MR. RUBRIC'S LETTER.
IT was no easy matter for John Tincroft to settle himself down again
in his dull college-room. His thoughts would wander to the not very
distant past, in spite of himself and his resolutions. Especially,
he thought with some indignation and disgust of the treatment he had
received from young Wilson, but he checked himself in this direction.
"I should have been unreasonable, too, if I had been in his place, and
he or anybody else in mine," he said to himself. "And I have brought
all this mortification on myself by my monstrous folly."
Then his reflections shifted to the unhappy damsel at High Beech Farm.
"If it hadn't, been for me," he sadly argued, "she might have had
a husband, or been looking forward to one, who, if not a very kind
one—for I don't believe he would have been kind to her—nor a very
wealthy one, would at least have rescued her from her miserable home,
and been her bread-winner and protector. And now—"
But what was the use of thinking all this? What more could John do to
undo the mischief he had wrought? He did not know. As to the thinking
of Sarah Wilson as his own wife—the idea was too preposterous to be
entertained. No doubt, to a certain extent, and in a certain way, the
young person had pleased him. It had been agreeable to him to gaze on
her flaxen locks, her blue sparkling eyes, and all the rest of those
personal charms; and he had been foolish enough to give himself up to
the soft delirium. But Tincroft knew, when he came to think of it,
that, even supposing he were in a condition to marry, and supposing
also that Sarah Wilson would take him as a husband, she was no more
suited to him than he was to her.
But he was not in a position to take a wife. His patrimony had
been almost swallowed up in that unhappy Chancery suit, which,
notwithstanding the new witness who had come forward on his side,
seemed to be as far-off as ever from its termination; for whether
her testimony would be of the least use in the world began to be
questioned. Well then, what had he to look forward to but his
appointment in India? And should he marry in England, under present
circumstances at any rate, the appointment would have to be abandoned.
And then—
And so John went on meditating; and all the schooling he had given
himself was inoperative here; for was he not right in considering his
ways?
He had not ceased these considerations, which so sorely disturbed his
peace by day, and broke his rest by night, when, about a month after
his return from his unsuccessful mission in the north, he received a
letter from Mr. Rubric, which put the coping-stone upon his massive
fabric of self-reproaches. We give the letter entire:
"MY DEAR TINCROFT," so the letter began.
"I am afraid that what I have to write will distress you; and I
would spare you the pain, only that I believe it will be succeeded by
the satisfaction you will undoubtedly feel, if it should be in your
power to give some little assistance in the case I am about to
mention."
"The short of the matter is, your friends at High Beech, in whom you
have taken so much kindly interest, are just now plunged in deeper
sorrow than even when you were last in this neighbourhood. Poor Mark
Wilson is dead: so far as this world is concerned, his troubles,
self-wrought as they were, are over. His health, already undermined
by his many years' excesses, broke down soon after his relinquishment
of the farm; and he never rallied. It was hoped by some that he would
have been led to reflection by the blow which had descended upon him,
and that he would have awoke to a sense of his former conduct, so as to
have become a wiser, if a sadder, man. But his misfortunes did not have
this effect upon him."
"We are told on the highest authority that though the spirit of a
man may sustain his infirmity, the burden of a wounded spirit is
insupportable. It was so with Mark Wilson. There had been a time when
it was said of him that he was a good fellow, and nobody's enemy but
his own. A wretched fallacy, this when said of any one; for we know
that none of us liveth to himself, and that no man can injure himself
without injury being inflicted or reflected upon others. Mark's
experience must have taught him this; but instead of turning from the
vices which had ruined him and his, he clung to them to the last,
desperately abandoning himself to intemperance; and so he died, and was
buried not many days ago."
"And now comes my story. Not only are the widow and daughter in deep
distress on account of this bereavement—for they had not lost all love,
though they must long since have parted with any real respect for the
unhappy man—but they are in positive destitution. I am afraid the
brother, Matthew Wilson, is not kindly disposed. No doubt, he had much
to try him in respect of Mark; and he may feel that he is not bound to
keep his sister-in-law and niece in idleness. At any rate, whatever
may be his feelings, he has announced to them that they must leave the
house, which, such as it is, he wants for his son George, who is about
to be married; and that he has no intention of continuing the weekly
payments he made to his brother whilst living, under pretence of being
wages for his work on the farm."
"I have laid the case before our friend, Mr. Richard Grigson. But,
I am sorry to say, his prejudices are at present so strong on the
subject, that he declines to interfere in any way. He says, truly
enough, that he lost much money by Mark Wilson as a tenant, and he
gives this as a reason for throwing of any kind of solicitude for the
wife and daughter of the unhappy man. He says, also, that there are
better born and bred women than Mrs. Mark in the parish poorhouse, and
she must go there; while the daughter must make up her mind to go to
service. And no doubt this is a utilitarian way of looking at the
subject; but it presses very hardly upon the widow and the fatherless
girl, in both of whom I am bound to take an interest as my own
parishioners."
"My object in writing to you, dear Tincroft, is simply to ask if
you are able, and feel disposed, to assist me in helping these poor
creatures. I have an idea that, if a little time were given to them,
some plan might be devised for their advantage—at any rate, to save one
of them from the degradation of pauperism. Perhaps, indeed, domestic
service might be the best thing for Sarah Wilson, if she could be
brought to see it so; but then the mother must be left untended, and
it appears to me that the daughter's proper place at present is home,
if a home can be procured—to say nothing of the poor child's unfitness
for hard work among strangers, for servant girls in these parts have
very little kindness or sympathy shown to them in general. I am doing
what I can, but I am quite, or almost, working alone in the matter; and
any small mite, if you can entrust it in my hands, shall be used to the
best of my ability on their behalf. Only remember, dear friend, the old
saying, Bis dat qui cito dat.—I am, etc. etc."
