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Title: John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

or, Without intending it

Author: George E. Sargent

Release date: March 18, 2024 [eBook #73193]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1891

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73193

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN TINCROFT, BACHELOR AND BENEDICT ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

JOHN TINCROFT

BACHELOR AND BENEDICT

OR

WITHOUT INTENDING IT

BY

GEORGE E. SARGENT

AUTHOR OF

"THE STORY OF A CITY ARAB," "THE STORY OF A POCKET BIBLE,"

ETC., ETC.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56 PATERNOSTER ROW, 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

AND 164 PICCADILLY

MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. AT LIBERTY HALL

II. THE LOVERS' WALK

III. THE PICNIC

IV. IN THE GROTTO

V. THE MAELSTROM

VI. JOHN TINCROFT'S RESOLUTION

VII. TWO FRIENDS—TWO LETTERS

VIII. WHO'S WHO?

IX. A RIFT IN THE CLOUD

X. IN THE FILBERT ALLEY

XI. SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

XII. THE LION'S MOUTH

XIII. MR. RUBRIC'S LETTER

XIV. JOHN TINCROFT'S BOLD STROKE

XV. FIREWORKS

XVI. JOHN TINCROFT STILL UNDER A CLOUD

XVII. HELEN

XVIII. AN ADVENTURE

XIX. WHAT HAPPENED AT LOW BEECH FARM

XX. HOW TOM GRIGSON SPED IN HIS WOOING

XXI. JOHN TINCROFT AT HOME; AND THE SKELETON THERE

XXII. A LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA

XXIII. A MONTH OF WONDERS

XXIV. "COALS OF FIRE"

XXV. HIGH AND LOW BEECH

XXVI. SARAH'S CONFESSION

XXVII. ELIZABETH'S GRIEVANCES

XXVIII. THE LAST OF THE HOLLY ARBOUR

XXIX. "BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS"

XXX. A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION

XXXI. YOUNG TOM GRIGSON

XXXII. IN THE FLOWER GARDEN

XXXIII. MORE PANICS THAN ONE

JOHN TINCROFT.

CHAPTER I.

AT LIBERTY HALL.

SO many years ago that those who are old now were young then, and so few years ago that deeds then transacted are fresh in the memory of many who are living now, John Tincroft, an undergraduate of Oxford, was invited to spend the long vacation with a college friend.

And the invitation came very opportunely, John thought.

For one reason, he had no home of his own. His parents had been long dead, and a distant relative—a London merchant—who had charge of his orphanhood, was not particularly, certainly not passionately, fond of him. This gentleman took care to explain, however, to all whom it might concern, that he had always done his duty towards the lad. But, as regards this duty, whatever else it might include, it possibly had not occurred to Mr. Rackstraw that the providing a happy home should have formed a component part of it.

In the next place, John Tincroft was comparatively poor, and he was becoming poorer. His patrimony, a small one at first, had been woefully diminished by his three years' term-keeping, and still more so by carrying on a Chancery suit; that is, by paying his lawyer to carry it on for him. He was not in debt, however, which was something in his favour—or perhaps in his disfavour with college tradesmen.

But he was much nearer the bottom of his purse than he cared to be, when the offer of a three months' residence in a hospitable home was placed before him. He had only one or two more terms to keep, and he wisely thought that he could not employ this last long vacation better than in reading with young Grigson (if he would be read with) as was proposed. So the invitation was accepted.

In another year, Tincroft would be far-away from England. He was going to India in the Civil Service. This much his guardian, who had no sons of his own to step into the appointment, had done for him, without much cost or trouble to himself.

"It will be the making of you, if you mind what you are about John," said Mr. Rackstraw; "and as to that plaguey Chancery suit and the Tincroft estate, it isn't worth your while staying in England to be the winner—or the loser, which is the more likely of the two."

He did not add audibly, "And I shall be well rid of you into the bargain," though probably, he thought it within himself.

John Tincroft had already commenced making preparations in a small way for his expatriation, as well as for his future duties; that is, he had plunged head foremost into certain Oriental histories, under a misty idea that they would be useful to him when he got to Calcutta.

John Tincroft, though an Oxford "gownsman," was a shy and awkward youth, of about two or three and twenty. He had never had the advantage of society—ladies' society, of course, is meant; and this deprivation had been hurtful, for it had made almost a misanthrope of him. In this respect, however, he had been the victim of circumstances.

His mother he had never known: he had no sister nor aunt nor fair cousin to initiate him into the mysteries of easy intercourse with his species. His school breeding, and, after that, his college training, together with his guardian's want of sympathy, had had the further effect of monasticising his young life. And this effect, which had grown into a habit, had been intensified by his narrow circumstances. Everybody knew that John Tincroft was under the cloud of straitened means, and who does not know, or cannot understand, how this evil reputation (according to worldly maxims) inexorably closes one door after another against those who lie under it?

Tincroft, at any rate, had felt it keenly, and it had increased his natural shyness.

The isolation of which we have spoken had favoured him in one respect, however: it had made a hard student of him, which, perhaps, he might not otherwise have been. For, to tell the truth, John Tincroft was not over-bright, though, under the circumstances, which otherwise were in his disfavour, he had thus far, and almost to the end, passed through his college course creditably.

More than this, he had happened to be of some use to Tom Grigson, the hospitalities of whose home he was about to experience. How the young freshman in his first term managed to get into trouble with the authorities of the university, and how the older and remarkably quiet fellow-collegian was accidentally, but fortunately, able to help him out of it; how the two thereafter formed a kind of friendly acquaintance; how Tincroft aided Grigson in his attempts at scaling some of the lower heights of Parnassus; how, in return, the younger occasionally enticed the elder to the Minor dissipations of a boating trip to Nuneham, a scamper to Woodstock on hired hacks, a stroll to Wytham strawberry gardens—(are they there still, I wonder?)—or a cricket match on Bullingdon Green, must be left to another pen or another time.

Once, I grieve to say, the volatile Tom induced the sober John to a surreptitious badger-draw in Bagley Wood, where they had "capital sport," as Tom averred; and on another occasion—but this is a secret—the two started off, under shelter of a winter evening, to the neighbouring town of Abingdon to witness the débût of a young actress at a temporary theatre there, the severe morality of Oxford forbidding stage-plays within the precincts of the sacred university town; and once, only once, the recluse was entrapped by his tempter into the revelries of a wine-party—once was enough, for, as the due punishment of his sin, poor Tincroft had a splitting headache which lasted him three days. All this, in more minute detail, must remain untold.

To compensate for these occasional outbreaks, it is only fair to say that the influence of the steadier gownsman was often exerted in keeping his more mercurial friend from mischief, and in prompting him to a decent attention to his studies. An assurance of this fact from Tom Grigson himself had been the procuring cause of invitation to Grigson Manor House, which was presided over by the head of the family—Tom's elder brother.

Portmanteaus, trunks, boxes, and carpet bags were heaped on the roof of the Tally-ho. There was a huge mountain of them, for some dozen or two gownsman were "going down" that day on this particular coach, and dozens more would follow on the morrow, and more morrows after that. And so with all other coaches going out of the university city on those days and every succeeding day till the old colleges were empty.

From the Angel, up the High Street, by Carfax, along the New Road, over the Botley bridges, on and on the coach rattled merrily, with John Tincroft and Tom Grigson among its passengers. It was early morning when they started from Oxford; evening was drawing on when they were safely deposited with their luggage at the town on the old coach road nearest to their destination. There the dog-cart from the Manor House received them, and in another hour they were safely landed, had performed their ablutions, changed their dusty travelling attire, and were doing justice to the late dinner specially prepared for their benefit.

