JOHN TINCROFT'S RESOLUTION.
JOHN TINCROFT went back to his hospitable quarters, and shut himself
up in the old library. He remained there some time, even after the
dinner-bell rang. But he did compel himself to move at last, and he met
his friends at the dinner-table.
John Tincroft was not a bad young fellow, though he was awkward, and
ungainly, and shy.
"Your heart is better than your head," he was once told by his
schoolmaster, on occasion of some petty delinquency.
And though, of course, we demur to such a statement, if strictly
theological grounds are to be taken, it was true enough of him in other
respects and on lower grounds.
He was very dull of comprehension, was John. I have said this before,
but there is no harm in repeating it. But there was this about him,
that when he had grasped an idea, he did not let it go very easily.
Now Mr. Rubric had succeeded in giving a new turn to John's thoughts.
It had been pleasant to him to take those walks of which I have
spoken, pleasant to worship at the shrine of Sarah's loveliness,
without knowing that he worshipped. The old self-accusation of being
a woman-hater was fading away; or rather a new light had been cast
on that subject. Of course he knew that the maiden's loveliness was
nothing to him. Was not Sarah engaged to her cousin? Was not he himself
engaged to his Oriental studies? In another year, or in less time than
that, he would leave, or have left, England for ever, perhaps; and did
not he know that, even if he had the disposition to marry, and the
chance of marrying—neither of which propositions was on the carpet; but
even if it had been—did he not know that he could not very well take
out with him a wife?
But for all this, and perhaps because of the very absurdity of the
idea of his falling in love, and the impossibility of his committing
this absurdity in the instance of the fair damsel at High Beech, he
had allowed himself to haunt her precincts, and to feast himself on
her charms. Perhaps John thought—if he were ever guilty of thinking
poetry—that "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever"; and that it would
be—would be—nice is the word—nice for him, when thousands of miles
away, to remember the fair vision which had broken in upon him at this
time.
If in this John sinned, I am afraid many of us often sin without
knowing it. Certainly, had he been asked the question, he might have
replied with a clear conscience that he had not coveted his neighbour's
goods, nor his prospective wife, nor anything that was his neighbour's.
And yet, for all that, the maelstrom was there, and John Tincroft was
whirling round its outer circles without intending it, and not even
being aware of it, but at the same time enjoying its giddy motion.
Mr. Rubric, however, had, as I have said, put the matter before him in
another light. He had not exactly told John that he was doing wrong
to his own soul; but he had plainly indicated that he was inflicting
injury on another's good name and prospects. It was already being
talked about—this intimacy of his at the farm; and what if the result
should be, as his mentor had hinted, the breaking off of the old
engagement and the loss of a husband when a husband was so sorely
needed?
Tincroft was not very well up in this kind of affair, nor of any
other where common everyday life was concerned. Once, for instance,
when he was fishing for gudgeons in the Cherwell—having been enticed
into investing in a rod and line—he lost sight of line and float so
completely as to allow a mischievous urchin, whom he had hired to
attend him, slyly to fasten a red herring on to the hook. Oblivious of
the trick, John presently jerked up the line, and, without any further
astonishment than that he should have caught any sort of fish, captured
the prize—speaking of it afterwards as a feat of skill, or of chance
rather, to be proud of, not being previously aware, as he declared,
that the Cherwell reckoned herrings, especially red herrings, among its
finny inhabitants.
So now, innocent as he was of any, or of many, of the commoner concerns
of mortal existence, John Tincroft might have gone on worshipping this
new-found idol at a distance, if his dreams had not been rudely broken
in upon by the warnings of his clerical friend. So rudely, indeed, that
he did not half like it.
"I did not mean any harm," thought John to himself that morning, when
closeted in the old library, "and I cannot see now what harm I have
done. But, however, if Mr. Rubric says so, he may be right, and it will
be better for me not to go near the place again."
Then it came into his dull mind that the easiest way for him to get out
of the difficulty in which he so unexpectedly found himself placed,
would be to quit the neighbourhood altogether.
"They cannot talk about me, then," he angrily argued; "and I—well, what
does it matter if I don't see the young person again."