"THEOPHILUS RUBRIC."
There was a postscript to this letter, as follows:—
"I should not have written to you on this matter but for the part you
have recently taken in Sarah Wilson's affairs, and for my entire trust
in your strict honour. I know that Sarah can be nothing to you more
than an object of sympathy and kindness, and I deeply regret that any
former unfortunate contretemps, misunderstood at the time, should ever
have led me to do you a moment's injustice. Pray pardon me."
"I may as well add that Walter Wilson has written a letter home,
which I have seen, and which proves to a certainty that he will never
be reconciled to his unfortunate cousin."
John Tincroft read Mr. Rubric's letter, paced his room silently, then
re-read it. When he came to the postscript, he not only read, but
studied it.
"I don't precisely see what it means," he said to himself; "but there's
one thing to do, that's plain; I must see Mr. Roundhand. I suppose he
will let me have it."
In another five minutes the gownsman, equipped in his academics, was
making his way across the High Street, and then through the Peckwater
to St. Aldates.
"I want twenty pounds, Mr. Roundhand," said John to his lawyer, who was
also to some extent his banker, inasmuch as he managed the young man's
money affairs, such as they were, as well as his Chancery suit.
"It is a curious thing," said the lawyer, laughing, "but I rarely meet
with a man who does not want twenty pounds."
"You are right, I daresay," said John; "but I not only want it, but
want you to supply the want."
Mr. Roundhand dropped his smile. "Really," he began, but Tincroft
stopped him.
"I know what you are going to say,—that I have already drawn the
greater part of this present quarter's interest. Never mind; it must be
taken out of the next."
"I was going to say something more, friend Tincroft. Do you know the
extent, or non-extent, of your present entire resources? I am afraid
you have not studied the last statement I handed to you."
John acknowledged that he trusted so completely to his adviser, and
placed himself so entirely in his hands, that he had scarcely glanced
at the important document.
"Just so; as I supposed. And perhaps you will be surprised to learn
that, what with your college expenses and the costs of your Chancery
suit, which I assure you are managed as economically as possible—"
"I wish the Chancery suit were at the bottom of the sea," interpolated
John.
"Yes, yes; but that is out of court altogether; and you would not want
the Tincroft estate to bear the suit company, I suppose?"
John did not know about that.
"But to go on with what I was saying," resumed the lawyer. "Would you
be surprised to learn that all you have in the world amounts to—" and
he whispered a few words in his client's ear.
John turned slightly pale, but he soon rallied. "I daresay you are
right, Mr. Roundhand. But, what you tell me only confirms me in what
has been some time on my mind."
"And that is—"
"To have done with the Chancery suit altogether."
"Impossible, my dear friend. It must go on—that is," added the lawyer,
"until the whole estate itself is swallowed up—"
"In the sea? Well, that is what I said, isn't it?" John asked.
"Yes, in the sea, if you like; or the whirlpool of law, if you like
it better. However, so the case stands; and sooner than give it up, I
will carry it on at my own cost. What do you think? Since I saw you
last, I have been hunting up that Saddlebrook doctor's will in Doctors'
Commons; have compared signatures, end submitted both to an expert;
and—and we shall carry the day after all."
"Well, then," said Tincroft, who seemed very little elated with the
promise which had been so often repeated and disappointed, that it was
like the "hope deferred" which "maketh the heart sick." "Well, then,
there will be less difficulty in your making the advance I ask for. I
really must have that twenty pounds."
But Mr. Roundhead had something else to say. "Every pound you spend
now—pray consider, Mr. Tincroft, for I only speak in your own
interests—every pound you spend now, unnecessarily I mean, will be so
much deducted from what you will positively require for your outfit to
India."
"But if the Chancery suit is so sure of being soon terminated in my
favour, perhaps I shall not need to go to India after all," said John.
Mr. Roundhand shook his head doubtfully, as implying that the Tincroft
estate might not, if obtained, hold out a sufficient inducement to
alter his client's plans.
"At any rate, I question whether I shall not throw up the appointment,"
John added.
"You don't mean that, surely?" said the lawyer, who was himself
surprised now.
"It will depend on circumstances," said John, quietly; "and if my
having the twenty pounds I want to-day, or not having it, were to make
all the difference between my going to India or staying in England, I
should take the money and stay."
"There's nothing more to be said, then," remarked Mr. Roundhand,
"except that a wilful will, will have its way, and that I don't
understand you—"
"I doubt whether I understand myself," sighed John, inwardly.
"But the money is yours to do what you like with, Mr. Tincroft;" and
saying this, the lawyer opened his chequebook, and filled up a cheque.
"You know where to cash it," he added as he placed it in John's hand.
Yes, John knew where to cash it. Ten minutes afterwards, he was at the
counter of the Oxford Old Bank, exchanging it for a crisp ten-pound
Bank of England note, and the rest in gold.
The bank-note did not remain long in John Tincroft's possession.
Hastening back to his room, it was securely enclosed and sealed up with
black wax, in a sheet of Bath post, on which were scribbled these lines:
"MY DEAR SIR—Many thanks for your confidence in me, and for having
brought the distressing case to my knowledge. Please apply the enclosed
as you best think fit, immediately; and do not be surprised should I
follow in the course of a few days."
Having post-paid and posted this packet, John returned to his rooms,
shut himself in, and was seen no more that day. The next two days, he
mechanically went the daily round of his early chapel and subsequent
studies; but he was missed in the dining-hall. When Tom Grigson went
on the second evening to see what ailed his friend, he found, to his
surprise, that the outer door of John's room was fast shut.
"Sported the oak, has he?" said Tom to himself. "Never knew him to do
that before. What is the matter now, I wonder?"
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