CHAPTER XX.
HOW TOM GRIGSON SPED IN HIS WOOING.
AND now for Tom Grigson, and how his wooing sped. That he is married has already been told in the early part of our story, and to the lady of his first choice, moreover. But, having promised to give some account of this important matter, we must invite our readers to accompany us (and Tom) one fine day to the place called the Mumbles, which, as already intimated, had strong attractions to the younger Grigson, even in the early days of our history.
Tom had left college—had had enough of Oxford, he said. The truth is, he and Oxford did not very well agree with each other. Understand me, they never exactly fell out; that is to say, Tom had been neither rusticated nor plucked. He had passed his "Little-go" with tolerable credit. What might have happened at the "Great-go" can never be known, as Tom was too modest, say, to face the ordeal. At all events, he had brought home his cap and gown unsullied; but it would not have broken his heart to know that he should never wear gown, of any shape or texture, again.
But what was Tom to do? He had only a younger son's portion, and that was a small one. As to waiting to step into his brother's shoes, such a thought had never entered his head. He would have despised himself, if it had. And, good-tempered as he was, he would have quarrelled with any one offhand who had hinted at such a conclusion. Besides, Richard, though so many years older than himself, might outlive him for all that. Still, when the question occurred to him as to how he was to make his way in the world—and in spite of his habit of putting off disagreeable topics the thought would come into his mind now and then—he was at a loss for a reply. He had learned "how not to do it" with great success at Oxford. But "how to do it" was yet to be proved.
He could hunt and shoot and ride (his brother's horses, of course) to perfection, or pretty near it, it is true; but as he was not likely to be a candidate for the situation of a gamekeeper or whipper-in, or master of the hounds even, these qualifications were not likely to help him on in the world much. So Richard Grigson sometimes reflected, when he saw Tom employing himself industriously enough in these special gifts, but otherwise "taking it easy," as he said. But Richard was too fond of his brother to want to part with him, and so contented himself with hoping and trusting and half-believing in something turning up unexpectedly so as to solve the difficult problem.
How, under such circumstances, could Tom (as we must go on calling him) possibly commit the imprudence of falling seriously in love with Kate Elliston or any other Kate? Or how could that young lady for a moment seriously think of Tom as her future husband? And yet so it was. And the infatuated youth, on the fine morning of which I am thinking, rode over to the Mumbles as happy perhaps as the richest fellow in the world; for on the previous day he had made the young lady an offer, and had been accepted—conditionally.
On his way he met Mr. Elliston, the owner of that large house and estate. Mr. Elliston was also on horseback, and he saluted the young gentleman thus:
"Well met, Grigson. I was going over to your brother's place expressly to have some talk with you; but as you are come so far, I'll turn back, and say my say at the Mumbles. I suppose you will like that as well, on the whole?"
"A good deal better," said Tom, lightly; and then his heart began to beat a little faster than usual, for he was not quite sure as to what Kate's father might have to say to him, looking so serious too.
Mr. Elliston was the father of the gentleman of whom mention has already been made in these memoirs, as having, according to Miss Elizabeth Wilson's version, discarded a certain Miss Summerfield for a richer prize; and it was further reported that he had been advised, if not compelled, to this course by the old gentleman, who knew as well as any one—so the gossip-mongers said—how many shillings should go to make a guinea.
Now, the condition on which Tom had been blushingly accepted as a lover by the fair Kate, was that her father's consent to the arrangement should be obtained. And though the young gentleman had reason to believe that he was a special favourite with the old one, he was not quite sure whether that favour would safely carry him over the bridge which still lay between him and the fulfilment of his hopes. So, between hoping and fearing, Tom rode silently alongside Mr. Elliston till they reached the stable-yard of the Mumbles, where he gave up his horse to the groom, and, on further invitation, followed the master of the great house into his study.
"So," said the old gentleman, when the door was closely shut, "I understand you have been talking to Kate."
"She has told you, then, what passed yesterday?" said Tom, eagerly.
"Of course she has. She is a good girl, and has made an open breast of it."
"And may I venture to hope, sir, that you will consent to my—to make me—to make Kate, I mean—happy?" blurted out Tom, stammering rather awkwardly. "She—that is, we—love one another very much, sir," said Tom, looking very red, I daresay.
"In other words," said the grey-headed senior, very gravely, "you propose to be my son-in-law—at some future time—and venture to hope that I see no objection to the arrangement. But suppose I do see a very serious and grave and almost insuperable objection to it, my dear Tom, what would you say then?"
Tom had no hesitation in saying and believing that the hypothetical objection being only almost, and not entirely insuperable, it might be overcome.
Mr. Elliston was not so sure of this.
"You must have seen long ago, sir," pleaded the lover, "that there were attractions at the Mumbles which I could not resist."