Yes, it would be better for him to leave the vicinity of these charms,
thought John. He could go back to Oxford, and though he could not
conveniently, if at all, enter upon his old rooms at Queen's till the
next term had commenced, he might take lodgings. He knew a laundress,
the wife or mother or aunt—he did not know which—of one of the college
scouts who lived out Jericho way and let lodgings to single men, and he
could go there and pursue his Oriental studies in peace.
And John could but reflect that the last month had been sorely wasted.
In the lap of Delilah, figuratively speaking, of course, he had been
shorn of his (figurative) locks. But he was not so far gone as that
amounted to either, so he thought within himself—which proved that
he was, at that crisis of his history, farther gone than he himself
suspected.
And so, presently, at the sound of the bell, John bestirred himself,
and went down to dinner.
Resolved to beat a retreat from the difficulty in which he was placed,
another difficulty presented itself to his mind. Shy and awkward as
ever, he was at a loss how to make known his purpose to his host and
his college friend. He had accepted the invitation for the whole
of the long vacation, which even now wanted nearly a month of its
termination; and his friends would possibly take offence at his
abruptly quitting them. To tell the truth, he was reluctant enough, on
all grounds, to take this step; and I hope my readers—my fair readers,
at all events—will give Tincroft credit for some virtue—the virtue of
self-denial—in having arrived at his present determination.
In the present instance, his virtue was reinforced, and he was,
moreover, strengthened in his resolution by the course of conversation
after the dinner-cloth was removed.
"I have had a call from Mark Wilson this morning," said Richard Grigson.
"Drunk as usual, of course?" put in Tom, interrogatively.
"Well, reasonably so," said the elder brother, laughing lightly. "I
don't think he would have faced me till he had fortified himself. But
he wasn't very far gone; he knew what he was about."
"He wanted something, I suppose?" suggested Tom.
"You may be sure of that. He wanted two or three things; that is to
say, he wanted to know two or three things."
"As for instance?"
"Well, for instance, he wanted to know whether I meant what I wrote
to him the other day, that if he hadn't paid his arrears of rent at
Christmas, I should distrain."
"And you told him, Dick?—"
"That there was no mistake about it at all," said Mr. Richard Grigson.
"And I asked him a question or two. I wanted to know what he would do
with a tenant who wouldn't pay his rent."
"And what did he say to that?"
"Say? Why he said it would be his duty to forgive him, and he hoped
I should see it in the same light, which I said I didn't, and wasn't
likely to."
"Trust you for that. It was brassy of the poor fellow, though. Well,
what did he want to know next?" asked Tom.
"He wanted to know if I was serious in giving him notice to quit at
Ladytide. And I told him I was never more serious in my life than when
I wrote that notice."
"'And you mean to stick to it?' said he."
"And I did and do mean to stick to it, I told him."
"Yes, and then?" Tom rejoined.
"And who was to have the farm after him? This was his next inquiry."
"And you told him, I suppose?"
"Couldn't tell him what I didn't know. And so I said."
"Why, isn't his brother Matthew to have it?"
"That depends. There's nothing settled yet. However, Mark seems to have
jumped at that conclusion, for he began to abuse Matthew and all his
family in very low language, declaring at last, in his own peculiar
style, that he would rather see his girl in her coffin than that she
should marry her cousin Walter."
"He is calculating on a better match for Sarah, perhaps," said Tom,
laughing, and glancing slyly across the table at John Tincroft, who,
during the conversation that had passed, had been wrapped, as it
seemed, in a solemn, silent muse.
"So it almost appears," rejoined the elder brother, gravely, for the
next question—"I don't know that I ought to speak of it, though."
"Oh, out with it, Dick," cried the younger brother; "don't keep all the
fun to yourself, brother dear."
"It concerns you, Tincroft. Will you have it?"
"Oh yes, by all means," stammered clumsy John; "though what I can have
to do with it—"
"Why, aren't you a friend of the family?" Tom wanted to know.
"I don't see why you should put that name upon me," said John, rather
stiffly.
"Well, you are not an enemy, at any rate; are you, now?"
"Mr. Mark Wilson is so fond of you, as a friend, that he would like to
have you in closer relationship," continued Mr. Grigson, seriously,
and dropping the half jocular tone in which he had previously spoken.
"And, to tell the truth, my dear fellow, I think it is only an act of
friendship to put you on your guard. Your visits to High Beech have
been looked upon with great interest, I assure you."
