John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

CHAPTER VII.

TWO FRIENDS-TWO LETTERS.

WALTER WILSON, having been all day employed with his friend Ralph Burgess, who called himself a civil engineer as well as a surveyor, in theodoliting and chain-dragging over some twenty miles, more or less, of rough stubble country, and having been ordered off more than one farm by gentlemen of the bucolic order, who weren't a-going to have their land cut up by railroads, so they, the hapless intruders, needn't think it, was returning to his quarters, pretty considerably fatigued with his day's work, and out of temper, with no one in particular, but with all in general. And this we take it is the worst, because the most hopeless kind of bad temper in which a man (or woman either) can indulge.

Not that Walter had not some grounds for mental worry, which, however, need not, have bred ill-humour, though it often does, the more is the pity. It was true, as his father had reported of him, that he was getting on in his new business well enough, and was hand and glove with his friend Ralph. But for all that, he was finding it uphill work, and more than sufficiently fatiguing both to mind and body. So that, what was a cause of light-hearted merriment to Ralph Burgess, who had been used to it, considerably chafed poor Walter, who had not. And he, far too often for his peace of mind, compared his present lot with his past, always arriving at the conclusion that a farmer's life was, on the whole, the best life under the sun that a man can lead.

Of course, this brought him to reflect on the immediate cause of what he called his banishment from home. His uncle Mark was the cause of it, there was not a doubt.

"If it had not been for his sottish habits," Walter reflected, "he wouldn't have wanted that money my father threw away upon him; and then I might have had the use of it to take a farm with, and I might, by now, have been comfortably married and settled, instead of slaving about the country in this fashion."

Naturally, these reflections had led him, especially of late, to think of his betrothed with not entire satisfaction. She had not been so attentive to him as she might, could, would, or should have been; so he felt in his heart of hearts. They had been separated now a good many months, and her letters to him had not yet advanced into the "teens," while his to her had made a hole in the "tys." This was not pleasant; at least it was not reciprocal.

Moreover, had he looked at those letters of hers with any but a lover's eyes, he could not help thinking that he should have found very little in them; at any rate, they were not half so long as his to her had been, and this was clearly reversing the order of nature. At the same time, little as they contained, they—one or two later ones, at least—had in them some things not altogether agreeable. He did not half like Sarah's way of mentioning the young Oxford student. Oxford student, indeed! What did an Oxford student mean by those constant visits to High Beech Farm? It was not to see his uncle Mark, Walter gravely opined; nor his aunt, Mrs. Mark, either. He wisely, or unwisely, concluded, therefore, that Sarah must be the attraction. And he had heard enough of Oxford students, from his old friend Mr. Rubric, to think that they were not to be trusted out of sight.

It was all very well, he argued, for Sarah to write about him as she had done in that last letter of hers, as though she were annoyed with his pertinacity, and played practical jokes upon him, by seating him upon the hardest, knobbiest parlour chair, to get rid of him the sooner. But Walter knew where such jokes lead to sometimes; and, at any rate, he himself had, in his earlier days of courtship, had experience of that same hard and knobby chair without any acceleration of locomotion on his part; and so it might be on the part of the Oxford student. Many aches and bruises inflicted by knobby chairs had not destroyed his love; and if the Oxford student had dared to lift his eyes to Sarah's charms in the way of admiration, a few knobs on the hard-bottomed chair would make no difference to that admiration, Master Walter guessed.

And had not he had hints of what had lately been going on at High Beech from his sister Elizabeth, who, being the principal scribe, apart from himself, in the family, took care that he should be pretty well posted up in all matters calculated to keep warm his not unreasonable disapproval of his uncle Mark's conduct, and to kindle a lover's jealousy of his betrothed?

We know that she once said, "Walter shan't marry Sarah, if we can help it, right or wrong," and she meant what she said. And that she had the exquisite feminine art of setting about the carrying out of her determination in the cleverest possible manner, was proved by the effect her innuendoes had already produced.

All these matters Walter had been turning over in his mind as he plodded homeward with his friend Ralph, and, combined with bodily fatigue, they had their natural effect in mental irritation, not at first perceived, however, by his companion.

"That was a queer start we had with the big farmer at Bingle-bottom," said Ralph, laughing.

"Was it?" said Walter, curtly.

"Wasn't it? Threatening to set his bull-dog at us if we didn't move off his forty-acre field in less than no time."

"And would have served us right too," growled the assistant surveyor.

"Ullo!"

"Well, what about 'Ullo,' Ralph?" was Walter's rejoinder.

"Why, that it is a queer thing for you to say," replied Ralph, good-humouredly.

"We were trespassing, weren't we?"

"Trespassing? Oh, bother! We did not do any harm, did we?"

"That has nothing to do with it. We had no business there, without leave asked," said Walter.

"Come to that, I expect if we were to wait for leave asked, our line would never be surveyed at all," Ralph concluded.

"And a good thing too," replied the disputant. "Cutting up the country for railroads! If I was a farmer I wouldn't stand it."

"But not being a farmer, but a civil engineer, what then?"

"What difference does that make? Right is right, isn't it?"

"And wrong is wrong," added the good-tempered principal. "But, Walter, dear fellow, what has come over you to put you out of sorts?"

"I don't know why you should think anything has come over me," was the ungracious answer.

"I think so from your manner. But come, we won't say any more about it. You are tired. So am I, and we'll have a rest-day to-morrow."

