand."
"Ah! You'll see. By the way, do you happen to know who is Lord Chancellor now?"
John did not know even that.
"I don't suppose you do. He is the new broom I was telling you of, and he is sweeping out the Augean stables—our Augean stables—with a vengeance. There will be nothing left for us lawyers to fatten on soon, they say. But it is an ill wind that blows no one any good; and you will be all the better for it—you'll see. You won't go with me to Westminster, I suppose?"
"I do not understand you, Mr. Roundhand," John reiterated; "only that you seem in high spirits," he added.
"And you are not so infected. Well, I'll go. You shall hear from me again soon."
"I am always pleased to see you, you know, Mr. Roundhand," said John.
"Ah! You'll have reason to say so this day week, perhaps. We shall see."
And so he departed, leaving Tincroft in a brown study. For John had lately become more addicted to brown studies than ever. And not altogether without reason. At any rate he had more than one source of disquietude. The first was in the unprofitable nature of his engagements. Do what he might, he had found that grinding mathematics and classics in boarding schools at so much an hour (with frequent gaps between), is about on a par with brickmaking. To supplement this occupation, he had lately tried his hand (as his father Josiah had done before him) at literary composition, but thus far had failed in making any impression on stony-hearted editors. So, if the truth must be told, he was more than ever under a cloud, for his small reserve fund was melting slowly away.
Next, our friend was under much concern regarding the health and comfort of the poor girl who was now his wife. He had conscientiously performed his promises, he had sought to make her happy; and he had found, if not happiness, yet a degree of quiet repose in this union, which perhaps compensated in some measure for the absence of more congenial companionship, which he might have found in a more intellectual and cultivated help-meet. I believe he was even proud of his young wife, and though her bloom was somewhat faded, John loved, as of yore, to sit by her side (not now on a knobby chair, though a cheap one) and contemplate the charms which had first enthralled him. Be this as it might, I know that he cherished her as a thing of price, and would not allow, so far as he could prevent, his own anxious cares for the future to disturb her mind.
And Sarah seemed grateful to her John, and desirous of pleasing him; very submissive, too, to his little whims, she would have been, I think, and very indulgent to his peculiarities, if there had been any need for submission and indulgence. But, notwithstanding all this, poor Sarah pined. She missed the fresh air and the freedom, perhaps, of her native place, and of High Beech Farm, with all its drawbacks. John had watchfully noticed this almost from the first; and now, of late, during the last six months—dating, let us say, from the evening of the fireworks—she had more manifestly fallen off in health and spirits, giving way sometimes to tears on very slight occasions, as John thought, which perplexed him mightily.
In truth, on looking back, John remembered that on that very evening just mentioned, on their return from the pyrotechnics, Sarah was suddenly seized with violent shakings and tremblings, which terminated in hysterics as soon as they reached their own little parlour. And he had reproached himself at the time, as he still did, for having kept his tender little wife too long standing on the damp ground and in the miasmatic air of the river-side meadow. Perhaps Tom Grigson could have better accounted for this sudden affection; but he was a good fellow, and he did not.
Another of Tincroft's worries was in the increasing necessity felt by his mother-in-law for those afternoon "lyings down" which used to excite his sympathy, as well as puzzle him, but the too obvious cause of which began slowly to dawn on John's unsuspicious and unimaginative mind.
With all these cares, however, John was not unhappy. To a considerable degree they were counteracted by the Mens conscia recti, which, at any rate, lightened his burden. Then his friend Grigson was constant.
And, lastly, if he wanted a little good solid talk, was not there his old friend Mrs. Elizabeth Barry, with her cheerful, old-fashioned piety (old-fashioned, I mean, in her way of expressing it), and her favourite hymn-book, of which John became at last positively enamoured. He was ever a welcome guest at the Barrys; and in virtue of his family relationship to the obese old lady, Sarah was admitted into her presence-chamber, not altogether without a beneficial effect. And this connection was advantageous in obtaining for Sarah the sometimes help and sometimes sympathy and sometimes cheering companionship of little Mrs. Barry the younger, when John was away on his professional engagements, or racking his brains (alas, in vain it seemed!) in a small closet about nine feet square, which he called his study.
But a change was impending; and to show how "great events from little causes spring" (am I right in my quotation?), his gracious Majesty of Great Britain and Ireland was little aware how he was helping of John Tincroft's fortunes when, on a certain trivial occasion, he changed his Cabinet Ministers, and, of necessity, appointed a new Lord Chancellor.
"Tincroft v. Tincroft.—This suit is at last ended in favour of the Sussex branch of the family. His lordship, in giving judgment, remarked that whatever doubts or uncertainties in relation to the legitimate heirship of John Tincroft, the claimant of that branch, might formerly have been entertained, had been entirely removed by the latest evidence produced in his favour." So the newspapers report.
"I congratulate you with all my heart," said Mr. Roundhand when next they met. "You won't be a rich man, you know; but there is the estate, such as it is, unencumbered; and though the funded property has been pretty considerably reduced, and may be more so before affairs are finally wound up, there will be something to patch up the old house with, and to give you a fixed income, if a small one."