"Please to explain, Mr. Grigson," said John, still more stiffly.
"Yes, I will, as you ask me in such a pleasant tone. The truth is, Mark
Wilson is extremely desirous of knowing the extent of your means, and
the nature of your prospects, in case, for instance, of your having a
wife to support."
"You—you don't say so," exclaimed John, starting in his chair, and
clutching the edge of the table in sheer astonishment. "I never heard
of such impertinence in all my life," he added, vehemently.
"Ah! Well, if you come to that, I have heard worse jokes, at all
events," cried Tom, highly delighted with his friend's emotion.
"Especially since the cream of it is in the application," he added.
"I don't know about the joke," the elder brother went on, still
gravely. "But I am inclined to hope, from your way about it, that there
isn't much danger—" this to Tincroft—"I should be sorry to think there
really is any. If you will take your seat again, dear fellow—" for
Tincroft had continued standing, holding on to the table's edge—"I'll
explain, as you have asked me to do."
John resumed his seat, and then Richard Grigson went on to say that
Mark Wilson had plainly intimated that, seeing which way the wind blew,
as he elegantly expressed himself, he didn't see but what he might be
proud to have the college gentleman for a son-in-law, only it was a
father's duty to put a few questions at starting, so us to save future
troubles and disputes, because such things in families were unpleasant,
as he very well knew.
"I let him go on," said Mr. Grigson, in continuation, "for I thought
to myself Tincroft ought to be aware of what is thought and said and
speculated about him."
"Much obliged, I am sure, sir," gasped John, breaking out into a cold
perspiration.
"And then when he had said all he had got to say, and put as many
questions about you as would go into a high-crowned hat, I told him he
must be entirely mistaken in his conjectures, simply because you are
not a marrying man. Wasn't I right there, friend?"
"Right, sir; quite right, Mr. Grigson," said John. "To think of me
marrying!" added he, as though the idea was perfectly preposterous, as,
under the circumstances, no doubt it was.
"And I told him, also, that let your inclinations be what they might,
you were too much of a gentleman, to say nothing of a Christian, to be
seriously intent on destroying the happiness of a devoted couple—such
as his daughter and her cousin Walter, for instance—by doing
anything—anything, I said, my dear fellow—to sever them in affection. I
hope I did not put it too strong, did I, John?"
"No, no; not at all too strong," said John.
"I told him that you knew perfectly well of their long engagement; and
that I could answer for you—"
"Thank you; thank you, Mr. Grigson."
"That I could answer for you that you would not go near the farm again,
if such ridiculous deductions were drawn from your innocent and merely
friendly visits. Was I right?"
"Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt." But John did not utter this so readily
as he had before spoken. "And what did Mr. Mark say to all this?" he
asked.
"Why, to tell the truth, he did not listen to it so attentively as he
should have done, I am afraid, and so my eloquence was wasted. He had
got hold of the story of your walking home with his daughter that night
of the picnic—you remember it, don't you, my dear John? And if that
didn't mean something, he did not know what did. So he said."
"But you told him, Mr. Grigson, that it was done without intending it,
that it was quite accidental, in fact, and indeed rendered necessary by
circumstances?"
"Just my very words, I assure you, John; and I put it quite strongly
too. And what do you think he said to that?"
John did not know, and could not guess.
"He said it was—he used a strong term, and a vulgar one, Mi. Tincroft;
he said—well, I had better not repeat his words. But the long and
short of it is—if you will take my advice, you will take your
constitutionals, as you Oxford men call them, in another direction in
future, dear friend."
"Thank ye, Mr. Grigson, thank ye. I'll think about it," said John. "No
more, thank you," he added, when the decanter was pushed towards him.
John Tincroft left the dinner-table in greater confusion of mind than
ever. He should have to leave the vicinity of High Beech, that was
determined on; but he had not yet had courage to make his resolution
known. He had been living in a fool's paradise the last month, no
doubt; and the worst of it was that, when awakened out of his dream, he
was unreasonably angry with those who had roused him. And yet, to show
this would be to acknowledge how necessary their friendly offices had
been.
