JOHN TINCROFT'S BOLD STROKE.
HELPLESS widow Mark and poor Sarah were seated together one chilly
evening in spring, some ten days after the funeral, by a poor fire
in their brick-floored kitchen. They had no attendant now, for the
tender-hearted Meg had been dismissed on the giving up of the farm, so
that all the work, rough and smooth, of the house had fallen almost
entirely on Sarah, who had no time now to sit at her ease, the sultana
of the shabby parlour, with its knobby-seated chairs, even if she had
wished to do so. And for all other purposes, the kitchen did as well.
They were sadly disconsolate, the two poor women, and they were very
lonely. As was to be expected, little sympathy had been shown to them
by their relatives, even in the first bouts of their bereavement;
and that little had entirely ceased. Had they been of the labouring
class, they would have fared better in this respect, for the poor, in a
country village at least, do feel for one another, and help each other
when in sorrow. But the Wilsons were above them, while those on their
own level, or higher in station, "passed by on the other side."
The only one exception to this was found in our friend Mr. Rubric.
Probably his position as parish clergyman laid a kind of obligation
upon him to weep with those who wept. But besides this, he really and
unofficially would have done the same thing if he had never worn a
surplice nor had a bishop's hands laid on his head. We have seen how
he had made friends of the mammon of unrighteousness on behalf of his
destitute parishioners in the case of John Tincroft; and that, with
a less satisfactory result, he had made the same efforts in other
quarters.
It was owing to the assistance afforded by Mr. Rubric, backed up by
John Tincroft's remittance, that the widow and her daughter were not
already separated—the first taking her way to the parish "refuge for
the destitute," the second to the situation of "maid of all work,"
which had been offered her in a neighbouring farmer's domicile. But the
time of parting, though postponed, was inevitable; and this evening
they were helplessly and sorrowfully bemoaning their hard lot, not
altogether waiving mutual reproaches of each other, and joint censures
against the dead and buried, forgetful, if they had ever heard of the
charitable maxim, De mortuis nil nisi bonum.
A hesitating, timid knock at the door interrupted the painful talk, and
on opening it, Sarah Wilson saw herself confronted by John Tincroft.
Her that impulse was to close the door in his face, and to run upstairs
and hide herself under the bed, or elsewhere; and no wonder, perhaps,
as she looked upon John as the cause of her irreconcilable quarrel
with her cousin and lover. She thought better of this, however, on
remembering John's recent kindness—reflecting likewise that, in the
former case, it was not Mr. Tincroft so much as her mischief-making
cousin Elizabeth who was really in fault. So when the awkward and
unexpected visitor stammered out an apology for his intrusion, she
offered him her hand in amity, and invited him to walk in and draw up
to the fire.
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There was a strange alteration in John since she saw him last, the
maiden thought. He was pale and thin, and looked troubled. The same
thought crossed Tincroft's mind as he looked at Sarah.
"Poor thing!" he mentally ejaculated; "she has passed through deep
waters, so no wonder she has lost some of the bloom I was so foolish as
to admire."
He did not say this, of course. Indeed, his eyes rested only for a
moment on the younger woman.
"I heard of your great sorrow," said he, softly, turning to the widow,
"only a few days ago, and I think you will believe that I feel deeply
distressed on your account, Mrs. Wilson, and on your daughter's also. I
could not rest till I had seen you," he added, "so I came down by the
Tally-ho as soon as I could get away from Oxford."
It was very good of Mr. Tincroft to think of them at all, Mrs. Mark
sobbed. Sarah did not speak.
"And I am afraid, too," continued John, "that you have other sorrows
besides that of your great loss."
The flood-gates were opened now. Other sorrows! Indeed! And then came
out the old string and bead-roll of grievances, with many new beads
added, about the unnatural conduct of Matthew Wilson to his poor
brother while living, and of his cruelty to herself and Sarah since his
death. Then there was Walter too, and his base desertion of poor Sarah,
who would now have to go out to service, while she herself, her widowed
self—but there, it didn't matter what became of an old woman like her.
A workhouse was good enough, too good, in fact; and anyhow it wouldn't
be for long. And then, overcome by her emotions, the unhappy bereaved
broke out into loud wailings and hysterical tears, in the full flow
of which she retired to her room above to "lay down for a bit" as she
sobbed.