"Ralph," said Walter presently, when they had trudged on some distance in silence, "you are a good fellow to put up with me as you do, and I beg your pardon for contradicting you as I did just now. I am very wretched sometimes, if that is any excuse for my ill-temper."

"Don't talk about pardon; there's no occasion for that on either side, I hope," replied Ralph, affectionately. "We know one another too well. But I am sorry to hear you talk of being wretched. To tell the truth, I have been sometimes afraid—lately, I mean—not till lately—that you have had a weight on your mind. I haven't liked to ask you about it."

"Oh, there isn't much the matter that I know of," said the repentant friend; "only I think now and then that I am not cut out for this sort of work."

"Don't say that, Wilson," remonstrated Ralph, earnestly; "because you are, you know. I never knew a fellow like you for taking to anything as you have taken to this line."

"Line of railroad, do you mean, Ralph?"

"No, no, line of life in general; line of business, I should say. You have picked up as much in a year as it took me five to learn. And with our prospects before us—our joint prospect when the partnership begins—who can tell what we may do, or where we shall be in ten years, or less than that?"

"Who indeed?" repeated Walter, with a rather bitter smile and tone of voice.

"To be sure, it is uphill work at present."

"Yes," Walter assented.

"But when we have got well-established, we shall do famously. It is only to wait."

"Yes, only to wait," Walter repeated.

"And what is waiting, when you know it will come?" Ralph added.

"You are not in love," Walter remarked, so despondently that his friend broke out into a merry laugh.

"Glad to say I am not, Walter, except with my profession." Then he added, apologetically, "I beg your pardon, my dear fellow. I forgot that you are; but what has that to do with it?"

"Everything, when you talk so coolly about waiting. Look here, Ralph; before I came away here, I thought I wasn't far-off from being married to my cousin Sarah; and so I should have been by this time if it hadn't been for—well, never mind about that. But I sort of promised then that, at the end of two years, things should come straight for it. And now you talk about ten years!" This was said with a rueful countenance.

Ralph laughed again. "I did not say it must be ten years before you could be married, did I, Walter?"

"No; but putting this and that together, it doesn't seem—but there, why should I bother you with my troubles?"

If he did not bother his friend, poor Walter confided in him, and he was presently pouring into Ralph's sympathising understanding the tale of his griefs hitherto undivulged to his friend. The reader knows what these troubles were—some real, some fanciful—so we need not repeat them. They were foolish and trivial, no doubt. But who is without them? Or who would be without them if he could?

"Here we are at last," said Ralph, cheerily, as the two theodolite and chain-bearing wanderers reached Ralph's home; "and now I hope sister Mary has thought of us while we have been away," he added, as he pushed open the door.

If Sarah Wilson were ever jealous, in her pretty pouting way, of the unknown Mary Burgess, she might have known that there was no foundation for such a feeling. Ralph's sister was ten years older than himself, and he was some two or three years older than his friend Walter. Besides this disparity of age, Miss Burgess was so far afflicted in health as that, while she was not incapacitated from active domestic life in general, she knew it to be indispensable that that life should be a single one. And she submitted to this necessity, not only without a murmur, but cheerfully; for she was a heroine of no common stamp—she was a Christian heroine.

It is true Walter had written admiringly and praisingly, both to his sister and his cousin, of Mary Burgess's excellent qualities and superior good sense, and above all, of her kindness to him. And he had not thought it necessary to mention those disqualifications which he would have felt were nothing to him, one way or the other. Naturally enough, therefore, Elizabeth and Sarah might have been innocently led into an error which, in one case, excited exultation, and in the other, jealousy and suspicion.

This short explanation is necessary to clear the way. We now resume our narrative proper.

Mary Burgess had thought of her brother and his friend; and they were all seated at the substantial meal, comprehending dinner, tea, and supper in one, provided by her carefulness, when the postman's knock was heard.

"Two for you, Walter," said Ralph, handing them over to him, when the budget of letters, mostly on business, was laid on the table.

Walter glanced at their superscription, and went on with his meal. "They will keep till after dinner," said he, which they did.

Then he broke the seal, first of one, then of the other, and was presently immersed in their contents, as fine writers would say.

Very soon his countenance was overclouded, and exclamations of impatience from time to time escaped his lips. He read on, however, to the end of them both, and then threw them passionately on the table.

"Read them, please, Ralph, and you also, Miss Burgess, if you care to be bothered with my concerns, and tell me what you think of them," said Walter, huskily, as he left the room for a stroll in the garden.

His friends accepted the office; and while they are thus employed, we may glance over their shoulders, and register a few extracts from the letters.

   "Such fun—" thus wrote Walter's lover; "what do you think, Walter? Only yesterday, when I was gathering filberts, you know where, to send to market to-day, who should make his appearance but that stupid John Tincroft. He had come up to High Beech, as he had done a deal oftener than I have liked, and finding nobody in the house but Meg, he came blundering into the garden, where I was. I was that mad with him that I could have boxed his ears, but I didn't; I left that for you to do. But I set him to work, and made him help me gather the filberts. You can't think what a ninny he is; he doesn't know how to do anything properly; and he kept pulling down the boughs, and breaking them off—there, nobody knows how. I hope he got covered with harvest-bugs, I do; and won't they tease him?"