The shy, awkward gownsman had no reason to complain of his reception. His host was a bluff, good-natured bachelor, older than his brother Tom by a dozen years or more. He prided himself on being a country gentleman of the good old school, without any nonsense about him (which, however, sometimes implies a good deal of that commodity); and the hearty welcome he gave to the invited guest was none the less agreeable, perhaps, for being rough and homely as well as sincere.

"You'll have to take us as we are," said Mr. Richard Grigson: "all I can say is that this is Liberty Hall."

And so it was Liberty Hall. It was a pleasant change for John Tincroft, who, as we have said, had never known what it was to have a comfortable home of his own. The Manor House was a large, rambling old place, something between a mansion and a farmhouse, with plenty of rooms in it, well furnished with old-fashioned furniture. There was one room with a cheerful aspect, overlooking a pretty flower garden, and bookcases lining its walls: it was the library of the old house. Tincroft sat there from day to day—one hour with Tom Grigson reading, and as many hours as he pleased by himself, studying for his vocation in the East, till he almost forgot that he was "under a cloud."

Richard Grigson was a good specimen of his class, and a good match for his house. He was half farmer, half idler. He was rich, so he had no need to work; was strong in constitution and active in habits, so he was a sportsman. He shot in shooting season, hunted in hunting season, and thought it a waste of time to read much beyond the daily and weekly papers and a sporting magazine. Add to this, Richard Grigson was reckoned a fair sort of landlord by his numerous tenants—small farmers mostly—so long as they paid their rents with tolerable punctuality. We shall, however, know more about him by-and-by.

As to Tom Grigson, the collegian, he would very well have liked to be as idle and active as his brother; but the fates were against him, as he would have said. He was a younger brother, with only a younger brother's portion—a very small one; and needs must that he would have to work for his living, in some respectable and gentlemanly way, of course, but still to work. So he had consented to go to college, to learn how to do it, or how not to do it, as the case might be.

To tell the truth, Tom was not much more studiously inclined than his elder brother. At any rate, he did not see the fun of poring over books in vacation time, when he could be on horseback half the day, and lounging the other half of it to his heart's content. Very soon, therefore, John Tincroft had the library to himself, and worked away with his Oriental studies.

"This will never do, Tincroft," said his host to him one day, two or three weeks after his arrival; "you are positively wearing yourself to skin and bone with your books and all the rest of it."

"Am I?" said John, glancing nervously at his nether extremities, and feeling his arm above the elbow. "No, I don't think I am, though," he added, in so serious a tone that his friend laughed.

"I didn't mean to alarm you, old fellow; and now I look at you again, you have some muscle left, though none too much. But come, you must follow Tom's example—the idle scamp—and lay aside your books for a while. They'll wait for you; they won't run away from you, I'll warrant."

"But I shall have to run away from them soon," returned John, gravely.

"So much the better, for anything I can see to the contrary. A jolly time you will have of it when you get out to India; tiger-hunting, elephant-riding, and all that sort of thing. Do you know, I half envy you!"

"You forget fever and sunstroke and snakes, and all that sort of thing," retorted the guest. "And even the tigers you speak of—supposing such a thing as a tiger-hunt for me, which isn't likely—but even they have claws and teeth."

"I must give up India, then," said Grigson. "But seriously, friend, your shutting yourself up in this room all day—" they were in the library—"when you might be enjoying yourself out and about, is good neither for body nor mind."

"I must work, you know, Mr. Grigson," returned John.

"No doubt: so must we all, I suppose. But that doesn't mean that we are never to do anything else. 'All work and no play,' you know, 'makes Jack a—' I beg your pardon, though; I didn't mean that you are 'a dull boy,' though you are Jack. But come, you must shut up for once. We are going to drive over to the Mumbles. I have some business to do with Elliston; and Tom wants to introduce you to the ladies there—Jane and Kitty. By the way, if you could get hold of one of them, Tincroft, you might burn your books and stop in England. And why shouldn't you?"

"I shall never marry. I have no vocation that way. If I were independent, I might; but what's the use of talking? No, thank you, Grigson, I would rather be excused the Mumbles."

"You must do something of the sort, or where is the use of having a holiday? By the way, next week, Tuesday, we have our summer picnic; all the tenants that like to come, and their families; wives, daughters, sons, lovers, and all the rest of that sort of thing. You'll join us there, at any rate?"

"What do you mean? I mean, what do you do? Where do you go?" John Tincroft asked dreamily.

"Oh, as to the going, we shan't have to go far. They come to us. We have tables, forms, and chairs out on the lawn; and there's eating and drinking, you may make sure of that; and after that—but you'll see enough of it before it is over. And you must put your books away for that day, at any rate."

"Are your tenants a very noisy set?" asked quiet John.

"Oh, they are not as still as mice, and they don't roar quite so loud as lions. They are a decent set altogether; and with two Oxford men to keep them in order, we shall do. It will be something to amuse you, I dare say."

"I am afraid not," said John, wearily; "but I suppose I must do what you bid me."

"Of course you must," said Richard Grigson.

CHAPTER II.

THE LOVERS' WALK.

LEAVING Tincroft for the present to the hospitalities of the Manor House, we introduce two other actors in our domestic drama. The time is evening; the place, an old-fashioned garden; the date, a year or thereabouts before that of our previous chapter, for necessity is laid upon us to take a retrograde step or two before fairly starting off in our history.

There was a shaded walk in the garden just referred to, which, from time immemorial, had been known as "the lovers' walk." True to this designation, the grass-path was, on the evening of a summer's day, trodden by two lovers, who paced up and down it side by side.

"I don't like this going away from you, Sarah dear, any better than you like it yourself," he said, in a tone half-sorrowful, half-remonstrative.

"What occasion is there for your going away then, Walter?"

She was a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of eighteen, who asked this question. Her eyes were filled with tears as she looked up into her lover's face. It was hard to withstand such a pleading look—so Walter doubtless felt.

"You know the reason why, Sarah," he replied, tremulously; "I have told you, over and over again, that father says there are too many of us at home, eating up all the profits of his small farm, and that one of us boys ought to be getting on at something else, and earning a living for himself."

"I know all that, Walter; but there is no occasion for you to be the one. You are the oldest, and ought to be at home. And we going to be married, too; and that will have to be put off—with such a home as you know I have got! Oh, Walter, Walter, it does not seem as if you loved me much!" Saying this, the now weeping girl threw herself on a rustic seat and sobbed sadly.

What could the lover do but seat himself close by her side and speak soothing words, comforting words, encouraging words, very gently, very lovingly?

But she would not hear him.

"I know why it is; you want to be rid of me now you know that there's nothing to be got by me—that father has no money, and can't pay back what your father lent him, and it's all an excuse your going away to make more room for the rest. Why couldn't George go if somebody must—or Alfred, or James?"

"Sarah, you don't mean what you say—you can't mean what you say."

The words were spoken very gravely, we may be sure, yet not sternly. Walter Wilson was a commonplace man enough—a rough farmerly young man, without much education; but he was tender-hearted and true-hearted, and his love for his cousin was strong. For they were cousins, these two, as well as lovers—the children of two brothers.

Matthew Wilson (Walter's father) and Mark Wilson (Sarah's father) were both farmers in a small way, but they were widely different in character, different also in regard to their home surroundings. Matthew, for instance, had a large family; Mark had but one child, the Sarah of our narrative.