All this time the daughter had taken no part in the conversation, to
which, indeed, she had seemed to pay but little heed. No doubt she was
accustomed to these or similar complainings and outbursts of futile
grief. She had her own sorrows to bear, but she endured them, if not
more resignedly, certainly less noisily; but that she felt them John
was sure, when he glanced at her worn countenance, and the occasional
nervous twitching of her upper lip.
"You have not spoken—you do not speak—of your own troubles, Miss
Wilson," said he presently, after an awkward silence, when the mother
had left the room.
"Why should I, Mr. Tincroft? What would be the use?" Sarah asked,
impatiently.
"Perhaps not much, miss; except that sometimes the heart is relieved
by the—the outspeaking of the mouth. It isn't the deepest-felt trials
that are the loudest in general, I think. But if you will not speak of
yours, may I put a few questions?" John timidly asked.
"It must be as you like, Mr. Tincroft."
John paused a second or two; then he said, still timidly—
"It is true, I am afraid, that your uncle and aunt are unkind to you in
your distress?"
"It seems so to us, Mr. Tincroft," replied Sarah, with a little of her
old spirit flashing from her eyes; "but I daresay they would tell you
different; and, if you please, I would rather not hear or say anything
about them."
"Well, well, I will not distress you unnecessarily. But, believe
me," said John, kindly, "I have reason for asking. And will you mind
telling me truly if—if you still have any—what shall I say?—any hope
or expectation—you know what I mean?" went on poor Tincroft, scarcely
knowing what he said, or how he said it.
"I don't know what you mean, sir," said Sarah, when John came to a
sudden halt.
"You know," said he, changing his conversational position, "I took a
journey down into the north, not so very long ago, in your interest,
as I at the time firmly believed, Miss Wilson. I did this without
asking your permission; but I hope my motive was not—has not been
misinterpreted by you."
"I daresay you meant well, sir," said the young lady, coldly.
"But I did not do well. True, I candidly confess it; and I see now that
the embassage was injured by the ambassador. At any rate, my journey
proved worse than useless, as it then seemed. But possibly since then—I
have reasons for asking, Miss Wilson—possibly since then your cousin
Walter—"
"And if he had, sir," said Sarah, interpreting, as it seemed, what
John was so methodically and carefully, but yet stumblingly, trying to
enunciate; and, speaking with an energy and spirit with which he was
inwardly pleased—"If he had, do you think I would have listened to him
after—" Sarah's bosom heaved as she spoke, and her pent-up feelings
found vent in tears. Presently, when calmed down, she resumed, "I am
much obliged to you, Mr. Tincroft, for your good meanings; but Walter
Wilson is nothing to me now, nor will he ever be."
Another awkward pause, and then again John broke the ice—
"I have not much more to ask, Miss Wilson, and believe me when I assure
you that mine are not idle or impertinent questions; but is it true
that you have no other resource than that mentioned by your mother? Is
it possible that you will have to go into domestic service?"
"It seems so, Mr. Tincroft; I don't know of anything else I am fit for,
if I am fit for that," said Sarah, with quivering lips.
"You are fit for something better than that," said John, softly; "and
you are fit for something better than I can offer. But if you wouldn't
mind being a poor man's wife—" And here again John came to a pause.
"I don't know what you can mean, Mr. Tincroft." This was said in a tone
of unfeigned surprise, accompanied by a look of alarmed pride. "I hope
you don't mean to insult me because everybody else does the same."
"I am very far from intending this," replied John. "And I would not
make you an offer if I could think of anything better for you. I know,"
he went on, "that in some respects we are not entirely suited to each
other—at least, that I am not everything you might look for. I am a
recluse, and shy, and much more that isn't agreeable; but I know I am
honest in my wish to make you happy."
"Mr. Tincroft, what do you mean?" exclaimed Sarah, wildly.
And by degrees John told the damsel what he meant, namely, that the
only compensation he could make to her for the unintentional mischief
he had wrought, was to take her himself for better, for worse, for
richer or poorer, and so on, till death should them part. He begged her
to understand that he was very poor, that he had no certain prospect of
an income after the little that remained of his property was gone; for
he had determined on giving up his appointment, if Sarah would agree to
his proposal.
And as to the Tincroft estate, of which he had once vainly boasted, he
had lost all faith in that. But there was enough, he went on to say, to
maintain them (and Sarah's mother too, if she would live with them) in
very strict economy for a year or two; and John thought he might get
some employment in teaching, perhaps, or in some other way. But as he
had always been under a cloud, so he expected to be to the end of the
chapter.