   "Well, when we had filled the basket—the old bushel basket, you know, that we used to gather apples in, when—oh dear, you know when, Walter—I told him I was going to darn stockings in the holly arbour, and made sure that would get rid of him. But no such thing. There he followed me; and there he sat staring, with both his eyes wide open, till I was ready to scream out. I don't know but what I should, if he hadn't opened his mouth at last, and told me that he had come up to the farm to say good-bye; for he was going next day (that's to-day, you know) to Oxford, because his lawyer had sent for him. Wasn't that a relief, Walter? Then, after that, he began to talk wild about father. What stuff he had got in his head, I can't think; but he was going on at a rate, when, who do you think should pop her head into the arbour, but cousin Elizabeth, your sister!"

   "I was never more put out in my life—never; and I couldn't say a word, till she went in at us, about being so sorry she had interrupted us, and all that sort of thing. And then, before I could speak, off she marched, as grand as my lady, and left me and that Tincroft alone again. But I know Elizabeth had been watching all the time; and she will be trying to make mischief between us out of it, I know she will; but don't you believe a word she says, Walter."

   "Mr. Tincroft didn't stay long after that; and he is gone off to Oxford to-day, I know that, for Meg was down at the shop, and she saw him drive by in the squire's cart, and Master Tom Grigson with him; and what I hope is, that he will never come to these parts again."

   "And, dear Walter, don't believe anything Elizabeth tells you, for it is all spite—all."

So much for the cousin and lover. Now for the sister:

   "And now I have got something to tell you that you won't like to hear, but it is my duty to let you know how things are going on at High Beech, and I must do my duty by you, whether you like it or not. You know, in my last letter, I wrote to you about the goings on of Sarah and that college man, and you sent me word it was all stuff and nonsense. Not a pretty thing to say to your sister, who is only thinking of your good, Walter. But that's how it often is, when the best friends get the worst treatment. But I shan't be turned out of my proper and right way for any hard words you have written. And I didn't know, when I last wrote, all I do now, not by a long way: and so you shall have it, whether you like it or not; for I mean to save you from making a bad match of it, if I can."

   "No, I didn't know, when I wrote last, of what happened more than a month ago at the squire's picnic; but I have heard the rights of it since. There was uncle Mark and aunt and Sarah—all there, as I told you; and after tea, as I told you too, aunt had to take uncle home—you know why. But where do you think Sarah was all that long evening till after dark? Ah, you wouldn't guess; but I'll tell you, I will. I won't deceive you, Walter, if SHE does. Why, she was shut up all that time, for hours and hours, along with that college man, in the stone summer-house, at the far end of Mr. Grigson's lawn; and you know how far-off that is from sight and sound. And there they were drinking wine together, that I do know, and courting, of course, till after all the people had left; and then Sarah was so bad, what with the wine, I suppose, and having her head turned with praise, that she couldn't go home alone, and that—that gentleman—a pretty sort of gentleman he is, too—had to see her safe to High Beech."

   "I daresay you will want to know how I know this. I'll tell you, Walter; I saw some part of it with my own eyes. I saw Sarah in the summer-house my own self, for I followed her there, and had some words with her about her shameful using of you, in keeping you to your boy and girl engagement. And there I left her. Ah, I didn't know who she was waiting for then; but he knew well enough, I warrant. And no sooner was I gone than in he went, to comfort her, of course, as he did. I wish I had seen him—that I do! I would have comforted him, I reckon."

   "And I did see them together later that night—ever so long after I had got home. I was looking out of my window, into the bright moonlight, before I got into bed, when what should I see but two persons going up the hill together through the Lees right on the way to High Beech. Ah, I didn't give a guess who it was then, for it was too far-off to see distinct. But I did see that them two were uncommon close together, and walked slow, as if they didn't mean to get to the end of their moonlight walk sooner than they could help. But now I know who that loving pair was; and so does everybody else about here. And you have only to ask the question yourself, and you will be told that they was none other than that college man and your dear Sarah!"

   "Have I anything more to tell you? Yes, Walter, I have; and mean to. If you like not to read it, you can put the letter in the fire without; but you will have to take the consequences. I have this more to say, that uncle Mark goes about everywhere, but oftener at the White Hart, where he spends most of his time, and money too, as you know,—telling everybody that you are not going to have Sarah, and that the college man is; and that when the college man comes into his great fortune, Sarah will be a lady—a pretty lady, she indeed! There; what do you think of that?"

   "Anything else? Yes, there's something else, Walter," the letter went on, like the second edition of a morning paper, keeping the latest news till last. "Yes, there is something else. It was only yesterday—" (only yesterday, as being more forcible) "that I went up to High Beech to see how they were going on. Of course uncle Mark wasn't at home—he was at the White Hart, I found out afterwards; and aunt was in bed. Sarah was in the garden; so there I went. And what do you think? There she was with that college man, Tincroft, having high romps, pretending to be gathering filberts; and you know what that means. I kept myself out of sight till they had done; and then where should they go but into the holly arbour, where you have made a fool of yourself hundreds of times I daresay. Well, there they were, billing and cooing like a pair of pigeons—" (it was spelt "pigguns" in the letter, but no matter), "and I thought it was time for somebody to see after them. So in I went. And there was Sarah, darning her stockings, and looking as innocent as a new-born; and there was that college man, pretty near on his knees, looking so loving, and talking so earnest! And didn't I give them a start! They hadn't a word to say for themselves; and so, after I had said my say, I left them to make the best of it. But, Walter, if you are the man I expect you to be, you'll have nothing more to say to Sarah Wilson."