"You give me credit for great powers of discernment," said the old gentleman, smiling, in spite of his grave countenance. "But granted that I supposed you were attracted by the pleasure and advantage of my society, for instance—I am not sure that this warrants me in approving of your—shall I call it presumption?—in aspiring to my daughter's hand. Moreover, I may have been pleased with you as a guest, and may like you as a friend and acquaintance and welcome visitor, and yet not think you altogether a suitable match for my daughter."
"I know I am not in all respects worthy of Miss Elliston," said puzzled Tom; "and yet—"
"Let me say what I was going to say, young man," continued the elder. "And I may as well tell you at once that I have known, as well as you can tell me now, what your attraction was in coming to my house; and I have waited for some such interview as this."
"Then I may hope," said the other, "that my suit is to prosper; for I am sure, sir, you would not have permitted me to indulge expectations to disappoint them at last."
"I have waited this opportunity," continued the host, "to tell you that, much as I like you, as you are now going on, you cannot marry my daughter; and that it entirely depends on yourself whether or not Kate can ever be your wife. Now, I know as well as you can tell me what your possessions and prospects are. You have no home, properly speaking; you have no profession; your independent income was not sufficient to maintain you at college—it is swallowed up now in your personal expenses; and yet you want my girl for a wife. How do you mean to support her?"
"I'll work, sir," cried Tom, frantically; "I'll work hard, sir. I'll work the skin off my bones."
"Poor Tom! Dear Grigson!" said the gentleman more kindly than he had yet spoken, "I have no doubt you think so, but what will you work at? You cannot answer that question, so I will answer it for you. You are not fit for the law. You have no vocation, as I have often heard you say, for the Church, otherwise the living of your parish, which is in your brother's gift, might eventually come to you. But you have set this aside as out of the question, and I honour you for your honesty. Now listen: I have a living in my gift; I offer it to you, and if you choose to accept it, you shall marry my daughter as soon as she and you can agree on the subject. I have told Kate so, and now I tell you so. But you must either accept or refuse; and I should not wonder if you were to refuse it."
Puzzled Tom looked up into his old friend's face. "I don't understand you, sir," he said, faintly; adding, with emphasis, "There is nothing that I would not do, not inconsistent with honesty and the honour of a gentleman."
"Ah, there it is! I said I thought the objection would be insuperable; for, of course, you would consider it a great sacrifice of the honour, and a great lowering of the dignity, of a gentleman to go into trade."
"Trade, Mr. Elliston?"
"Yes, trade. Look you here, Mr. Grigson, my money was made in trade. My father and my grandfather before him were in trade. In my early life, I was in trade, and if you have Kate for a wife, you must go into trade too. You are cut out for it; you have good common sense, a clear head, and a cool one. You have plenty of pluck, and plenty of industry, if well applied. The old firm with which I first became connected forty years ago, and a prosperous one it is still, wants an active partner. You will do as well as another, and better. If you choose to put your aristocratic notions into your pocket and go in for trade, I will furnish the capital wanted, and you shall have Kate into the bargain."
Tom looked rueful enough. The Grigsons, the old county family, that might have come in with the Conqueror, for anything that can be told, had never suffered the contamination of trade. They had been in the Church (one of them a bishop), in the law (one of them a judge), in the army (one of them a general); but in trade, never. So Tom thought. And then he asked, falteringly—
"Wouldn't it do if I were to go into farming, sir? My brother's largest farm, Broad Lees, eight hundred acres or more, will soon be vacant; at any rate, the lease will be out next Michaelmas; and I have had a talk with Dick about it. I should like that better than going into trade, Mr. Elliston."
"I daresay you would; and you would like to be a gentleman farmer, I have no doubt. You could hunt and shoot and ride, and make ducks and drakes of your money—that is, if you had the handling of any; and in three years you would be—well, I won't say where. But, nice as you think it, I can tell you, you would never make money at that sort of work, nor even keep it; at least, that is the opinion I have formed. No, no, my dear fellow; I stick to my first offer. Take it or leave it."
"And Kate—Miss Elliston, I mean—does she ap-ap-prove of your decision, sir?"
"She submits to it, at any rate."
"I should like to consult my brother about it," said Tom, on whom the unexpected proposal had produced an extraordinary effect, not to be easily understood by any who are not intimately acquainted with the strong feeling, bordering on absolute contempt, with which certain persons—some educated, some uneducated—look down upon trade and traders.
We could produce numerous examples of this extreme prejudice, but it is not needful. The reader must take for granted that it does exist, and that Tom Grigson had imbibed it. Of course he had heard, in one way or another, that Mr. Elliston had at some former time been in some kind of business (he had never troubled himself to find out in what kind of business) in London; and that, having made a large fortune by trading, he had retired to the country, and bought the estate on which he now lived. He knew, too, that Mr. Elliston had all, or most of, the tastes and feelings of a gentleman, which he rather wondered at.