Matthew was hard-working and sober; Mark was idle and dissipated. In spite of his large family, Matthew had prospered, while Mark—who, by the way, had the better farm of the two—had managed to go down in the world, sinking lower and lower, as time went on, into debt and despondency. So it came to pass that, in one particular strait, and with promises of stricter attention to business in future, Mark had been saved from absolute or immediate ruin by the generosity and confidence of his brother, who placed nearly the whole of his hard-earned savings in Mark's hands—and lost them.

Matthew had a hearty affection for his brother, but he liked money too; and it was not in human nature—at least, it was not in his nature to be indifferent to the loss of the four or five hundred pounds which he had lent to Mark when the certainty came home to him that they were lost. In his first paroxysm of vexation, he vowed that, brother or no brother, Mark Wilson should smart for his treachery; and, though he soon cooled down in these thoughts of vengeance, he declared that neither he nor his family should hold any further intercourse with the man who had stripped him of almost every ready-money pound he could call his own.

This, however, was easier said than done. Matthew's eldest son, Walter, was not only in love with, but had been sometime affianced to, his (Walter's) pretty cousin, Mark's daughter, and that with the mutual consent and liking of the parents on either side. And Walter, at any rate, had no thought of visiting the sins of the father upon the innocent girl, and—himself. He even clung with the greater fondness to poor Sarah, who could not be held accountable for her father's misconduct and consequent misfortunes.

Matthew himself acknowledged this; but inwardly determined, if possible, to sever the only remaining link between his unlucky brother and himself; and probably thinking, not unwisely, that such a connection would be a drag to Walter in after-life, he insisted that his own altered circumstances made it necessary that his eldest son should leave home. He did this trusting to the probable chances that absence would, in some way or other, effect the separation which he had no power to compass by absolute authority. But he had a fair reason also for this determination. Walter, of all his sons, was the most fitted to push his way in the world. And, added to this, an old school-fellow and friend had made overtures to him to join him in a distant part of the north country, where he himself was established as a land surveyor.

These explanations given, we return to the two disconsolate lovers.

They were again pacing the shady walk, sorrowful enough; but Sarah's complaining mood had disappeared for the time, and she was listening to the hopeful pleadings of her lover. What lover is not hopeful? Can love be without hope?

"It won't be long, darling. Two years will soon pass away, and then I am to have a share in Ralph's business. We shall be sure to get on, for Ralph is a capital fellow, and so clever; and I—well, I can work, you know; and with you, Sarah, to brighten up my prospects, I'll work like a slave, and think nothing of it."

"Dear Walter!"

"The worst of it is, I shall be so far-away that it won't be possible for us to see each other till the two years are gone; but you won't forget me, love?"

"Forget you? Oh, Walter!"

"I know you won't: you are such a darling, you know, to remember. And then, when the two years are past and gone—"

"It is a long time to look forward to, Walter," sighed the young lady. "I shall be quite an old woman by that time."

"An old woman of twenty! What shall I be then? But we won't make a trouble of that: only say that you'll try to keep up a good heart. Courage, my pet, and all will turn out well in the end. And as to this move, I don't know that it isn't the best thing that could have happened. Farming isn't much without plenty of money to carry it on; and if a fellow like me hasn't got money, his knowing how to work on a farm doesn't help him much. He is nothing better than a day-labourer. So, Sarah dear, give me a kiss, and say 'tis all right."

And so the lovers parted that evening.

The next morning, Walter was travelling far-away—every mile widening the distance between him and all that his heart held dear.

Walter Wilson was not a hero exactly; but he had some good stuff in him, for all that. He was, at any rate, sturdy, honest, persevering, and affectionate. All that is necessary to say for him in this chapter, however, is that he reached his destination in due course, joined his friend Ralph, and entered with a good deal of energy on his new line of life. Here, for the present, we leave him.

Poor Sarah, his cousin and affianced wife, had a more trying ordeal to pass through. Her home was not a happy one. Her father was now as often in liquor as sober, and, in whichever state, he was dissatisfied and quarrelsome.

Her mother had never been very managing as a farmer's wife, and what qualifications she once possessed, had long since been abandoned. The cloud that hung over her household was so dark and threatening that she could see no light breaking through it, and she had become hopeless. Worse than this, the habit which had ruined the husband in health and circumstances was insensibly gaining ground upon the wife. She drank secretly, and was for days together incapable of conducting her family affairs. Then, waking up to a sense of her degradation, she made feeble and unsuccessful efforts to "set things to rights."

This was bad enough for the daughter, who had neither strength of body nor mental capacity to cope with surrounding difficulties; and who, now that Walter was gone, had no one to encourage or comfort her. For she was at feud with Walter's family.

Her uncle Matthew looked coldly upon her. Her aunt treated her as if she were a puppet or a doll—so she said—when they met, which was not very often, but it sometimes could not be avoided; for Mrs. Matthew now and then looked in to see how Mr. and Mrs. Mark were getting on, and to report at home what she saw and heard. And these reports served only to widen the breach between the two brothers and their households.

As to her cousins, George, Alfred, and James, they plainly made it to be understood that they considered their brother Walter a fool for tying himself up to "a helpless bit of goods" like Sarah, though she was his cousin and theirs. And they were naturally enough bitter against their uncle Mark for having made off with so much of their father's cash.

All this was hard upon Sarah. Of course, if she had been made of the stuff of which heroines are supposed to be formed, she would have risen above all discouragements. But she was not a heroine. She was merely a farmer's daughter, poorly educated, but fond, and, we must add, feeble also, with no particularly vivid apprehension of the sterner duties of life, and with no very strong principle to help her on in a course of self-denial and self-sacrifice, should this be needed. She knew, however, or thought, that she loved Walter, and she had full faith in his fidelity.

One of Sarah's greatest trials was in the unkindness of her cousin Elizabeth, Walter's sister. With only a year difference in their ages, the two girls had been very close and intimate companions from childhood; and till within a year or two of the date of our history, their friendship had been unbroken. And it was Elizabeth who had been, first of all, the secret prompter of the engagement between the cousins, and then the private go-between of the two lovers until that engagement was ratified by the higher powers. Now, however, all old associations were severed; and Elizabeth, as Sarah well knew, had employed all her skill, though unsuccessfully as yet, to induce her brother Walter to break off the match which she prophesied would be an unhappy one.

Thus completely alienated from her former friends, and more sinned against than sinning, with an unhappy home, and more required of her in domestic duties than she had power to accomplish, poor Sarah Wilson would have given way to utter hopelessness but for the bright vision of Walter and the happy home—in nubibus; where we must leave her, while we take up the former thread of our drama.

CHAPTER III.

THE PICNIC.

AS bright a day as could be desired opened upon Richard Grigson's picnic. Determined that for one day at least his recluse guest should be drawn out of his shell, the hospitable master of the Manor House declared himself unequal to the task of making preparation for his visitors without John Tincroft's help. So the morning was occupied in setting out tables, forms, and chairs on the lawn, in daintily dressing up bowers, and, finally, in drawing up a programme for the evening's entertainment.

"Are you much of a cricketer, Tincroft?" demanded the squire.

"I detest the game," said John, heartily, remembering a stunning blow he had received from a cricket-ball on Bullingdon Green.

"That's capital. Then, while Tom and I are at it with the young fellows, you will have to take care of the ladies."

"Worse and worse!" exclaimed the guest, in sore dismay. "Your brother knows I am not a ladies' man."

"The more's the pity," said the remorseless squire; "and the more reason why you should begin to be."

"But, my dear friend—"

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Tincroft," put in Tom, who rather enjoyed the perplexity of his college friend. "There will be only a score or two of old women and a few pretty girls. And if you don't succeed in amusing them, they will amuse you, and themselves too, I daresay."