Fortunately for him, the next morning's post brought a letter from a
lawyer in Oxford who was engaged in his Chancery affair, which spoke of
a personal consultation being desirable at some early date. And though
John had an instinctive idea that the appointment could have no further
result than that of extracting a few more guineas from his attenuated
purse, it, at any rate, furnished him with a valid reason for an
immediate return to Oxford.
"Make him wait your convenience, Tincroft," said Mr. Grigson, when John
laid the letter on the breakfast-table.
"I think I had better go," said John.
"You will give us another week of your society, at least?" continued
the host.
But John was firm. He must leave on the following day.
"We shall be sorry to lose you;" rejoined Grigson, "but of course—"
"Necessitas non habet legem," put in Tom, lugubriously, but glad,
nevertheless, to air his classical attainments.
"Oh, bother! Keep your Latin till you get back to Oxford, Tom,"
exclaimed the elder brother. "We talk English down here."
"And not always that, Dick," answered the younger brother,
mischievously. "But come, Tincroft, must you really go now?"
"I am afraid I must."
"Isn't it beating a rather inglorious retreat, though? What will your
friends at High Beech think about it?"
"I intend to walk over there this evening and say 'Good-bye,'" said
John, sullenly.
"Do you really mean that, though?" Mr. Grigson said, gravely. "I think
I wouldn't if I were you, dear fellow."
John really did mean it, though; for, like a good many other dull
persons, he was obstinate when put upon his mettle. He did not see why
he should not go and tell Mr. Mark a bit of his mind concerning his
impertinent observations and inquiries. At any rate, he was not going
to have it said of him that he was ashamed to show his face anywhere he
pleased because scandal had been spoken. And, in short, whether or not
there were any secret and unconfessed motive hidden in his heart, he
braced up his resolution, and before the day had closed in, he was on
his way to the farm.
"I'll let Mr. Rubric know that I am master of my own actions," thought
he to himself as he strode along; "and as to Mr. Grigson, I am much
obliged to him for his hospitality, but I am a free agent, I hope, for
all that."
"It's the way of the world," mused poor John Tincroft, bitterly; "let
a fellow like me be under a cloud, and every favourite of fortune may
give him a kick. What is it to the parson and the squire if I have
chosen to take my walks in this direction? They wouldn't have thought
anything about it, if I had been rich. Why did I come down here to
be first patronised and then bullied? I don't want their patronage,
and won't be bullied," continued he, in his unreasonable anger; and
then, having let off steam, so to speak, John cooled down. "Not but
what they mean well enough, I daresay; but there's no harm in seeing
Miss Wilson again, and saying 'Good-bye.' I'll give her a little good
advice, too; that is, I'll put her on her guard against eavesdroppers
and scandal-mongers. Poor girl!"
And so "chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies," John presently
found himself at the farm, as unfit as can be well imagined of any man
under similar circumstances for putting good resolutions into effect;
in other words, as incapable of giving good advice as he had shown
himself averse from taking it.
The farmer was not at home, so John lost the opportunity of a quarrel
in that quarter. Mrs. Mark was, as usual, gone to lie down—her usual
practice in the afternoon—she being indisposed—as usual also.
"And Miss Sarah?"
Miss Sarah was in the garden, the maid of all work gave the querist to
understand, adding with a gesture and smile, which ought to have sent
John to the right-about at once, that she "dared to say Master Tincroft
knew how to find her if he had a mind to. But—"
Awkward John, who had no suspicion of hidden meaning, quietly turned to
the garden gate, and following his true instinct of stupidity, made his
way onward to the lovers' walk.
Now I have said that this walk was a shady one: it was, in fact, a
pleasant alley with high untopped and unpruned filbert trees on either
hand, and terminating in a rustic summer-house, with closely trimmed
holly sides, back, and roof. The filbert trees were in good bearing,
the thick clusters browning in the autumn sun; and Sarah, with a basket
at her feet, was employed in nutting on a somewhat large scale.
For a short space of time, Tincroft stood at a distance unobserved,
while watching the "neat-handed Phillis" deftly transferring the
clusters to her half-filled basket. But soon, he ventured nearer, and
his approaching footsteps attracting the damsel's attention extracted
from her the pretty feminine exclamation (or so John thought it)—
"Oh my, Mr. Tincroft! How did you get here?"