And let it be confessed, that when he first of all became conscious of the peculiar sensation which, for want of a better word, we call love, towards the fair Kate, he made a strong though unsuccessful effort to overcome it, on the ground of her distant connection with what he would, in any other case, have called the "shop." And when eventually, he made up his mind not to let that obstacle stand in his way, he gave himself credit, I am afraid, for wonderful magnanimity in overlooking that blot on the lady's escutcheon, and for great discernment in having arrived at the conclusion that the ex-tradesman's daughter was after all not unworthy of his fond admiration.
I daresay that this part of our veracious history will be looked upon by some readers as apocryphal. But it is not; and, taking our word for it that it is a true representation, it may be conceived how great a blow it was to poor Tom's self-pride to be told that he must stoop still lower than he had yet stooped, in order to possess the prize he longed for.
All these thoughts and remembrances possibly rushed through Tom's mind in a few brief moments; and then followed his mental resolution, "After all, I can't and won't give up Kate;" adding aloud, "I should like to consult my brother about it."
"By all means speak to Mr. Richard," said the old gentleman; and there the subject was, for that time, dropped, Master Tom being quietly, though courteously enough, dismissed without seeing the young lady for whom he was expected to make such a sacrifice.
Tom returned to the Manor House somewhat disconsolate, and was soon pouring out his sorrows into Richard Grigson's ear.
"Why, this is another Tincroft affair," said the elder brother, when the younger had gone over the several items of the previous interview. He said it with such mock gravity that Tom remonstrated.
"Don't laugh at me, Richard. I want your advice."
"To follow if you like it, I suppose. Well, Tom, here goes, then."
But as I am writing Tom's history only in brief, and just so far as concerns our friend John Tincroft, it is enough to say that the elder brother gave the younger brother very good advice, and the younger brother took it. For the very next day he presented himself at the Mumbles, and was again in conference with Kate's father.
"I am come to say I will do everything you wish me to do, sir, if I may still hope for your consent," said Tom, and feeling when he had said it as Cæsar may have felt when he crossed the Rubicon.
"I don't often contradict myself or recall my words, and I have no wish to do so now, dear Tom," said the old gentleman, as he took Tom's outstretched hand and shook it. "And I wish you to believe that, according to my notions, I am doing the best I can for you and Kate."
"I hope it may turn out so," said Tom; "and now I am in for it, I'll do my best to fulfil your expectations. But Richard thinks, and I am afraid, that I shall make a poor hand at business of any sort, never having been used to it."
"I am not at all afraid of that," replied the elder. "If a man goes in for doing his best, as you say, he is in a fair way to succeed, whatever he attempts, unless he is an absolute blockhead, which you are not, Tom. Of course it will be strange to you at first, but you will get on by degrees—fast, too, for you will be sure to like it. If I could only be a young man again!" said the senior, with enthusiasm, as he called to remembrance former days of successes and triumphs.
And then, with a sigh, he added more soberly, "It will all come to you in good time, Tom; and you won't stand alone, remember. You will have two partners who know what business is, and how to do it; one of them is Kate's brother, you know, and the other is likely to be a member of Parliament soon, as well as a tradesman. Think of that!"
Well, to be sure, there was something in that idea, Tom thought; and then it occurred to him that he had not been informed of the nature of the business into which he was to be so unceremoniously thrust, and in which he was expected to become so expert. And as it is no particular concern of ours, it is enough to say that, being satisfied on this head, Tom made no further objection to the plans of his future father-in-law, except to say that his brother, on good cause being shown, would furnish half the capital required in carrying them out. This being eventually conceded, all diligence was used in getting through the preliminaries.
And in less than a month, Mr. Thomas Grigson found himself a citizen of London, with a private office in the heart of the city, and in lodgings five or six miles away, looking out for a home for Kate. This was soon found and furnished; and barely six months had passed away before the bells of Mumbleton Church one day rang a merry peal, and all Mumbleton was in an uproar of rejoicing, because Kate Elliston had taken to herself a husband, and changed her name to Kate Grigson.
And so they were married; and our friend Tom, having, as already intimated, spent part of his honeymoon with his old fellow-collegian at Tincroft House, went back to his pretty villa on the banks of the Thames, and liked his home with its surroundings, and loved his young wife none the less for having to spend the greater part of the day away from it and her in the active business of life.
It will, perhaps, be incredible to some of my readers that Tom really began to take an interest in, and to like, the excitement of everyday trade. But it is true, nevertheless; and it is equally true that when any man does "with all his might" whatsoever his "hand findeth to do," provided it is an honest and upright doing, he will hardly fail of liking to do it.
It is true that Tom's love for his old country life and occupations did not diminish as time wore on. His riding and driving he kept up, for he rode to and from the city daily, and found time also to drive his Kate out in her pony-chaise now and then. As to hunting and shooting, a week or two in September, and another week or two after Christmas, spent at the Manor House with brother Richard, satisfied all his longings.