"And so, Miss Wilson, you see," added he, by way of summing up, "it is
but little that I can offer you. Still, if you will accept it, I will
promise to be your faithful husband."
Poor Sarah! She could scarcely believe her own ears for wild, blank
amazement.
"I do not ask for your answer to-night, Miss Wilson," John said; and
then he added, "I am staying with Mr. Rubric, who knows why I came on
here this evening, and he will call on you to-morrow for your decision.
So let us say 'Good-night' now."
Their hands met, and while John's trembled with excitement, he could
feel that Sarah's was deadly cold. In another moment, Sarah was left
alone.
Then a low, sobbing cry broke from her, and her piteous exclamation
"Oh! What shall I do? What shall I do?" was followed by a flood of
tears which relieved her full heart.
It was true, as Tincroft had said, that on first entering the village
that evening, he had taken his way to the rectory, where, to the
intense astonishment of Mr. Rubric, he had laid bare his determination
to take Sarah Wilson to wife, if she would have him, and thus remedy to
the extent of his means the trouble he had occasioned.
"Is it possible that I understand you aright? Are you really serious in
what you are saying?" ejaculated the rector.
John was perfectly serious, and he said so.
"But only consider, my good friend. Think how this is likely to end.
You yourself say that Sarah Wilson is not the person whom, if left to
your free choice, you would fix upon as a companion for life; that
in marrying any one at this present time, your prospects would be
destroyed; that you may have immediately to take your name from the
college books, just too when by your final examinations you might
obtain your degree; and that you will have to settle down as a broken
man (excuse my plain speaking), and go into that precarious occupation,
classical teaching, to earn a scanty livelihood. Think of this, Mr.
Tincroft."
John had thought of it, he averred.
"And then, again, you have friends to whom you must thenceforth be a
stranger—at least, in all probability. To say the least of it, Mr.
Richard Grigson and his brother, who are really attached to you, would
find it difficult to surmount their prejudices and swallow their
disappointment, even should they be disposed to maintain their present
relations with you."
"I should take care not to put their friendship to such a trial. I
mean, I should take for granted that henceforth all intercourse with
them must cease," said John, sadly but firmly.
"And you are prepared for this?"
Yes, John was prepared.
"Lastly, though I have hinted this before, you do not expect much
future happiness in such an ill-assorted match?"
"I should endeavour to adapt myself to circumstances," said Tincroft.
"It is possible, and almost certain, I am afraid, that I am naturally
unadapted for wedded life; but since it has come upon me—if it should
so prove—I daresay I shall take to it as well as others; and if not
perfectly happy myself, I would endeavour to make my partner at least
contented with her lot."
"Tincroft, I don't know what to make of you," broke out Mr. Rubric,
abruptly.
John smiled faintly. "I often say so to myself," he said.
"But I cannot let you go on in this—pardon my calling it a—wild goose
chase without putting the consequences before you. You remember my
telling you of my old college friend and his imprudent marriage, and
his subsequent disappointment?"
John smiled again.
"Yes, I remember," said he; "and also how you spoke of him as having
taken the only honourable course open to him. Now that, as it seems to
me, is what I have to do, and leave the event. It may be, poor Sarah
will—"
"Decline the honour you are intending her," intimated the rector,
seeing that Tincroft hesitated.
"No, no; don't put it so. Decline doing me the honour, if you like."
"Yes, put it in that way; and in that case you will be free. But, to
tell you the truth, my opinion is that she will not decline it. But is
there no other way of making amends?"
"I think not—I am sure there is not," said John.
Now, this conversation, or something like it, took place before the
unexpected visit of John Tincroft to High Beech, as recorded in the
last chapter, and it ended in John's being invited to return to the
rectory, and to sleep there, with a promise on the part of Mr. Rubric
to help his friend through the maze in which he was plunged, so far
as he could do so with the consent of his own judgment. To tell the
truth, Mr. Rubric sympathised to a considerable extent with Tincroft's
conscientious desire to do right, regardless of consequences, while he
inwardly hoped that his singular and highly eccentric suit might not
prosper.
John had little to tell when he returned to the rectory. What that
little was the reader is already acquainted with. He had something more
decisive to hear when Mr. Rubric returned on the following day from his
mission to High Beech.
Yes, Sarah Wilson would accept John Tincroft as her husband. She was
so flurried overnight, she explained, that she was not able to give a
proper answer then; but now, thanking John very much for his goodness,
she would do her best to please him, and try to make him as comfortable
as she could when they were married. All this and more Mr. Rubric
reported, with a grim smile.