   Thus far the letter. But there was a postscript: "The college man is off this morning, back to Oxford. I reckon I frightened him away. But he will be back again, no fear."

"Poor Walter!" sighed Mary Burgess, when she had laid down the second letter.

"Poor Walter!" echoed Ralph, in a tone accordant. "A pretty fix he is in, and no mistake."

"He will want your advice, Ralph."

"And I can't give it. What am I to say to him?"

"What would you do in such a case, brother?" asked Mary.

"I fancy I should throw the girl overboard," said he.

"Would that be just and right, do you think?"

"Better do that than be married and lead a miserable life ever afterwards," said Ralph.

Presently Walter came in. He had "cooled his heels," and was all the better for it; or thought he was.

"Now then, I am ready," said he. "Come, Miss Burgess, what about it all? I mean, what do you think of the letters?"

"Your cousin writes very confidingly and affectionately," said Mary.

"Poor thing, so she does," Walter responded; "but then, you see, if what Elizabeth writes is true, what am I to think?"

"And do you think that what she writes is truer than what your cousin writes?"

"I have always believed in them both," replied Walter, in perplexity.

"May you not believe in them both now?"

"How can I when they write such different things?"

"They write the same things, Walter," said Mary, mildly, and calling him by his Christian name, as she always did, for she linked upon him almost as a brother, and he regarded her as a sister. "They write the same things, only they place them in a different light. Don't you see that?"

Walter was not quite sure that he did. He thought there was only one way of looking at things—such things, at any rate.

Mary Burgess thought there were more ways than one of looking at the same thing. "All this may have happened as your sister has written; and indeed your cousin gives nearly the same account: and yet the different lights in which they place it make all the difference."

"But supposing it to be true, what Elizabeth says, and Sarah lets another man be making love to her and be always hanging about, as she herself says that Tincroft is, what am I to think of it? I am not much of a match for her, I know, poor girl, as things have turned out, though I may be better than nothing, situated as she is," said the manly fellow; brushing a tear away. "But if I thought Sarah was tired of me, or that giving her up would be anyhow better for her, and make her any way happier, why I'd do it, Miss Burgess."

"I believe you would, Walter; but I do not see any reason for your thinking so yet. Read again what she says."

"Yes; but then I must read again what Elizabeth says. What do you say, Ralph?"

Ralph did not like to say exactly what he thought; but at last he blurted out, "I have no notion of a girl's having two strings to her bow in that fashion."

"That is too hard a thing to say, Ralph," interposed his sister. "It is plain that this intimacy is not of your cousin's seeking, Walter; and it is quite as plain that your sister, with the best intentions, no doubt, is attempting to prevent your marrying your cousin. Possibly Sarah may have been a little imprudent in suffering herself to be in that gentleman's company so much; but then you should consider how difficult it is to avoid such mischances, especially as your cousin seems to be left so much alone."

"You are a good angel, Mary," said Walter.

"I am only a poor weak woman, Walter; but I was going on to say that now that person has gone away, the danger, whatever it might have been, has passed away too. Though I don't believe in the danger. Only see how your cousin writes about him."

Walter had seen that, and if he had had perfect faith in Sarah, he would have laughed at his sister's alarms. But it was plain his faith and trust were being undermined.

"I don't think you, Miss Burgess, would have played that sort of game with any other young man had you been engaged."

Mary Burgess smiled. "It was never put to me to be so tried," she said, softly.

"Dear Miss Burgess," said Walter, quickly, and self-reproachfully, as he remembered why, probably, she had never been so tried, "I forgot—pray forgive me. My trials are light compared with yours."

"And yet they are heavy to you. Will you not lay them where, long ago, I laid mine?"

"Yes, yes, I know. But what shall I do now?" Walter asked, impatiently.

"Why not go home for a week, and see how the land lies, and set things to rights, if they can be?" demanded Ralph.

"You know I can't leave now, with all the work we have on hand; and if I could, I am afraid it would only set things more to wrongs than they are. I'll tell you what I'll do," he added, in a more sprightly tone. "I'll write to Mr. Rubric, and ask him to tell me the truth right out. He must know all about it; and he is a good man, and a friend of both families—ours and uncle Mark's. And he won't go talking about my having written to him."

"The best thing you can do," said Ralph, glad to shift the responsibility of advice on to other shoulders.

"But you must not give up your cousin without good cause," added Mary Burgess.

"No, I won't," replied Walter.

Walter did write to Mr. Rubric; but it was many weeks before he had a reply, for the rector had just started for his annual holiday, on a tour through the Continent, whither the letter, after long delay, followed him, but did not reach him till two months afterward; when he was quietly settled down again to his home duties.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHO'S WHO?

IT was not true, had John Tincroft even said it as well as thought it, that all his Oxford legal adviser wanted with him was to extract another consultation fee from his scantily filled purse. A new light had broken in upon the lawyer by some means or other, which he honestly thought might turn to his client's advantage. But to accomplish this end, a personal conference seemed needful. There might be a little touch of self-importance in this idea, supposing that a written communication would have answered the purpose. But then, no doubt, Mr. Roundhand knew his own business best, and how best to conduct it. But in order to the proper development of our history, it is again necessary to turn over a few leaves of the past.