"If they can't do that, they will fare badly, I am afraid," said John, disconsolately, wishing himself for the time safe back in his Oxford rooms.

"We shall have the parson here to help you out," continued Mr. Grigson.

"And to keep you out of mischief," added Tom, laughing.

With a heavy heart John Tincroft at length took refuge in the library, anathematising all picnics in general, and this one in particular; by the time the dinner-bell sounded, he was deep in his Oriental studies.

It was an early dinner; but before it was well over, the invited guests began to arrive, and were spreading themselves over the lawn in detached groups, or were wandering in the gardens, that day thrown open to them. An hour later, they were clustering round the tables. An hour later still, the wickets were pitched in an adjoining meadow to which the host and his brother and the young tenant-farmers had adjourned; while the fair sex, with a sprinkling of the older men, were devising other means of employing the next two or three hours of the evening.

Among these, in company with Mr. Rubric, the grey-headed clergyman of the parish, John Tincroft walked about uneasily. Under the protection of the reverend gentleman, however, he managed not only to keep down his natural shyness, and to conceal his awkwardness, but to make mental notes of the, to him, strange society into which he found himself thrown.

Especially his attention was drawn towards a remarkably pretty young woman (so he thought her), who, seated at one of the tables a little apart from the rest, was pouring out tea—for the tea-things had not yet been removed—for an elderly couple, the only other remaining occupants of the half-dozen or more seats at that particular table. The young person was rather smartly dressed; and under her bonnet, which was redundant of pink satin bows, shone out, as John believed, the brightest pair of blue eyes it had ever been his fate to encounter. Perhaps it was the previous exercise in the open air, or it might have been the exertion of tea-making and tea-drinking, or it might even have been the consciousness of having attracted the attention of the gentleman from Oxford; but, from whatever cause, a bewitching blush overspread her cheek, and mantling there, took refuge under the fair, glossy hair which hung low down so as half to conceal an alabaster neck in delicious curls, for so John apostrophised both neck and curls in his foolish thoughts.

It is not to be supposed that the Oxonian had more than a hasty glance, for this first time, of the rustic beauty. His natural shyness indeed would have cut still shorter even this brief observation, if the clergyman by his side had not halted at the table to make two or three commonplace remarks to the elderly pair, who seemed not particularly gracious in their replies.

Accordingly he, still accompanied by his friend from Oxford, passed on to another group some distance off; at another table. Here the pair were more pleasantly received, and an invitation was given to them to take seats which, as in the other instance, had been vacated. The invitation was accepted.

"There's a cup of tea or two left in the bottom of the pot," said an oldish lady who had officiated; "and there's clean cups and saucers, and there's lots of cake."

"The boys were in such a hurry to get away to the cricketing," added a farmerly man at her elbow, "that they forgot what they came here for, I think."

While these and other compliments were passing, and after being introduced to the hearty speakers, John Tincroft noticed that this group consisted also of three individuals—apparently, as in the former instance, father, mother, and daughter. Singularly enough, also, there was considerable resemblance between the two men at either table. They were both elderly, grizzled, and weather-worn. Their countenances were alike in form and feature, though remarkably different in expression; and even the tones of their voices were similar. The females, however, of this table presented a striking contrast to those of the other: the mother, if she were the mother, being stout and red-checked, whereas the elderly woman in the other instance was thin and pallid; while the daughter, if she were the daughter, was coarse and hard-featured, with hands which might, as John opined, have been accustomed to grasping the stilts of a plough, or wielding a flail upon occasion.

"And your eldest son Walter—you hear from him sometimes, I suppose, Mr. Wilson? I hope he is getting on in his new profession," said the clergyman, when one or two other topics of conversation had been exhausted.

"Oh, bravely, sir. Ralph Burgess and Walter yoke together uncommon. Their business is brisk, and Ralph says as how Walter takes to it like anything."

"He has not been home to see you since he left, a year ago or more, I think?"

"No, he hasn't," said the farmer; "he is a longish way off, you see, sir."

"True."

"And a good thing too," said Mrs. Wilson, sharply.

"Indeed, my good friend; now I should have thought you would have been glad for him to have been nearer you, so that you might—"

"Better away," said the mother, interrupting her pastor.

"Dear me!" he ejaculated, quietly.

"You see, sir," interposed the husband, "we should be glad enough to see Walter; but there's others, leastways there's another, would be glad enough too. And that's what we don't want."

"And don't mean, if we can help it," added the young woman, who had not hitherto spoken; and the natural hue of her cheeks glowed with a deeper, darker colour.

"Ah! I understand," said the clergyman, rather reprovingly, or so it seemed to John. "You mean that you wish to break off his connection with his cousin," he looked towards the other table as he spoke; "but is this quite right, Mrs. Wilson? Do you think it is, friend Matthew?"

"Walter shan't marry Sarah if we can hinder him, right or wrong," exclaimed the young woman, fiercely.

"Fie, fie, Miss Elizabeth!" the meek clergyman interposed.

"I am not wanted here, I think," said the shy Oxford man to himself, when he had heard enough to understand that a family matter was in danger of being discussed. Accordingly, he slipped away from the table, and wandered without his guide to another part of the lawn.

By this time the tables on the lawn were for the most part deserted, and the greater number of the tea-drinkers had strolled into the cricketing meadow—the old farmers to criticise the play of the juniors, and to compare the puny strokes and new-fangled bowling of modern Toms, Dicks, and Bills, with those of former cricketers in the good old times when they themselves also knew how to handle a bat. The young maidens went to watch and admire their lovers and brothers as they increased the score of runs.

The lawn was not altogether left desolate, however, and Tincroft noticed that the first trio of whom we have spoken still lingered at the table where he and the rector had left them. I do not know whether or not his curiosity was quickened by the evident reference he had just heard to the pretty girl at that board, or whether it arose from the strange and unaccustomed sensation his accidental glance had awakened in his breast; but certain it is that before he had been alone many minutes, he was steering his course towards the group. Not a straight course either; but by repeated tacks, and as though he were unaware of his own intention, he presently arrived within eyeshot of the pretty flaxen curls, the alabaster neck, and the bright eyes of the fair object of his admiration—yet not near enough to attract special attention.

If he had not been shy and awkward, nothing of course would have been easier than to have gone boldly up to the table and, under cover of being the friend and guest of the squire, making acquaintance with the elderly couple; and thus have gazed his fill at the beauty by their side. This feat was too daring to be attempted, however; and it answered his purpose quite as well, probably, to gaze at the fair Dulcinea at a safer distance.

The tea-drinking was over at that table as elsewhere; and now John Tincroft was sorely troubled to see that the pretty girl was crying. That is, he judged as much, for a handkerchief was repeatedly used as though to wipe away the tears which he was too far-off to discern. He was not too far, however, to hear angry tones from the farmer, either seconded or answered by shrill objurgations on the part of his wife, and apparently directed towards the weeping girl.

"I wish I knew what to do," muttered John to himself; "but there, what have I to do with it? What's come over me, I wonder?"

Leaving this question unanswered, John walked slowly away; but either unable to resist the fascination which had "come over" him, or moved by a chivalric desire to protect the damsel, if need were, he presently retraced his steps, venturing nearer this time, though partially concealed from view under the foliage of an old chestnut tree, at the foot of which was a rustic seat.

"I have a right to be here," quoth John, inwardly; "and if people choose to talk loud enough in other people's grounds to be overheard, it is no fault of mine."