And he, after a time, began to pity "poor Richard," and to wonder how he could manage to exist all the year round in his country home. At any rate, his (Tom's) own pretty villa on the banks of the Thames had increasing charms and attractions for him, which threw all the glories of the Manor House into the shade; while "the house in the city was nothing to be ashamed of," Tom averred. In fact, every year added to the balance in his favour as a partner in the firm, while at least every other year added to the olive branches around his table.
And so the whirligig of time carried Tom on until we find him, some sixteen years after his marriage, on a summer evening with his eldest son (a boy of fifteen or thereabout) rowing in a pair-oar boat, with the Kate of early days acting as steerswoman, and looking almost as young as when Tom first made her acquaintance.
Presently the oarsmen rested on their oars to admire the bright hues of sunset, to which their attention had been called by the lady at the helm.
"It is very beautiful," said the elder. "It puts me in mind of an evening, some sixteen or seventeen years ago, Kate, when—do you remember when and where?"
The lady thought perhaps she did; but she wasn't sure. She had witnessed a good many lovely sunsets when her home was at the Mumbles.
"Yes, and since then, Kate. But the evening I mean was an especially lovely one. And the best of it is, that since that evening, there has been a long day of sunshine for us. By the way, a fellow was in our house to-day who had come over from Australia—he lives at Sydney when he is at home—and I happened to ask him if he knew young Wilson—Walter Wilson—you remember him, don't you?"
"I remember hearing enough about him and his cousin whom he was to have married, and didn't."
"Just so, because she married somebody else, and became—you know who."
"I never like to remember that when we go—you know where, for I think she didn't use her poor cousin well," said the lady.
"And I think," rejoined Tom Grigson, laughing, "that Walter didn't use his poor cousin well."
"Ah, yes; you men always take sides with us women—when you can."
"Yes, dear, when we can; and you women with us men. I suppose it is the natural order of things. But, anyhow, Wilson isn't much to be pitied. Brooks, the Sydney man, knows him; says he is one of the most thriving men in the colony, and, what is as much to the purpose, has one of the best of women for a wife, and one of the prettiest girls for a daughter that he has ever known. They do business together, Brooks says, he and Wilson, principally in wool; and the Wilsons sometimes come to Sydney, and sometimes he goes up the country to Sedley Station, as Wilson's place is called. So it seems to have all turned out for the best—for him, at any rate."
And so the talk went on, till presently the sunset hues died away, and the oars were resumed; and they little thought how another sunset was at this time drawing on, thousands of miles away, to close in the happy day of the prosperous man of whom they had lightly spoken. But before we come to this, we must go back a few years in our narrative.
In the same month and in the same year in which Tom Grigson settled down in his nest on the banks of the Thames, an event of equal importance to other parties took place at Sedley Station, in New South Wales.
When Walter Wilson left England, after that last despairing sight of his lost love previously mentioned, he made up his mind that the pole-star of his life had disappeared—that his sun had set, never more to rise—that the romance of existence was, to him, past and gone. A good many such foolish and incongruous images rising in his mind, found words in a letter he wrote to Ralph Burgess while on his outward-bound voyage, whereat Ralph good-naturedly smiled. The upshot and conclusion in Walter's thoughts were that he couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't, oughtn't ever to think of matrimony. He would go into the wilds of Australia, he would bury himself alive, he would shun the sight of womankind, he would be a woman-hater all the remainder of his days. This also he wrote to his friend Ralph in bitter self-reproach for having suffered himself to be "choused out" of his life's happiness.
"Poor Wilson! Poor Walter!" sighed Ralph's sister when she read these ravings.
"You needn't pity him so very much, Mary," said the more far-seeing brother; "he isn't heart-broken, depend on it; and if he has had a crack in that region, it will be soldered up in time, and he will be all the wiser for it. If he had married his cousin, I should not have liked (if I had been a woman) to stand in her shoes. When he does marry, as he will—and we shall hear about it some of these days—his wife will stand a good chance of being a happy woman—if she likes."
Ralph's prognostications were fulfilled; they did hear of Walter's marrying. He did not say much about the matter in the letter he wrote announcing the event, excepting that his young wife's name was Helen, which he thought was a pretty name, and he hoped his friend would be pleased with it. The truth perhaps is, that Walter was half-ashamed of his weakness, as he might have thought it, in having permitted his fortress to be again assailed, and successfully too. Having hummed and strummed so long on the wonderful couplet—
"There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could."
He was determined not to confess how gay-hearted he really had become.
And something better than this. And we, who have the advantage of knowing more than the name of the young Helen, may quite believe that she would not have committed herself to the care and fond affection of one of whom, in higher and nobler and more enduring qualities, she had any reason to doubt.