Not many miles from the pleasant town of Trotbury, and on the high road, or one of the byroads—it does not matter which, for all high roads are rapidly becoming byroads, unless they are railroads—but on one of these roads to a celebrated and ancient seaport not so many miles away, and on the outskirts of a rather large village, stands, or stood in the times of our story, an old-fashioned house of considerable dimensions, and at that time very much out of repair. At a former period it had been the mansion-house of a prosperous family, which, however, had all but died out, leaving only a name to the partially dilapidated building. For some years, Tincroft House, as it was called, and to which was attached some landed property, in those days of prosperity far more extensive, had been uninhabited and in Chancery.

The last inhabitant and owner of the house was a crusty old bachelor, who died intestate. On inquisition being made by the proper authorities for the heir of the estate, it was found that there were two, and only two, distant collateral branches of the once great and widespread family. These were the Tincrofts of Yorkshire and the Tincrofts of Sussex.

The representative of the first of these was a manufacturer of woollens, a reputedly rich man, but with a numerous family, to whom the windfall of a diminished estate would be a welcome enough addition to his possessions; a nice little thing for a younger son, at all events.

The head of the other branch was a gentleman of small means in the Weald of Sussex, who lived a retired life, and, being of a contemplative and studious turn of mind, cultivated letters partly for the love, and partly for the gain of them. The gains were not very great, but they were sufficient to enable him to hold up his head a little higher in the world than otherwise he could have done. This gentleman was a widower, with an only son, at the time when Tincroft House was sent begging, as it were, for a new owner. This only son was but two or three years old, and was the John Tincroft of our history.

IL took a long time to prove that the Sussex Tincrofts were a shade nearer in relationship to the intestate than the Yorkshire Tincrofts. And before this was established, as it eventually was, the estate had been thrown into Chancery, and the Sussex claimant was dead, leaving his boy, as we have before explained, with a Chancery suit, and money in the funds to no large amount, in the guardianship of a distant relative, Mr. Rackstraw, who was a London merchant. Of the boy's subsequent up-bringing, enough has already been written.

It may be supposed that the way would now have been clear for the guardian of John Tincroft to enter into undisputed possession of the property on the orphan boy's behalf. But it was not so. It was necessary next to prove that he was the lineal and legitimate descendant of a certain Ebenezer Tincroft, the head of the Sussex branch, who died some century or more before the suit was commenced, and whose monument, sacred to his memory, as "Armiger," may probably remain on the interior walls of Saddlebrook Church to this day. To prove this right by succession, search had to be made in registers of baptisms, marriages, and burials from that time forward, in the archives of Saddlebrook Church and elsewhere.

For some time these researches, though abundantly tedious and costly, were prosecuted on the whole successfully, when, all at once, a gap was discovered which seemed to defy legal filling up. This gap in the line of descent occurred in the case of John Tincroft's own father, who could not be proved ever to have had a proper hereditary right to the name he bore.

Of course he had lived, nobody questioned that; and there were many living who had always known him as Josiah Tincroft, once of Saddlebrook, and then of Leanacre, or Linacre, the Weald, where he lived till he died. But as to his legal status as the son of his own father, there was none to declare it. Registers were searched in vain to find what was wanted to be found. His own and his father's marriages were duly recorded in that bright book of fate, the marriage register. And so were the two several burials in the darker record, which lay side by side with it in the old worm-eaten, iron-bound, double-locked chest, in the vestry of Saddlebrook Church.

Also the baptism of Makepeace Tincroft, the grandfather of our John, was duly recorded in the register devoted to this use. But that of Josiah, who was supposed to have been brought into this world some thirty years before he died, was nowhere to be found. The former investigations, together with this fatal hitch, as it seemed to be, had delayed the Chancery suit so long, that from boyhood our John Tincroft, the hapless claimant, had advanced to youth, and from youth to manhood, finding himself much nearer to the end of his fortune than to the fulfilment of his hopes.

Now, the solution of the enigma of the non-appearance of Josiah's name in the baptismal register was, no doubt, easy enough. His father, Makepeace, somewhat early in life, had walked over from church to chapel, or, to use the terms then in vogue in that part of the country, from steeple-house to meeting-house. In other words, he had become a Dissenter. This might not much have mattered, perhaps, because Dissenters, or, at least, some Dissenters, have, and then had, their registers in connection with their places of worship, as well as Churchmen; and the baptism of an infant or a child, though by the hands of an Independent pastor, if duly registered and sworn to, would probably have fulfilled all legal purposes. But—alas!—in becoming a Dissenter, Makepeace Tincroft had become a Baptist also; and Baptists do not baptize infants at all.

How, then, was it to be proved that Josiah Tincroft, as he had always been called, had ever had any legal existence? There was no proof of baptism, which indeed had never been administered. Ergo, there was no proof that he had ever been properly brought into the world.

Very lately, however—that is, only a week or two before the summons reached John Tincroft from Mr. Roundhand, this lawyer stumbled over a tin box full of old letters, memoranda, and other useless documents once belonging to his old friend Josiah (for John Tincroft's father and Roundhand had been personal friends, which had led to the business being placed in his hands).