John pointed to the garden entrance, and explained that, having made
inquiries of the servant, he had learned that Mr. Wilson was not at
home, and that Mrs. Wilson was not well enough to see a friend, as also
that Miss Wilson was in the garden; and so he had taken the liberty of
intruding on her solitude, just to say— And here he stopped short.
"And the best thing you can do now you are here, Mr. Tincroft, will be
to help me gather these stupid filberts," said Sarah, with a pretty
toss of her head, and a charming frankness which quite enraptured the
foolish fellow. If the filbert trees had been guarded by a dragon as
fierce as that which watched over the golden apples of the Hesperides,
John could not have resisted the challenge—so he thought: and, without
further ado, he set about his task in solemn silence.
"You wanted to see father, didn't you, Mr. Tincroft?" said the young
lady presently, during a pause in the work.
"Ah yes—that is, it does not much matter," replied John, absently. "I
daresay you will give my message to him; and that will do as well."
"That depends on what it is, Mr. Tincroft," rejoined the little
coquette. "If there is no harm in it, perhaps I may."
"Oh, there is no harm in it," said John. "I came over to say good-bye,
that's all, or pretty nearly all. I must go back to Oxford to-morrow."
Once more the pretty, "Oh my, Mr. Tincroft!" was ejaculated. "Well, I
do wonder at that," was lightly added.
"Do you, Miss Wilson?"
"Yes, to be sure, Mr. Tincroft. Didn't you tell us—father I mean—that
you shouldn't be leaving these parts for another month?"
"Did I, Miss Wilson? Ah yes, I believe I may have said so; but you
see we cannot always tell what may happen. I have had a letter from
my lawyer this morning." John said this rather proudly, as though a
lawyer for his own especial behoof was a necessary part of his bachelor
condition.
Poor Tincroft! He is not the only one who has made a brag of "my
lawyer."
"Oh dear! I didn't think you were going away so soon," said Sarah.
And then, this leading to nothing—for she did not evince any anxiety to
know what special communication Mr. Tincroft had received from the High
Court of Chancery—they recommenced operations on the filbert trees.
Presently the basket was filled.
"There, that's done, and I am tired," quoth the damsel; "and I shall
leave the others till to-morrow. I am going to rest myself in the
summer-house," she added.
"May I go there too?" John—stupid John—asked.
"Of course he might. Wasn't he always at home at High Beech?" the young
lady wished to know. "Only I shall be busy when I am there. I brought
my work out with me, and I must do it," she added.
John might have thought, though he did not say, that whatever Miss
Wilson chose to do at any particular time, was the most becoming and
bewitching thing she could be doing at that particular time. That is
to say, he might have thought this had he been her lover; but as he
was not, or was, "without intending it," as the case might be, he only
followed her into the holly arbour, and seated himself at a respectful
distance.
"So you are really going to run away from us, Mr. Tincroft?"
He really was; and he again said so.
"And I have to thank you, Miss Wilson," stammered out John, "for the
pleasant walks I have enjoyed."
Miss Wilson was glad he had enjoyed pleasant walks; but she was not
aware that she was the cause of them. This, but in other words, perhaps.
"It was not very wise of me, I daresay," continued the awkward booby,
getting deeper into the mire; "because you see, Miss Wilson—I am—I am
soon going to leave England for ever, most likely; and you—I am sure I
wish you every happiness in the life on which you will shortly enter, I
hope. Will you be good enough to repeat this to your cousin Walter? And
if you could just hint to your father, Miss Wilson—that, that it is not
wise or kind of him to go about saying what he is saying—"
"Sorry to disturb you, I am sure," said a strange voice outside the
arbour, followed by the appearance of Miss Elizabeth. "Mr. Tincroft,
your most obedient, I am; and am proud to see you so happy. My dear—"
this to Sarah—"I just looked over to say how d'ye do, and being told
you was in the garden, and expecting to find you alone—" (which was
a fib), "just looked in. But I'm aware that two is good company, and
three is none; so I will say good afternoon now, and will see you again
another day. Mr. Tincroft, when you can find time to give us a look
in at Low Beech, father 'll be glad to see you, I am sure; especially
considering we may be near relations some of these days."
And before her cousin Sarah could frame a retort, or John could recover
his senses (such as they were), Miss Elizabeth was halfway, marching
with stately steps, down the filbert alley.
[Illustration]