We will not have any more love scenes—in this part of our story at least; so all I have to observe in relation to Walter's courtship is, that after having for two years acquitted himself with satisfaction to the Sedley of that ilk, he one day craved an audience with his employer, and boldly proposed himself as a suitor for Helen's hand, Helen herself having consented.
At first the ex-lawyer was astounded at the audacity of his steward. But he soon summoned wisdom enough to reflect that before many years could pass away, his daughter would be alone in the world, with considerable property, of a kind which would require a stronger hand than a woman's to manage; that there was no one else in the field, nor likely to be, in the solitude of that bush life to which Helen had become so accustomed, that perhaps she was fitted for no other kind of life. That the girl, moreover, had her own notions of what was convenient, proper, right, and so forth, and had been accustomed to have her way pretty much as she pleased—which, being a good way, had been all the better for him; that if she had taken a liking to the young fellow, she had a right to please herself, all the more that he (the father) had taken a liking to him also; and that, to sum up all, he did not know how Sedley Station would get on without Wilson to manage it. And so the bargain was struck, and the knot was tied.
And now we must get over our Australian ground as rapidly as possible, for we have a strong longing to see John Tincroft once more in the flesh. So we have only to say, in the first place, that after Walter's sober, quiet sort of wedding, his father-in-law, becoming increasingly infirm, withdrew altogether from any interference in the management of his property, and gradually sank into a torpid state of existence, which terminated in death about two years from the date of his daughter's marriage. He was reverently laid in the small graveyard of Sedley Station; and then, in right of his wife, Wilson entered into full possession of the estate, which was her lawful inheritance. Before this time, a little Helen had appeared upon the scene, and Mrs. Wilson was comforted for her father's death in the new duties of a mother.
At about the same time the affairs of the colony almost suddenly put on a new phase of prosperity, in consequence of which the district around Sedley Station began to increase in population. One after another, purchasers of Government lands, technically calling themselves squatters, settled down on their farms, built themselves houses, established out-stations, and turned to account the stock-feeding capability of the bush. In all this advancing prosperity, Walter Wilson had his share. He increased his flocks and herds, and gradually brought his home farm into a state of cultivation previously unknown. In carrying out his plans, and following up his various successes, it was necessary to add to the number of his hands on the settlement, and to enlarge his establishment generally.
All this, however, was a work of time, and we must pass over some intervening years, merely explaining that though in the particulars just mentioned Walter Wilson was reckoned a fortunate man, he had one source of dissatisfaction with his lot. He hadn't a son to succeed him; indeed, he had but one child, and that child was, as we have said, a daughter.
"If I had been a poor man in the old country, as I should have been if I had stopped there," said Walter to himself one day, "I should have had more mouths to feed than bread to feed them with, I suppose."
But the complaining mood passed away at the first sight of his wife's peaceful countenance, and at the first contact of his little Helen's rosy lips with his weather-beaten cheek.
Did Walter, in these days, ever think of his old home? Most likely he did; but he very seldom spoke of it. Even to his wife, he maintained a studied reserve. He had friends in England, some of whom had not used him well; but he had forgiven them, he hoped. So he stated once; and as Helen Wilson was not very curious, and was perfectly satisfied with her husband's love, she asked for nothing more from him.
At length Walter Wilson's one unsatisfied wish was gratified. Fourteen years had passed away since the birth of his daughter, and now a son was given to him. A fine thriving, bouncing boy, the happy father pronounced this precious gift to be, when he first daintily held it in his strong arms, and kissed it again and again before he could be persuaded to restore it to the nurse, who had been borrowed for the time from the nearest settlement, where her services had been in request a short time before.
"We only wanted this, Helen," he whispered, as he bent over his wife, and kissed her pale forehead. "We shall be happy now."
A faint smile overspread Helen's countenance. "If it please God to spare the babe, I trust he will grow up to make us happy, Walter; but we must not forget our little Helen."
There was no danger of this, Walter replied. He loved his daughter very dearly; "but then," added he, repeating what he had often before said, "she is only a girl, and in the bush, girls don't count for so much as boys. All girls are not like what you were, and always have been. But never fear, I shall love our darling Helen all the better for her having a baby brother; and she, too, will be all the happier and better for having some one beside our two selves to care about and think about. And there will be enough and to spare for both when it pleases God to take us away," he concluded.
In truth, it would have been strangely unnatural if Walter had not loved his daughter very dearly. She was a fine-spirited girl, uniting in her character the sweetness and, at the same time, the firmness of her mother's temper, with the fearlessness and energy of her father. A bold rider from the age of five years, under his tuition, she had been accustomed to accompany him in his frequent excursions around the settlement; while, under her mother's eye, she had learned the more valuable lessons of patience, and love, and trust in God.