In turning over these papers, with no expectation of obtaining any help from them, he came upon a slip of parchment very yellow with age, with a "This is to certify" printed in fair German text, as the commencement of a declaration in a lawyer-like written hand, that Josiah Tincroft, the lawful fruit of marriage between Makepeace Tincroft, gentleman, of Saddlebrook, and Susannah, his wife, was born on such and such a day in January, in such and such a year, in attestation or corroboration of which the beholder was invited to witness the hands, first of John Batts, the medical attendant, and then of Elizabeth Foold, the nurse, in their respective handwritings—the first bold and large and firm, the second crabbed and laboured, but both written with ink much faded by age. The date was some fifty years or more back.

After perusing this venerable document attentively, Mr. Roundhand shut himself up in his private room to study it yet more carefully, and then to forward a copy of it to his counsel learned in law. There is no need, however, to go further into the pros and cons which were subsequently discussed, except to say that these discussions pointed to the finding out, if possible, whether those attesting witnesses, or one of them, were still living, which was perhaps unlikely; but if not, whether their handwriting could be proved by any other witnesses. The next question was, who should hunt up these witnesses; and John Tincroft was fixed upon as the proper person to go upon this mission, accompanied, however, by Mr. Roundhand's clerk. Therefore it was that John had been hastily summoned to Oxford.

"I don't understand it all, Mr. Roundhand," said Tincroft.

John had not been many hours in Oxford. He had arrived by the Tally-ho late on the preceding evening, had slept at the Mitre, and now, at eleven in the morning, he was seated in the lawyer's private office, listening, with a bewildered air, to that gentleman's explanations. The certificate was in his hand, and he looked at it dubiously as he spoke.

"It all lies in a nutshell," replied the other; "you see, your grandfather chose to—to go out of the ordinary course; in short, he left the Church and joined the Baptists. You knew nothing of this, I daresay?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing," protested John, whose notions of the Baptist denomination of Christians, if he had any at all, were jumbled up with some old stories of Munster ¹ riots, and he was evidently anxious to wash his hands of all connection with any more modern professor of what he perhaps supposed to be the same revolutionary principles.

¹ Munster in Germany, not in Ireland.

"Just so, Tincroft; of course you know nothing of your grandfather, who died before you were born; and you could have heard nothing about him, to your knowledge, from your father, who died when you were a mere child. However, it pleased your grandfather to turn Baptist, and so, in consequence, your own father didn't undergo the ceremony or rite, whichever you please to call it—in his infancy, at any rate."

"Dear me! But my father was a good Christian, and Churchman too; so I have always understood," cried John, in some alarm.

"Oh yes, no doubt. Your grandfather, Makepeace, turned away from, and your father returned to, the mother Church, as it is called—the real old orthodox, and so forth. But for all that, somehow or other—mind, I don't understand these things, for I am a lawyer, and not a divine—but somehow or other, I fancy, as his name is nowhere in the baptismal register—I fancy that, somehow or other, the rite of Christian baptism was passed over."

"Dear me!" ejaculated John Tincroft, in pious horror.

"And the consequences have been serious enough, as regards your prospects, ¹ Tincroft. However, your grandfather, it appears, was not so unwise as to have altogether neglected possible contingencies, as that document you hold in your hand goes to prove. The question is, how to make use of it. Now, what you have to do, is to run up to London, and then down to Saddlebrook, and make all the inquiries you can for these two witnesses. You understand?"

¹ The reader will please to bear in mind that this story dates back to the time when there was no legal registration of births, as in the present day.

"I am not quite sure," responded the collegian, almost more bewildered than at first. "And, at ell events," he added, "I am afraid I shall make a poor bungling hand of it."

"No doubt; exactly so," said the lawyer, condescendingly; "and therefore you will not have to go alone. Foster will attend you. A sharp man, Foster. He has been to Saddlebrook on your affairs before, examining registers, and so forth; so he knows how the land lies. All you have to do is to follow his lead."

Greatly relieved by this piece of intelligence, John Tincroft made no further objection to the task imposed on him, and declared himself ready to depart at once. Striking while the iron was thus hot, the lawyer fixed on the next day for the journey; so Tincroft left the office to make arrangements with Barry, the college scout, to occupy the rooms at Jericho on his return until the end of the vacation. He did not take possession, however; but retained his chamber for another night at the Mitre, where also he dined.

On the following morning, in company with the lawyer's clerk, and furnished with sufficient funds for all necessary expenses by the lawyer himself, to be accounted for thereafter, he took coach for London, on the way to Saddlebrook.

A dull little provincial town was Saddlebrook. It had two or three thousand inhabitants, a corresponding number of houses, one long principal straggling street, a mile in length, a market green, a parish church, two Dissenting chapels, and any number of inns and public-houses that the reader may choose to imagine. It was not a manufacturing town, nor strictly a commercial town, though it contained a sufficient quota of shops to supply its inhabitants, and the whole country-side for some miles around, with all the ordinary comforts and luxuries of life to be obtained for money. And it was all the more encouraged in thus being the centre of civilisation (on a small scale) by the surrounding district being richly agricultural and prosperous, and having a large aggregate population scattered about in outlying villages and hamlets.

It was on a coldish autumnal-like (though not yet autumn) evening that Tincroft and his attendant-help from the lawyer's office alighted from the coach-top at the open portals of the George Inn.

"Can't do better than stop here, sir," said the guide, philosopher, and friend. "They keep a good pantry and cellar; and that's a recommendation in these out-of-the-world places," he added.

"Ah, yes, to be sure; you have been here before."