If Mr. John had cared (which he did not) to hear the dispute, he was baulked, for the conversation had by this time subsided. He saw plainly enough, though, that the girl was in some kind of distress, and he partly guessed the reason when he observed that her father's face was flushed, and that he was, with unsteady hand, pouring out into a tea-cup some transparent fluid from a flask he had drawn from his pocket. He had evidently had recourse to this before, and was again raising the cup to his lips when a voice from some distance caused him to hold his hand and look round.

Tincroft looked too in the direction of the voice, and saw his friend the clergyman, with Farmer Wilson and his wife within a dozen yards of the table. It was Wilson who had spoken. He spoke again when he came nearer.

"So you are at it again, Mark," said he, angrily, and looking the other in the face. "If you must be getting drunk," he added, snatching the cup out of the drinker's hand, and dashing out its contents on to the greensward, "you might at least have the decency to do it at home, and not come here making a show of yourself, and disgracing your kith and kin."

"And so I've been telling him, and so has Sarah," cried Mrs. Mark; "but he wouldn't heed us—you know you wouldn't, Mark," said she, deprecatingly.

By this time the unhappy man, whom our readers will before now have recognised, was on his feet, and giving vent to ebullitions of rage against his wife, his daughter, his brother, and all and sundry besides. And it was plain to Tincroft that the poor miserable man had made such bad use of his time and his gin-flask since tea as to be unsteady alike on his legs and in his speech.

The quarrel might have heightened to a disturbance had not the peace-making clergyman interfered, by replying to the thickly-spoken demand of Mark to his brother—"What business is it of yours what I do or don't do, Matthew? What right have you to come prying about like a sneak, as you are?"

"Gently, gently, friend," said the rector; "and you, Mr. Matthew, don't answer your brother, for 'grievous words stir up strife,' you know, and 'a brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city.' It was I, Mr. Mark, who persuaded your brother and sister to come and speak to you and Mrs. Mark here. I told them that it would not look well if it were known that you were all at this pleasant holiday party, and should go away without having passed a word with each other. I am sorry now that I interfered."

"Oh, never mind, sir, never mind," said the sober brother; "Mark knows that I know that there's nothing new in this. As good a fellow as ever lived, sir, till he took to drinking; and now—there, the least said the soonest mended."

And saying this, Matthew Wilson took his wife by the arm and walked slowly away, leaving Mr. Rubric to make what impression he might upon the unhappy brother.

Meanwhile, as John Tincroft had seen from under the chestnut tree, the pretty daughter of Mark had vanished from the scene; and coincidently with this, all his interest in it was over. He noticed only that his friend the clergyman sat down by Mark's side, and seemed to be giving him a quiet lecture, which was listened to, or rather received, in stolid silence; and that afterwards, Mark and his wife retreated through the gate of the Manor House grounds into the high road, so that he saw them no more at that time.

Then, seeing that the rector was walking towards the cricket-field, he followed, and joined company, arriving at the ground just as his college friend Tom Grigson was bowled out, after an innings of an hour, and having made forty runs for his score.

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE GROTTO.

JOHN TINCROFT soon got tired of the cricket ground, and retraced his steps to the now deserted lawn. The sun was near setting, but it was shining hotly nevertheless; and the poor student, wearied with his day's exertions, and somewhat perturbed in spirit as well, betook himself to a cool grotto in a remote part of the grounds, which Richard Grigson had had constructed for his own especial pleasure.

The grotto was not only cool, but secluded. It was built of rough stones, after the manner of an ancient ruin, only, unlike ruins in general, it was snugly roofed in, and was weather-tight. It consisted of two chambers, the inner one—which was accessible from the outer by a low archway—being fitted up with some regard to comfort. Among the accessories were a soft couch and a rough rustic table; also a locker, in which were the materials, if required, for the creature enjoyments of smoking and so forth.

Tincroft was not a smoker, nor did he care at that time for treating himself hospitably, though a half-emptied bottle of pale sherry end a tumbler might have tempted one who was so inclined. As it was, he merely stretched himself comfortably on his friend's couch, wondering what pleasure could be found in entertaining a parcel of rustics, and thinking that the life of a country gentleman, and a landlord to boot, was not without its drawbacks, till his memory went back to the pretty girl in pink bows and fair curls, and his own disconsolate condition.

Finally, he dropped off into a sound slumber, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot."

Was it a dream? It seemed like one; and yet, when the sleeper lazily roused himself, and half raised himself on his elbow, something like the following dialogue fell upon his ear.

It should be noted that by this time the sun had disappeared below the horizon, and the fast gathering twilight was, within the walls of the grotto or hermitage, intensified into a deeper gloom. The voices came through the low archway, and the speakers, whomsoever they might be, had evidently taken up their positions in the outer chamber.

"And now we have come together, we don't part, miss, till I have told you a bit of my mind." The voice of this speaker was firm and strong and rough, though feminine. To whom it belonged, the unintentional listener could only guess. He had heard the same voice, however, in almost equally harsh and loud tones, that same afternoon.

"It is very cruel of you, Elizabeth, to treat me so," was said in reply, by another female speaker, and, as it seemed to John, in piteous remonstrance. At any rate, the tones had a musical softness and pathos which smote upon the listener's heart.

"It isn't cruel," said the first speaker; "it is only straightforward and honest, and that is what I mean to be."

"Such friends as we used to be, Elizabeth," sobbed the second interlocutor.

"And may be again, if you will only be sensible, and give up Walter, as you ought to do."

"I won't, I won't, I won't!" cried the weaker one. "And to think of your wanting me to do this, when you were the first to—to—to make him fall in love with me."

"I didn't do anything of the sort," rejoined the other, promptly; "and if I did," she added with a little inconsistency and self-contradiction, "it was when we were both children, and I did not know any better."

"And you are grown wiser since then, cousin—do you mean to say that?" asked the harassed one, with a little more spirit than before—for which John applauded her in his heart. He understood it all now.

"Yes, I am grown wiser, miss," replied Elizabeth. "I didn't know then how your father was robbing my father and all of us."

"It isn't robbing. Father borrowed the money, and if he could pay it back, he would; and if he can't, he can't."

"And why can't he? What's he always getting drunk for? That isn't the way to get on, and to pay his debts, I reckon; is it? And your mother, too—"

"I won't hear you talk like that—I won't; no, I won't!" cried the unhappy girl, desperately. "Let me go, Elizabeth."

There seemed then, to Tincroft, as though there were a slight scuffle; but while he hesitated whether or not to make his presence known by some audible token, it ceased, and the conversation was resumed.

"There, there, I didn't mean to hurt you, Sarah," were the first words spoken, and in response, as it appeared, to the pantings and hysterical sobs of the weaker girl—"and I don't believe I have. But I have not said what I had to say to you, and I mean to say it."

"You may say what you like now, Elizabeth."

"I don't mean to say anything more about uncle Mark and aunt," the other went on; "because I know as well as you do, that you can't help that. And you and I might be as good friends as ever, Sarah, if you would only be sensible, as I said before, and see things as you ought. Now look, dear—"

(Oh, thought John Tincroft, in his concealment—dear, too! When women begin to call one another dear, it looks ominous. So I have heard. Not that I know anything about it. How should I?)

"Now, look, dear; you know you can't be Walter's wife—"

"I don't know anything of the sort," said Sarah.

"Not for a long time, not for years and years, if ever."

"I'll wait, and so will he," replied the poor baited girl, bravely; but with a perceptible tremulousness of voice, nevertheless.

"Ah, you think so now; but I know better. I won't say anything about you, dear; but I know Walter better than you do. He made up to you because you took his fancy. But such fancies don't last long. Look at Mr. Elliston, of the Mumbles; he was all hot for Miss Summerfield, as you know. But he didn't have her, not he. He saw somebody richer, and so he turned off his Laura—and glad enough she is of it now. And it will be just the same with Walter and you."