I am compelled to state, however, that Helen Wilson at fourteen was a very unaccomplished young person, and would have been looked upon by any average boarding school miss with whom she might have come into contact as extremely uncultivated, and indeed as shy and awkward even as John Tincroft himself had ever been. But this was of all the less consequence, seeing that at this time, boarding school misses had not found their way into the bush in any alarming number; and that as long as she could read a chapter in the Bible, to say nothing of other books in the small library at Sedley Station, with unimpeachable accuracy and sweetness of tone, write a letter (if she had had one to write) in a good, firm, though rather masculine, hand, and without any ungrammatical blunders, and use her needle with tolerable facility, her parents were quite satisfied with her accomplishments.
Now, however, the young Helen rejoiced in the anticipation of including the nursing of her baby brother in her list of attainments; but, alas! This anticipation was never fulfilled. For a few short days the mother and infant were considered to be making satisfactory progress; then fever came, and the bewildered husband was suddenly summoned to the bedside of his dying wife almost before he was aware that her life was in peril. And then the baby died. Let us draw a veil over poor Walter Wilson's agony of soul, and the grief of the now motherless and brotherless girl.
CHAPTER XXI.
JOHN TINCROFT AT HOME; AND THE SKELETON THERE.
BY not a very large fire, though the day was cold—for it was the end of the year, and there was a black frost without—and in a room rather too large for snug comfort, sat John Tincroft, Benedict.
Add nearly or quite twenty years to the day when we first made his acquaintance as he mounted the Tally-ho coach in Oxford High Street, and we now find him in middle age—a convenient form of expression, by the way, embracing, as it does, the life of a man at any epoch from five-and-thirty to five-and-fifty. We know, however, that John at this time was not much over forty years old; but he looked older, for he was partially bald; and what remained of the covering of his scalp was more than tinged with grey. Moreover, there were lines on his exposed forehead, and elsewhere on his countenance, which betokened the encroachments of time.
He was closely shaven, or would have been, had he performed this part of his toilet duties that morning, which, however, he had not, though the time of day was near noon; and the stubbly bristles on the lower half of his face did not improve its hue or the general expression of his countenance—the first being somewhat sallow, and the second pensive.
Tincroft was clad in dark-coloured garments, of not very modern date, and, to tell the truth, both rusty and threadbare. But then it was a winter morning; and had he been dressed in the height of fashion, there would have been no one to see him, save his wife and the single maid-servant and a house-boy, who made up the full complement of his establishment. So what did it signify how he dressed? John would have argued.
"The full complement of his establishment," we have written; for a few months before the time at which we take up this thread of our story, a grave had been opened to receive poor Mrs. Mark Wilson, of whom we have little to record save that she had ample reason, to the end of her days, to be grateful for the uniform kindness she had so many long years received from her daughter's husband.
Our old friend was seated in an easy-chair, which, being covered with faded chintz, harmonised well enough with the general aspect of everything else in the apartment, for its entire furnishing was ancient, and tending to decay. The carpet was well worn and, in places, threadbare, the dark mahogany chairs were worm-eaten, the very fire-irons were rusty. There were better and more modern furnished rooms in Tincroft House, no doubt. But then what did it matter? One room was as good as another to John; and this was his own room—his study, or library, or both in one; and as far as he himself was concerned, he cared very little where he passed his solitary hours, so that he might have his books in peace and quietness.
John had a good many solitary hours, mostly spent in this shabby room—the charm of which consisted, to him, in the rows of books contained in unglazed bookcases which occupied one entire side of it, and the table in the centre, at which he sometimes sat and wrote. For our friend was enrolled in the honourable guild of authors, having written sundry books which, as the reviewers declared, evinced much labour, a wonderful amount of deep research, and great erudition. It is to be hoped that Tincroft derived satisfaction from this favourable opinion, and from the testimony of his publisher that he was undoubtedly a man of very considerable learning, who had translated a great many classical works, and written a valuable treatise on Oriental literature; for it is certain that, beyond this glorification, he had obtained small profit from the productions of his pen; I am afraid, indeed, that a five-pound note would have covered all the balances ever paid over to him by his bookseller in the Row.
John liked his work, however, and the honour he derived from it; and as he had a moderate income, sufficient for his small wants, independently of his literary earnings, there is reason to believe that he and his flattering publisher were mutually well enough pleased with the arrangement which divided between them, in what proportions the present deponent sayeth not, the "solid pudding" and the "empty praise."
It was well for John Tincroft that he could find pleasure in his lonely pursuit; for after his marriage, he gradually relapsed into his old recluse habits, and was, if there was any difference, more shy and awkward than we found him on our first acquaintance. The result of this was that he had made no friends among his neighbours; and the few of the surrounding gentry who, on his first settling down at Tincroft House, had called to congratulate him on his success in Chancery, and to welcome him home, soon seemed to forget all about him, and turned again to more congenial companionships.