"Haven't I? And a jolly enough place it is, for all it looks so dull. Shall we go in, sir?"

They had not much choice about it, as it seemed to John Tincroft, for the inn porter had already pounced upon the travellers' luggage, and was bearing it off in triumph. Ten minutes later, and the two had taken possession of a private room, and were ordering bed-chambers, a dinner, a bottle of port, and a fire.

It was during the discussion of the third item in this catalogue that "mine host of the George" was invited to a confidential conference by the dapper lawyer's clerk, with whom he claimed a previous acquaintance, and who was not going to let the grass grow under their feet, he said.

The information obtained from the innkeeper was very limited. It consisted altogether in negatives. There was no such medical man in Saddlebrook as John Batts. Of this he was quite sure. He was equally sure that there was no practitioner of that name in the town. There might have been fifty years or more ago, he could not say from his own knowledge; nor was it likely that he could, he himself not having yet arrived at that age of maturity and wisdom. To tell the honest truth, there being no reason why he shouldn't, he wasn't a native of Saddlebrook, and hadn't lived in it over fifteen years; so it was not likely he should know much on the subject. Thus Mr. Bartrum protested.

"At any rate, you will take a glass of wine with us, Mr. Bartrum?" said Foster, who had constituted himself master of the ceremonies, and slipped into that position with professional ease.

Mr. Bartrum accepted the invitation, sealing himself at the table meanwhile. And as the port was really good, he made no wry faces over it.

The inquisition proceeded. Could Mr. Bartrum refer to any old inhabitant of the town likely to possess the requisite information?

Yes, to be sure: wasn't there old Freeman, the sexton, who was also town-crier, and had held those joint offices any time within the memory of man, so to speak, under correction? To say the least, as Mr. Bartrum had heard, he had held them over sixty years. He was an old fellow now, eighty-five or more, people said; but he was as strong as ever in the lungs.

"You should hear him cry out his 'Oh yes! Oh yes!'" said mine host, admiringly. "Why, he is to be heard from the market-place up to the top of the street as plain as plain can be. And sometimes he is parish clerk as well, when the proper one is away. And what do you think he did a few Sundays ago, when he was in the desk?"

Mr. Bartrum's hearers did not know, but would be happy to be informed.

"Ha, ha! He, he!" giggled the innkeeper. "I beg pardon, gentlemen, but I can't help laughing when I think of it. It was a hot day, you must know, and the poor old man got drowsy while the sermon was going on—went off to sleep, in fact; and so, no doubt, he would have slept on all the while the parson's voice was going on overhead. But presently there was a sort of stop when the sermon was ended, and this roused the old fellow, who jumped up, forgetting where he was, but fancying he had got something to do in his regular everyday calling, and bawled out at the top of his voice, 'Oh yes! Oh yes!' I reckon he won't be parish clerk again in a hurry."

"And you think this old sexton can help us out, Mr. Bartrum?" said Foster, when the needful tribute of attention had been paid to his anecdote.

"I shouldn't wonder, for he knows about everything and everybody in Saddlebrook; and if he can't tell, I don't know who can."

"And about Elizabeth Foold?"

Here again was a blank. There was no such person, to his knowledge, in Saddlebrook now, whatever might have been. But then, she being a very humble person (only a nurse, it seemed), Mr. Bartrum could not be expected to know much about it. Old Freeman would be the man, however, to know. Or perhaps the marriage-book or the burial-book in the church vestry might give some information.

And here, for that night, the subject was dismissed.

The old sexton was easily found on the following morning. He was superintending the digging of a grave in the churchyard, his infirmities of age having rendered it necessary to employ a subordinate. He was ready enough, also, to furnish information, so far as his own knowledge extended. But even he, though a very almanack in the past history of Saddlebrook, could not tell all that the young lawyer and his client would have liked to know.

He told them this, however. He remembered the doctor whose name appeared on the document. He remembered him very well; and ah! Wasn't he a clever doctor? But he hadn't been able to cure himself—whatever he did for others—of a great swelling that came out of his neck like, just above his collar-bone. People called it "a new schism," or something of that sort. He didn't understand fine names, the old sexton didn't; but he had always looked upon schism as being another name for yeast, and clearly that wasn't what was the matter with the doctor.

"Perhaps it was aneurysm," suggested John Tincroft.

"Like enough, sir; and anyhow, the swelling got bigger, till at last the poor doctor died of a sudden, as he always said he should. There's his tombstone, gentlemen, if you have any curiosity that way," continued the sexton, pointing to one some little distance across the churchyard.

"We may as well look, and make a note of it," said Foster; and they accordingly walked up to the stone, the clerk taking out his note-book and pencil.

"Name—so and so," muttered he, as he copied down the inscription: "date, um—thirty-five years ago; age, sixty-nine. Thank you, that will do, friend. Ever married, was he?"

"Married when young, and lost his wife soon after. There's her stone, next his, and that's how I came to know about it."

"Married again, perhaps?"

"No, sir. He wur faithful to his first love, he wur," said the old man, with unction.

"Children, any?"

"Not a chick, sir. And nobody to take his name. His business got sold for what it would fetch, and that and some money he had went, by will, to some far-away cousin. And there was the end of him."

Clearly, there was not much to be made of this information. But a thought suggested itself to Mr. Foster's legal mind. Since property was left behind, and a will for the disposal of it, some lawyer in the town would, in all probability, be acquainted with the late practitioner's signature. And there was the will itself which told of Doctors' Commons.