"You can go on, and say what you like," said Sarah, panting for breath.

John Tincroft began to feel more uncomfortable in being the involuntary hearer of all this family difference.

"Yes, I mean to, Sarah," continued the stronger-minded cousin. "It will be just the same with Walter, I say. Why, there's Miss Burgess, Mary Burgess he calls her, Ralph Burgess's sister, who keeps house for her brother—you should read what Walter writes about her."

"It isn't true—it isn't!" almost screamed the tortured girl. "It's all stories you are telling, you good-for-nothing thing, you!"

"And she has got money," the torturer went on, without noticing the contradiction, or caring for the agony she might possibly be inflicting; "and why shouldn't Walter have it?"

"Let him have it—let him!" cried poor Sarah.

"That's what I say, dear; let him have it. Why shouldn't he? I declare if I was in your place, I should write and tell him so at once. I think it would be very selfish in you to try to keep him dangling after you when he has the chance of bettering himself. Don't you see it in that light, dear?"

"Have you got anything more to say, Elizabeth?" asked the other, faintly.

"No, I think that's pretty much all I have to say now."

"Then please go, and let me alone. Go, go!" she added, more vehemently.

And then there was a sound of departing footsteps faintly echoing in the inner grotto, and reaching John's ears. Then followed a low wailing cry, and after that there was silence.

How long the involuntary eavesdropper remained in concealment after the conversation ended, he never exactly knew, for strange thoughts and feelings rushed unbidden into his mind and made him oblivious to the flight of time. From these meditations, whatever their import, he was presently roused by distant shouts which proclaimed that the cricket match in the meadow was concluded, and that the players, with the spectators, were returning to the lawn.

Not caring to be missed at the breaking up of the party, Tincroft roused himself from his lair and prepared to leave the grotto. And then he was surprised to find how rapidly the shades of evening had drawn on, so that even the entrance chamber, which opened upon the lawn, was in semi-darkness.

It was not so wrapped in gloom, however, but that while rapidly passing through it, his steps were suddenly arrested by what at first appeared to be a bundle of white clothes in an angle close to the doorway.

In another moment he had made a further discovery, which turned back his thoughts to the conversation he had overheard, and quickened the current of blood in his veins. In yet another moment, he was clumsily but anxiously endeavouring to raise the insensible form of the poor girl from whose lips had broken the low wail of distress which had just now fallen so sorrowfully on his ear.

Succeeding at last in his endeavours to raise the young person, and to place her in a reclining position, John looked around him for help. It was plain that she had fainted, and it was necessary that some means should be adopted for her restoration. But there was no help at hand: the grotto was, as we have said, in a distant as well as secluded part of the pleasure-grounds; and the company were, as Tincroft knew, now gathering together into the hall of the Manor House for the parting cup and their host's hearty farewell.

There was no one near the grotto, therefore, and had there been, John Tincroft would, naturally enough, considering his inbred shyness, have shrunk from exposing himself to probable jokes, if not to unjust suspicion, by his merely accidental proximity to, and discovery of, the fainting damsel.

Driven then to his own unaided resources, John bethought him of untying the bonnet strings, which evidently impeded the free circulation of blood in the swollen veins. So far, good. Then the clumsy fingers, trembling a little at their unaccustomed task, loosened a kerchief which was fastened round the unconscious girl's neck with a gaudy brooch. These operations seemed to give some little relief, for a gentle sigh was heard; still the eyes remained half closed, and there was no further sign of returning animation.

"What shall I do next?" muttered John, in perplexity. "I have heard that cutting the stay laces—but that will never do. Ah! I have it," he said, as a sudden thought seized him, and in less time than it takes to tell, he had dived under the low archway into the cool retreat, and as speedily reappeared, bearing in his hand a half-tumbler of the precious hoard from Richard Grigson's locker. Filling it up with cold water, he moistened the lips of the poor girl with the liquid, and then, by slow degrees, insinuated the edge of the tumbler between them, himself trembling the while still more violently, as though he were perpetrating an awful crime.

"If Tom or anybody were to find me at this sort of work, I should never hear the last of it," he murmured.

But for all his craven fears, he did not desist in his endeavours till a half-choking, gurgling sound in the poor girl's throat warned him that it was time to withdraw the tumbler from her lips, and to devise some other method, if he could, for calling back the lost senses. Happily for the clumsy nurse, before he could proceed to further extremities, the damsel began to breathe more freely; then the closed eyes opened, and, finally, an outbreak of hysterical cries and a flood of tears proclaimed that the long fainting fit was over.

"Oh! Where am I? What has been happening?" asked Sarah, wildly, when she found herself half-reclining against the wall of the hermitage, and half-supported by the arm of a stranger.

John Tincroft briefly explained that he had accidentally found her on the floor of the grotto, and in what state; and that he had, as far as lay in his power, enacted the part of the Good Samaritan. He did not think it necessary to add that he had heard the previous conversation of the two cousins.

It was very kind of him, then, the maiden said, and she was afraid she had given him a great deal of trouble.

"A great pleasure to be of any use to you, I am sure," stammered John, scarcely knowing what he said, and whether he ought not now to draw in the arm and shoulder against which the patient was yet leaning.

She saved him the trouble by staggering in a frightened way to her feet, and adjusting her bonnet strings, and then by making an effort to step into the outer air. It was beyond her strength, however, and she sank back on to the bench from which she had before risen, once more crying violently.

Again John was at his wits' ends; but as his remedy had previously been successful, there was nothing better to do, he thought, than to replenish the tumbler.

"You had better drink a little of this," said he, once more by her side.

The damsel obeyed.

"And then, when you are able to walk, I will—You don't live far from here, I suppose?" continued John, as he stood watching her.

By this time the restorative had produced its effect, and the rustic beauty's colour had partially returned to her cheeks.

"I live at High Beech Farm," said she; "and it is time I was there. My father and mother went home long ago, and—oh, dear!"

She was once more on her feet, and anxiously looking out at the darkening landscape.

"It is a fine evening," said John; "and I'll—yes, if you will accept my help, I'll walk home with you. You are not well enough to be by yourself. You might have another fit on the road, you know. You must take my arm, and I'll see you safe, miss."

CHAPTER V.

THE MAELSTROM.

IN some part of the world, no matter where, is said to be a terrible whirlpool, which engulfs all sea-going craft which come within its influence. At certain states of the tide, we are told, this whirlpool is no whirlpool, but a tranquil though deceitful sea. Gradually, however, as the tide changes, the waves rise high, their circular movement commences, and woe then to the stoutest ship ever built, if driven by the winds, or lucklessly steered near the outer circumference of its vortex. Once within the fatal attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and carried down, and beaten to pieces against the rocks below.

Something like this is sometimes known to happen in the experiences of poor humanity. Not exactly, for no man is driven by irresistible force, despite his own will, to inevitable destruction, nor even into folly. However, as neither figures, similes, nor parables ever run upon all-fours, nor ever will, it is enough to say that there is a maelstrom of the passions in human life which does often draw the unthinking or unresisting mariner out of his course, and sometimes woefully shatters his barque. Happy are they who have wisdom to avoid even the appearance of evil!

Happiest of all when they have Divine grace given them in all their ways to acknowledge Him who is the source of wisdom, and to seek His direction and pilotage.

There were no more Oriental studies for John Tincroft now, or at most they were few and far between, unless indeed, he cultivated them in his walks between the Manor House and High Beech Farm.