No doubt John's natural shrinking from society partly accounted for this estrangement, and his studious habits were only too likely to increase this retiring disposition, for it is rarely found that a person who, either from choice or necessity, follows a literary occupation for any length of time, shines much in society, even if he does not take a morbid dislike to it. There was another element, however, in Tincroft's case, which more than sufficiently accounted for this feeling.
Poor John Tincroft! Without intending it, he had so many years ago placed himself in a position from which, as an honourable man, he saw no way of retreat open; and he had married a wife who could neither sympathise with, nor even understand him intellectually, and whose dulness, if he had not successfully striven against the feeling, might long since have wearied him.
Too uneducated to be his companion, too feeble-hearted to attempt or even to desire to improve herself up to his standard, and too fond of ease to be a stirring housewife and home-sweetener, what was to be expected of the Sarah of our early narrative but that she should sink down into self-indulgent indolence of mind and body, now that calls for exertion were not imperative?
Happily for her soul's welfare, or for anything that might, in the course of God's providence, occur to rouse her to thoughtfulness, and resuscitate her interest in the life present, as well as to implant a corresponding interest in the life to come—happily, too, for her husband's comfort—Sarah had avoided the rock on which both her parents had made fatal shipwreck. For I must add to what I just now wrote relating to the departed Mrs. Mark, that the habit she had acquired when she was the mistress of High Beech Farm clung to her with terrible tenacity when she became the guest of Tincroft House. Frightened and warned by these examples, the daughter steered clear of the vice which would inevitably have made her home, her husband, and herself miserable.
And Tincroft House, for all I have written, was not a home of misery, nor even of positive discomfort. It might perhaps have been to you or to me, reader, under similar circumstances; but John was easily satisfied; he had never known the true happiness of domestic life, and he believed he had as much of it as was good for him—as much at any rate, he might have argued, as falls to the lot of poor mortals in a general way.
He was, in fact, in a similar position to that of a person who, having been blind from infancy, is necessarily ignorant of the pleasures and advantages of eyesight. Moreover, John was really fond of his Sarah, in spite of her dulness and her frequent transgressions of grammatical rules, her dropped or superfluous h's, and her many provincialisms, of which, if we give no examples in the dialogues in which she bears a part, it is because we think a story is as well and effectually told without such minute personifications and descriptions as with them. I daresay all the speakers in Old Testament histories were not alike pure Hebraists, any more than those in the New discoursed in choice Greek or Syriac. But we do not find the sacred writers holding up either their solecisms or their vulgarities to notice. So, if the reader pleases, Sarah shall still speak with reasonable accuracy.
Yes, John Tincroft was still fond of his wife. I don't doubt that, as he sometimes sat by her side, the old feeling of admiration came over him which had formerly reconciled him to the knobby-seated parlour chair at High Beech Farm; and he forgot (even if he had ever suffered his mind to dwell upon) the want of congeniality which held them, husband and wife, intellectually at a distance from each other.
Besides all this, John had perception enough to have found out long ago, though he had too much delicacy and kindness to have ever told of his discovery, that, true and faithful as his Sarah was, and had always been, she was never his lover. Grateful to him the poor little thing was when he rushed forward to rescue her, at what cost she could not help knowing, from the worst consequences, or what might have been the worst consequences, of his own, or say of their joint imprudence. But even at that time she had sobbed out:
"I don't love you, Mr. Tincroft—not as you ought to be loved, you know."
And John had taken her, hoping and believing that the love would come in due course. But it had not, and he knew it. A quiet, noiseless wife she was, timid, submissive, and sometimes even slave-like to the benefactor who had ransomed her from ill-will and scorn and poverty. But there the matter ended.
"Poor Sarah!" John sometimes reflected. "She has given me all that is in her power; and I am better off with that than many a husband is with the woman who has made stronger and louder professions. And why should I complain?" And he never did complain.
There was once a time when Sarah probably would have forgotten the past, except that the memory might have added to her contentment with her lot. It was when she pressed to her bosom that delicate blossom of which we have spoken. But the bud was nipped, and bright hopes then formed to be withered were never renewed. No children's feet had pattered, no childish voices had sounded through, and broken the silence of, the rooms and corridors of Tincroft House—none, at least, that had a legitimate right to be heard there.
No doubt there were times, when Tom Grigson and his Kate, and one or two, or three, as it happened, of the full nest on the banks of the Thames, took flight for a few summer days and nights to be near the seaside, and within reach of sea-breezes. These were royally entertained at Tincroft House on their way, and cast some gleams of unwonted hilarity around them. But these passages were comparatively seldom, and when they were over, the solitary house seemed for a time more lonely than before.