Making a note of these hints, the adroit clerk turned to the second head of his inquiries—Elizabeth Foold. But here he could obtain no further information than that no family of that name had ever lived in Saddlebrook, to the old sexton's knowledge. Certainly, none such had ever been buried in the graveyard in his time; and none such had ever been married in Saddlebrook Church, he was pretty sure. But the book would show that, and the book was in the parish clerk's keeping, along with the clergyman and the churchwardens.

Setting this aside for the present, therefore, for further research if necessary, the gentleman from Mr. Roundhand's office placed in the old man's hand a fee, which would perhaps have been larger if the success of his inquiries had been more decided.

It would be tedious and unprofitable to follow our two antiquarians, as we may for the present consider them, in their further researches that day. It will suffice to say that they returned to their late dinner at the George—Mr. Foster rather disgusted with the general stolidity of the inhabitants of Saddlebrook, the more so that his inquiries had hitherto produced no palpable result; and John Tincroft thinking he should be much happier with another companion, and wondering how they got on at High Beech Farm without him.

The next morning a new light entered the mind of the lawyer's clerk. This Elizabeth Foold, whose name figured as a nurse on the certificate, and of whom no trace or track could yet be discovered—might she not be heard of in the religious community or congregation with which her then employers had been connected? What more natural than that the heads of a Dissenting household should engage the services of a Dissenting nurse? Now, as we have explained, there were two Dissenting chapels in Saddlebrook: one of these, Foster had learned, was the meeting-house of a congregation of the Presbyterian body; the other belonged to the Baptists.

"We'll go and find out the minister of that chapel, to begin with," quoth Mr. Foster, as he and Tincroft sat together at breakfast.

"Should you mind going alone?" asked John, timidly, with an undefinable dread, perhaps, of coming into personal contact with a live sectarian.

"Oh, that wouldn't do. We must go together, of course. You are my principal, you know, sir; and you have to see that I do my duty by you."

No further opposition being offered, and the address of the minister being easily obtained, the two gentlemen from London, as they were supposed to be, presently proceeded to his house. They found him at home, and were shown into his study—a quiet back room of moderate dimensions, well furnished with book-shelves, and looking out upon a cheerful garden.

After a short delay, the minister appeared, and very much, probably, to the surprise of John Tincroft, who examined him, with his eyes, narrowly from head to foot, he was so much like a gentleman, that John concluded he must be one, in spite of his being a Dissenter. He was a young man, somewhat to the disappointment of Mr. Foster, who opened the business, however, and was attentively listened to.

"Of course," he said, "I can have no personal remembrance of the persons you name; but possibly the records of our church—"

("Church, too!" thought John within himself. "He calls his meeting-house a church, does he! Rather strong that, I think.")

"May contain some information on the subject. Our church-book dates back at its commencement more than a hundred years. And I have it by me. And also my friend, the senior deacon of our church, may be able to tell us something. He has been a member more than fifty years. I will send and ask him to step in. He lives not far-off."

A messenger was accordingly despatched; and while waiting for him, the minister took the lead in a conversation which somewhat enlightened our friend John as to the meaning to be attached to the word to which he had taken mental exception; and this enlightenment reminded him of one of the fundamental Articles of his own Church, which, for the moment, had escaped his memory.

The conversation was broken off by the arrival of the senior deacon, whose grave and gentlemanly appearance once more gave Tincroft a start of surprise.

"I shouldn't think the Munster fanatics were anything like these gentlemen," he candidly argued within himself.

Yes, Mr. Cooper (the deacon) remembered Mr. Makepeace Tincroft, though at that time he was a young member, having very recently joined the church; and he remembered Mrs. Tincroft, too—a most godly woman, whose death, soon after that of her husband, was universally lamented. She was a most devoted, charitable lady; a true Tabitha.

"I don't know why you should give that name to my grandmother, sir," said John rather nettled for a moment, the more so that he had been warmed up by the other part of the eulogium passed upon her. "I don't see why she should be called nicknames," said he.

"Otherwise Dorcas, who made coats for the poor, and was full of good works and alms deeds, and who was so mourned when she died that the Apostle Peter restored her to life," said the minister quietly and aside to his visitor, whereupon John, recollecting the second name, blushed deeply and penitently.

Proceeding in his reminiscences, the senior deacon had some slight remembrance of a young person, once also a member of the church, named Foold. But there his knowledge ended. The church-book, then, was the ultimate resort; and before long these records were found, under their proper dates and headings, such as Name, Residence, When admitted into the Church, Date, and Cause of Separation.

First was Makepeace Tincroft, of whom (omitting the first items and dates) it was written that he "died in the Lord."

Next was Susannah Tincroft, who "died much honoured in life and greatly lamented in death."

Next and that most sought for and desired, the name of Elizabeth Foold was found. "A young person of much promise, aged twenty-two; not in permanent residence in Saddlebrook, but in much request in the town and neighbourhood as a nurse, for which she has been trained." Then, in the last column, came this entry: "Withdrawn. Gone to reside in London."

There was no more to be obtained at Saddlebrook; and so after another day or two spent in futile inquiries, Mr. Foster and his client, for the time being, turned their backs upon the dull town, enlivened only by the attractions of the George; and in due time arrived at Oxford to report their want of success.