"I was on honour with you, you see, Tincroft," said he. "I promised
that neither by word nor sign would I attempt to influence Sarah
Wilson's decision. Not that it would have been of any use," he added,
"for, as was to be expected, she was prepared with her answer."
"Why to be expected?" John asked.
"Well, it was not likely that she would refuse your offer. Her
circumstances are very low, if not desperate; and besides that, I am
not sure that she has not a real regard for you. Let us hope so, at
all events. And then, the providing a home for her mother, as you
have promised to do, may have had something to do with her prompt
acquiescence in your proposal."
"And now," said John, "the sooner we can bring it to a conclusion the
better. I shall go at once and see Sarah, and then return this evening
to Oxford to wind up my affairs there, and make a few preparations for
a married life."
"My poor friend!" sighed the rector.
"Pray don't pity me," said John, smiling; "you ought to congratulate
me."
"So I do—on your possessing such high principle. And you really mean to
throw up your appointment?"
"I have no alternative. I cannot go out as a married man."
"Would it not be possible to leave your wife in England," Mr. Rubric
had half said; but he checked himself with "No, of course, it would
not be. But you will look in at the Manor House before you return to
Oxford?"
But Tincroft would not do this. He must submit himself to the
consequences of his own act and deed, he said, and he could not expect
Mr. Grigson to look upon him in any other light than as a lost man. And
as he did not want to be either scorned or pitied, he would leave it to
the squire to make any reapproaches. From this determination John was
not to be moved, and he accordingly carried out his former programme.
There was a hurried walk to High Beech, and a lengthened conference
there in the character of an accepted lover, a return to the rectory to
luncheon, a solitary tramp to the coaching town, in time for a night
mail, and a night journey to Oxford. All this needs not many words.
Nor is much explanation needed to inform the reader of the steps taken
by John Tincroft on his return to the university. It is enough to say
that before the necessary time had elapsed for the publication of the
banns of matrimony in due order, the gownsman's name had been removed
from the college books; Mr. Rackstraw had been duly informed that
his distant relative had altered his mind, and intended to remain in
England; a small cottage near to his friends the Barrys, at Jericho,
had been taken by John, and economically furnished out of the funds
still remaining in the hands of his lawyer, who lifted up his hands in
silent astonishment when his client put him in possession of the facts
of the case.
All this was done by John with a degree of stoicism very wonderful and
instructive to behold. He made no boast of his self-sacrifice, neither
did he express regret at the abandonment of his former plans and
expectations. He was in the path of duty—whether rightly or mistakenly,
he believed this; and he went forward in it, looking neither to the
right hand nor the left.
It was the more consolatory to Tincroft, therefore, as well as a
pleasant surprise, when one day—before all his arrangements were quite
completed, and before he had finally taken leave of his rooms at
Queen's—Tom Grigson broke in upon him with an extraordinary outburst of
voice, something like a view-hallo, and caught him by the hand in such
a grip that John winced under the infliction.
"John, you are a splendid fellow!" said he.
John did not think so of himself, and he said he did not.
"True greatness is always modest," said Tom; "and, by the way," he
added, "that's no discovery of mine, so don't give me credit for it.
But I say you are a noble fellow; only I want to know why you have kept
all this from me, most admirable Crichton?"
"Why should I have troubled—"
"Nonsense about trouble! But I know all about it from Dick. By the way,
he has sent me a cheque that will clear Dry's bill; but this isn't what
I was going to say. Why, Dick worships you, that's what he does; and he
says if you don't keep your wedding at the Manor, he'll never forgive
you. And I am to go down and see you turned off—I beg your pardon,
John, but you are such a fellow, you know; and if we don't have such a
picnic of it as was never known before at the old place, it won't be
Dick's fault. And I wish you joy, John, and happiness, and success, and
all that sort of thing; so there!"
And he wrung Tincroft's hand again, till tears started from his eyes.
"It is very good of you," said John, "and of Mr. Richard; but I would
rather the wedding should go off quietly."
But it did not go off quietly. Perhaps, however, one picnic in a story
is enough, and it will be sufficient to place on record here that on a
certain day in June, years ago, but in less than a year from the date
of our first chapter, was married in the parish church of a certain
village in Blankshire, John Tincroft, gentleman, of Oxford, to Sarah
Wilson, spinster, of the above parish.
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