"And I congratulate you too with a 'Hip, hip, hurrah!'" shouted Tom Grigson, who had come in with the lawyer. "And won't Dick be pleased? I tell you what, we must have another picnic for this, only it must be in the Tincroft grounds this time."
"It shall be as you please, Tom," said John, faintly, and with a bewildered air, for the news had come upon him suddenly and unexpectedly. He had never less believed in the breaking of the cloud under which he had lain all his life, notwithstanding all his lawyer had said, than at the very moment when, looking up, he saw that the cloud was gone.
On the whole, however, John Tincroft conducted himself with tolerable composure as soon as he clearly understood his altered circumstances.
"I am glad of it for Sarah's sake," he said. "Poor dear Sarah! She will rally now, I hope. It will be pleasant for her to live in the country again."
And so, after a while, they went to live in the country, John Tincroft and his Sarah, and Sarah's mother. And they had, instead of a picnic, what they called a "house-warming," at which were present Mr. Richard Grigson and his brother Tom, Mr. Rubric, Mr. Rackstraw, Mr. Roundhand, and his confidential clerk Mr. Foster, with sundry others. It took time to bring this about, however, for the old dilapidated house first had to be made habitable, and its grounds presentable to strangers. And after all, as the lawyer had predicted, Tincroft's means of keeping up appearances and entertaining visitors were limited within narrow bounds.
Great expectations were excited around Tincroft House, and in the not far-off town of Trotbury, when it was known that a real Tincroft—the Tincroft—was coming to enjoy his own again. Tradesmen of all degrees, from the showy upholsterer of Trotbury to the indispensable butcher, baker, and grocer of the immediate village, looked forward to an accession of custom, and left their cards at the door. The cards were graciously received; but little came of it. A family of three, living in a few rooms in a large mansion, the rest being shut up, was not likely to make the fortunes of many tradespeople. So they drew off disgusted, as their way too often is.
In truth it was a quiet recluse kind of life that John began to lead in his new home. He cultivated no friendships, and was soon dropped by the few wealthier neighbours who at first made some advances towards his acquaintance. In a short space of time, therefore, Tincroft House seemed to have returned almost to its former condition.
Nevertheless, this way of life suited John Tincroft perhaps better than any other would have done. He could study if and when he pleased. He could put pen to paper without caring much about the "declined with thanks" which had formerly damped his ardour; for if the editors would not print his lucubrations, he could read them in manuscript to his young wife, though poor Sarah was no wiser when he had done than she had been before; and this served his purpose. And, finally, he could cultivate his own cabbages and gather his own apples, and that privilege, he did not count as nothing.
At times, too, he received visitors. Now that he had obtained the estate, such as it was, his London relative, Mr. Rackstraw, found it pleasant enough to run down into the country for a few days in the autumn, under pretence Of shooting, when he took up free quarters at Tincroft House, and talked somewhat boastfully of the hand he had had in John's fortunes; or would have had if the dear fellow had gone out to India, as he had planned. John made him welcome enough; he would not have known how to do otherwise.
But more welcome guests were Richard and Tom Grigson, who, sometimes together and sometimes apart, periodically and for some years gave John the benefit and pleasure of their society. And on occasion of Tom's marriage to Kate Elliston of the Mumbles, a part of their honeymoon was spent at Tincroft House, the unused state apartments being prepared and hospitably thrown open to them for that auspicious occasion. But respecting this matrimonial event, we shall have something to tell in a future chapter.
Mr. Rubric also sometimes found his way to Tincroft House. And it is to be expressly stated that this gentleman, as well as those above mentioned, made themselves agreeable to Mrs. Tincroft by the respectful gallantry with which they treated her.
John would fain have extended his hospitality to excellent Mrs. Barry, to whom he was, on more than one account, indebted. But she laughingly declined the invitation.
"When I travel the country in a showman's van, as the fat woman of Oxford, I'll be sure to give you a call," said she; "but till then, I think you must come and see me sometimes, Mr. John."
Which he did.
Once the Tincrofts received an unexpected call from Ralph Burgess, out of the far north, whose professional engagements in connection with a projected railroad (for it was at the time when railroads began to be surveyed) carried him southward.
On this occasion, John was taken aside by his visitor.
"You have heard nothing of Walter Wilson of late, I suppose!"
"Nothing," said John, "except that he went to Australia soon after—not long after—"
"Not long after your marriage. True. You will not be sorry to hear that he is not doing badly out there, I hope?"
"Sorry!" Why should John be sorry? He was very glad, and so would Sarah be, when she heard it.
"But perhaps you will be surprised to hear that he is married?"
"Better news still," said John. "It makes me uncommonly happy to hear it."
And now, having made a sort of hero of one who became so without intending it, and in spite of himself, we here make our bow to John Tincroft, to bring him forward again after many years. Before taking this stride, however, it will be incumbent on us to leave him some little time to repose under his laurels, while we glance at the fortunes of two or more of the dramatis personæ of this history.