Of course he had walked home on the evening of the picnic with the distressed damsel whom he had taken under his protection.

"What else, as a gentleman, could I do?" said the clumsy fellow, when afterwards rallied by his host and his college friend on the adventures of that night, which he was, sorely against his will, compelled partly to recount, to account for his late return.

He did not think it necessary, however, to tell how the maiden had, innocently enough—have I not said that Sarah was not gifted with superfluous intellect and strength of mind, and was as little of a heroine as was ever to be found in a true story or out of it?—so she had innocently enough, in that slow and faltering walk to High Beech Farm, disclosed to John the immediate cause of her fainting fit. Not that John had not in part known it before; but his indignation was roused against the poor girl's persecutors (as she deemed them), all and sundry, as they reached his ear through the medium of her soft and plaintive voice. Ah! John Tincroft, you are on the margin of the maelstrom now; but you do not know it.

Of course, when they reached the farmhouse, John was hesitatingly invited to step in and rest himself, which he did not do, however, for which Sarah was thankful, perhaps, when she found her father in one of his fits of drunken ill-humour, and ready to quarrel with anybody who came in his way. After this invitation, however, it seemed the more incumbent on the awkward youth, who had the instincts of a gentleman for all that, to step over the next morning to ask after the health and welfare of his "partner."

As the fates would have it—the expression is no doubt heathenish, as there are no such things or principles as the fates—as accident, then—and this is almost as bad, but let it pass—accidentally, then, Mark Wilson was within, and (a rare thing for him) happened to be in a good humour. He made "the gentleman from college" welcome, took him over his small farm, insisted on his staying to lunch, treated him to some home-brewed, which John thought execrable, but did not say so; and, finally, invited him to come again as often as it pleased him.

After that it did please John Tincroft to repeat his visits every day. Sometimes, he found Mark in the sulks, and sometimes he did not. Occasionally, he noticed a peculiar thickness and hesitancy in the farmer's speech (which he attributed to a severe cold in his head and throat, and John believed it); and then, on the next occasion, he seemed to have recovered from the distressing complaint.

Sometimes John—the infatuated youth—found Sarah deep in domestic duties, which never, however, prevented his obtaining a glimpse of her pretty face, and her pretty hands, which, if they were floury and pasty, he admired all the more for having been usefully employed.

Sometimes, he found the maiden free, and at liberty to receive him in the little shabbily-furnished parlour, where, seated on a high-backed slippery-seated mahogany, horse-haired chair, he could equally admire those pretty fingers, armed with a darning-needle and worsted thread, working in and out, in the intricacies of a stocking-web. At these times our hero, who was as little guilty of being a hero as the silently admired one was of the slightest approach to a heroine, enacted to perfection the part of the Laird of Dumbiedykes (if my readers have ever heard of such a personage). Who can doubt, though, that the maelstrom current was getting powerful now?

"And oh, Walter," wrote Sarah Wilson to her distant cousin and lover (I must correct the bad spelling and false English)—"oh, Walter, there is such a funny man comes hanging about here. His name is Tincroft, and he came to these parts with young Mr. Grigson from Oxford College, and he is up at the Manor House for all the long holidays. That isn't what they call it, though. I forget what the word is, but that's what it means. And father has taken a fancy to Mr. Tincroft, and brings him here every day, and sometimes twice a day, and more than that. And he takes him over the farm, and brings him in to lunch very often, and tea sometimes, and you cannot think what a stupid he is, though he is a college gentleman; and they say he is going over to India soon to hunt tigers. He hunts tigers, too! I should say he has never hunted a fox yet, nor yet a rat."

"You should only see him—Mr. Tincroft, I mean—when he comes in, and stops an hour, and sometimes more, and father isn't in the way, and poor mother is lying down, as you know she always does in the afternoon, and there's nobody but me to keep him company. You would laugh to see how he sits and stares, and looks as if he couldn't say Boo to a goose, and is ready to go into fits with our hard-bottomed chairs—I always put the hardest, knobbiest for him, dear; but he seems as if he was stuck to it with glue. You can't think what a donkey he is. But he is to be a rich man some day—so father says he says—if he can get an estate as rightfully belongs to him, only it is locked up in some London law-courts now."

"But what does this all matter to you and me, Walter, dear? Only I sometimes wish we had such a chance of an estate; wouldn't, we," etc. etc. etc.

And then the letter went on in this wise: "We don't get on any better at home, Walter. You know what father is; and poor mother gets weaker and weaker, I think. And as to the farm, it is all going to rack and ruin. Mr. Grigson came in the other day, and had high words with father about it. He said he wouldn't stand having his land kept down in such a ruination state, and that if father wouldn't farm it better, somebody else must be got to do it. And what's worse than this, he said—the squire, I mean—that he must and will have his rent paid up punctual, or he shall distrain. Now I know there has been no rent paid the last year and a half. And what is worse still, I know that father can't pay it. And the squire says that if it isn't paid up by Christmas, there shall be an end of it. Oh, Walter, what are we to do?"

Then the letter further went on: "I have not seen much of uncle Matthew and aunt and cousin lately, and don't want to. I know they are doing all they can to set you against me. And it is too bad of them, Elizabeth and all; but they shan't do it, they shan't—"

I shall spare my readers what follows. There are hundreds of such letters written every day, and will be so long as pen, ink, and paper are to be had for love or money.

Is it travelling out of the regular course of ordinary story-telling to say that Walter Wilson was not altogether pleased with the letter I have just transcribed when he received it? Lovers are naturally suspicious; and Walter did not half like the idea of a young college man from Oxford being always dangling about, and having the range of his own special preserve, as he might have said. Perhaps he was none the less displeased with the contents of the letter for its referring, in a postscript, to a certain Mary Burgess already mentioned; and in a tone of jealousy, too, which the writer had not cared to suppress.

"Sarah knows very well that Mary Burgess is nothing to me," said he bitterly to himself. "But while she keeps house for Ralph, how can I help being sometimes in her company? It is different with her and that puppy Tincroft," he added; "and I am half a mind to write and tell her so."

It would, upon the whole, have been better for Sarah to have left out that postscript, and to have filled up her sheet of letter-paper by telling how she first became acquainted with the shy and awkward collegian. At least, as it afterwards turned out, she laid herself open to additional suspicion by this reticence. We pass this matter by for the present, however.

No doubt the other part of Sarah's letter, as I have transcribed it,—the part, I mean referring to her troubles and apprehensions,—in some degree moved her cousin's sorrow and pity. But he had heard these or similar complaints so often, and he knew so well that the inevitable end could not be very much longer staved off, that they did not produce so much effect upon him as might otherwise have been expected. If eels get so used to skinning that they do not much mind it—which possibly might be the case if the operation could be repeated on the same individual eel—it is equally certain that, after a time, we become accustomed to wails of distress from our friends when often reiterated.

To return to the main branch of our narrative. John Tincroft knew nothing of the commotion he, in his innocence, was causing, and was equally insensible to the fact that the whirlpool beneath his frail bark of human nature was increasing in velocity and deepening. He felt no alarm, therefore, but, contrariwise, rather enjoyed the new sensations springing up within him by the novel quickening of his dull capacity for pleasure, accompanied as this was by his partially laying aside his abstruse researches into Oriental literature. As to those new sensations, he could not have given them a name if he had tried.

To be sure, his friends at the Manor House had given them a name in their daily quizzical, good-natured badinage concerning John's change of habits. But then, as John remarked, it was too preposterous and absurd. As to Tom Grigson, he was always fond of his jokes; and his elder brother did not seem to be far behind him in this respect.