And so time had worn on with John and Sarah, and there is no need to dwell longer on their by no means uncommon history. Ah! There are more ghastly skeletons hidden in many a pleasant-looking home than that which was supposed to be concealed within the walls of Tincroft House, where we found John at the beginning of this chapter musing by his study fireside.
Not many letters in general were delivered by the country letter-carrier at Tincroft House. John had not many correspondents. Every quarter, to be sure, Mr. Roundhand, who still managed his successful client's property, forwarded its interest with praiseworthy punctuality; and every now and then, John received proof-sheets (if nothing else) from his publisher in the Row. Besides these, our dear friend occasionally received a rattling epistle from Tom Grigson. But beyond these tokens of remembrance, I am not aware that John ever expected a letter from mortal man or woman.
As to Sarah, we know well enough that it was not likely she would be troubled, or gratified, with news from either High or Low Beech. And apart from her relatives there, she had none to bestow many thoughts, much less many letters, upon her.
No doubt Tincroft House had its share of circulars by post, because John Tincroft, Esq., of Tincroft House, had found his way into the County Directory. But I am quite sure that these baits were wasted, for John was no bargain hunter, even if he had had money to waste on needless purchases, which he had not. So if it had not been for the regular arrival of the "Trotbury Weekly Chronicle," the postman's entrance into the village, so far as Tincroft House was concerned, was looked for with but a small amount of interest.
But on the winter morning which has brought us back to honest John Tincroft, the postman, instead of silently passing by the gate, as was his usual wont, sounded his horn as he arrived at it, and boldly turning in, traversed the broad gravelled road which led to the front door, rang the bell, and put a letter into the servant's hand.
"For the missus: it comes from abroad," said the postman, as he readjusted the leather bag from which he had taken it. And then he retraced his steps.
The mistress was in the kitchen; she liked being in the kitchen better than any other part of Tincroft House. Not that she did much when she was there; for there was not much to do. But just at this time, as it happened, she had on a linen apron, and her hands were floury, for needs must that she and John must dine. There is no occasion, however, to penetrate into the mysteries of Sarah's culinary operations at this particular time; but there will be no harm in giving a descriptive sketch of her person as those operations are being carried on.
Mrs. Tincroft, then, was still fair in complexion. Her flaxen hair, unchanged in hue, though in some measure robbed of its former gloss and stinted in its luxuriousness of growth, and partially confined by a broad velvet band, hung in loose ringlets down her neck in the old fashion. Her morning dress was of some dark, half-mourning material, and looked, to tell the truth, somewhat carelessly, not to say ungracefully, put on. She had not shrunken in bulk, as John had; in fact, time had played its pranks with her as it had with him, only in a different fashion, for her once slim figure had become more rounded and expanded. Nevertheless, Sarah was still comely, and her countenance might even have been pronounced pleasing and attractive, but for an expression of weariness and vacuity which a physiognomist might have noted lurking in the corners of the mouth, and the somewhat diminished lustre of the once bright eyes.
"A letter for you, ma'am," said the handmaiden, as she laid the missive on the deal kitchen table, near to the lady's elbow.
It was an ordinary-sized letter, not over clean, and it had two or three broad post-marks on it; and on the top, at one corner, was written, in a bold hand, "Ship Letter."
"It must be for your master; you had better take it to the study, Jane," said Mrs. T., barely glancing at it as it lay.
"No, ma'am, there's the 's' plain enough; and Austin said it was for you."
"Well, you may leave it where it is. I'll see about it presently, when I've rolled out the pie-crust and wiped my hands. I can't do two things at once, can I?"
"No, nor yet one, properly," muttered Jane to herself, with a look of contempt mingled with pity, for Jane liked and despised her mistress in about equal proportions. She liked her; for her mistress was good-natured, and liberal in the matter of wages, and also of cast-off clothes, of which, by the way, she obtained a plentiful store when Sarah went into mourning for her mother. And, added to these causes of approbation, the mistress let the maid have her own way in general, and never scolded her. But these very qualities provoked June's contempt also.
"She is such a noodle," said Jane, inwardly.
At this present time, Mrs. Tincroft had rather annoyed the girl by "putting her dainty hands into the flour tub, where they had no business to be," Jane would have argued.
No wonder, therefore, that when the lady said, rather fretfully, that she could not do two things at one time, the damsel inwardly retorted, "No, nor yet one, properly. Call that a pie-crust? Who is going to eat it, I wonder?"
Of course this was pure envy in Jane; for who doesn't know that Sarah had made good pie crusts in former times? John knew it, at any rate.
Now, we are not forgetting the letter at Sarah's elbow; nor did she forget it either; for no sooner had the handmaid departed to "finish her work upstairs," as she said, than the indifference disappeared, and gave place to a kind of indolent curiosity to know who in the world should have taken the trouble to write to her.
In another moment she had hastily wiped her hands and taken up the letter, and then—but what follows requires a new chapter.