The matter looked more serious, though, when one day about a month after the picnic, John Tincroft, either accidentally or designedly on one part, fell in with the clergyman of whom previous mention has been made. John was returning from one of his morning walks to High Beech Farm when the rencontre took place.

"You are fond of taking exercise, Mr. Tincroft," observed the reverend gentleman.

"I don't know; not particularly, I think, Mr. Rubric," said John, with his accustomed innocent awkwardness. "At least," added he, "not till lately. I have taken more exercise of late, I think."

"And a very good thing too, if taken discreetly. You Oxford men are not always good judges, though, of how and when and where to take it. Do you think you are?"

"I beg pardon, sir," said John; "but I—I don't quite understand you."

"No! May I give you a hint, then, without offence? I am an older man than you, Mr. Tincroft," remarked Mr. Rubric, gravely but good-humouredly.

"I shall be happy, I am sure, and obliged also," answered Tincroft.

"Thank you; then I'll speak. You are coming from High Beech, I see."

"True, sir; yes, I am," said John.

"Don't you think it would be wise occasionally to vary the direction? There are more points of the compass than one."

"I have not thought about it, Mr. Rubric," said John.

"I daresay not. I thought as much, Mr. Tincroft. But will you allow me to suggest that we have some delightful scenery in quite the opposite direction. The One Tree Hill, for instance. Why, you can see seven counties from the summit of that hill—on a fine day, at least."

"Dear me! I wasn't aware of that," said John.

"And another thing," continued the parson; "I should say that High Beech is—ahem!—is, in some respects, unhealthy. I am afraid your constant excursions in that direction are not doing you any good."

"Oh!" said John, with a start, for he was rather fidgety about his health. "Do you really think so? It has never struck me in that light. I fancied I was all the better for taking more exercise. I find I can get over the ground a good deal easier than I could a month ago. And I have a better appetite too. So I am rather surprised to hear you speak of High Beech being unhealthy."

"I must speak out," thought Mr. Rubric to himself. "What a nuisance it is to have to do with men who can't understand metaphors." He did not say this, of course, but went on another tack.

"Mr. Tincroft," said he, "when I was at Oxford, and that is forty years ago, I had a young friend in the same college—I should rather say, hall. I am a Pembroke Hall man. Well, we were very close companions, and I believe we had a strong regard for each other. There came a time, however, when our friendship was to be broken in twain. It came about in this wise. We used to take long walks together, and a favourite walk of ours was to the Hinkseys. You know the Hinkseys, Mr. Tincroft?"

Yes, John knew the Hinkseys, and said so.

"There was a snug little hostelry in one of the Hinkseys, and, as was natural enough in young men in those days, though not over-wise; when we were tired, and hot with walking, we sometimes called in at this village inn for refreshment. I daresay you have done such a thing yourself, now and then, Mr. Tincroft, in your walks round Oxford?"

"I—I can't say that I have, sir," said John, hesitatingly. "Not that I should think it improper," he added, by way of salvo for the grey-headed clergyman; "but the truth is, I don't often take walks round Oxford."

"Ah! That accounts—and—but, at any rate, we did, and, as I tell you, we got too fond of the walk to the Hinkseys, and to dropping in at the little inn. At least, my friend did."

"Ah! I see," remarked John Tincroft, who thought he did see, but he didn't. "Your poor friend got to be too fond of—of what you call refreshments. I am sorry, I am sure."

Mr. Rubric smiled sadly. "That would have been sad enough," he said; "but that was not the rock on which he split. Didn't I say there was a rock? At any rate, there was a pretty innocent-looking young person at that little inn, who officiated as barmaid. There—can you not guess the rest?"

No, John couldn't guess, so he declared.

"We quarrelled about that young person. I told my friend he was going wrong; and we had high words and parted. Poor Frank! He was a high-spirited, noble fellow, and in one way, I wronged him. But he did a foolish thing, for all that. He went again and again. He meant to be honourable, he said; and so he was, to the backbone. He made love to the maiden, and after years and years of waiting, he married her. It was a love match from beginning to end."

"I daresay they were happy, though," said John, dreamily, "and if they were—"

"But they were not. They were ill-assorted, to begin with. Then all Frank's prospects for life were blasted; and, in short, the affair ended miserably. And now, Mr. Tincroft," added the rector, after a short silence, "you must excuse the freedom I have taken in mentioning this old and not very uncommon story to you."

"Oh, certainly, certainly! On the other hand, much obliged," said John; but all the time he couldn't help wondering why the rather precise old clergyman should have brought up this old story, and what in the world it had to do with the unhealthiness of High Beech. While pondering this in his slow mind, his thoughts were broken in upon with—

"If I were you, Mr. Tincroft, I wouldn't go near Beech Farm again."

"Do you really mean on account of its being—"

"Of its being an unhealthy spot for you to ruralise in," said Mr. Rubric, taking up the words. "You don't know what harm you may be doing," he added.

"Harm!"

"Yes, harm. You go there to see Miss Wilson—Sarah Wilson—do you not?"

"Dear me, sir! Not that I am aware of," replied John, aghast.

"Just so. But for all that I am afraid that young lady is the attraction. Now, listen to me. That young—young person is already engaged, as I suppose you are aware."

Yes, John was aware of the fact.

"And people about here are beginning to talk of your constant visits to the farm. You do not wish to do that young person an injury, I am sure."

"An injury to that young person! I beg your pardon, Mr. Rubric; but what could make you think of such a thing?"

"You are doing her an injury, without intending it," said the rector, gravely.

And then he went on to tell (what John already knew) of Sarah Wilson's unhappy home, of her engagement with her cousin, and of the opposition to this engagement on the part of the young man's friends. He also told (what John did not know) of the actual insolvency and prospective ruin of Mark Wilson.

"Nothing can save him," continued Mr. Rubric; "his unhappy vice has dragged him down, and will sink him still lower; and his wife too—for they are almost both alike. But the daughter may be saved, though it is the strong arm of a husband must do this. And, Mr. Tincroft, you cannot be that husband."

"No, sir; no, no, no; of course not," exclaimed John, turning hot, as the plain speaking of the rector opened a way into his dull comprehension. "Of course not," said he, nervously.

"Quite right, Mr. Tincroft; and you understand me now, I am sure," said the parson. "And now if you are coming my way, and will step in with me—"

But John had other matters to think about.

CHAPTER VI.

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.

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.

CHAPTER IX.

A RIFT IN THE CLOUD.

ON the day after his return to Oxford, John Tincroft entered upon his temporary lodgings at Jericho—an outlying district of the university city. I need not stop to explain how it came to bear this Oriental name.

On taking possession of the little sitting-room, John made a great show of literary industry. He covered the round table with papers, and all the minuter paraphernalia of a diligent student. He piled up his books of reference and instruction within reach of his hand, when seated at the aforesaid table, in the arm-chair placed at his disposal. He hung upon the walls his store of maps and diagrams of the Indian dependencies and their cities; and he rather ostentatiously displayed, spread open on a second chair, his bulky dictionary of some unknown tongue, perhaps (for who is without some weakness?) to strike with astonishment the brisk college scout, should he happen to enter the room in his absence, or the equally brisk little wife who undertook to take care of the lodger's apartments, also of his outer and his inner man.

For Barry was a married man, without encumbrances however; much to the comfort of the student, to whom a squalling infant would at that time have been, as he said, an unbearable nuisance.

The little wife, though she kept no servant girl, was not the only female in the establishment, as Tincroft soon learned. There was upstairs, in a back apartment, a mysterious old lady, the mother of the Oxford scout. I say mysterious, simply because John Tincroft chose to make a mystery of her, on the ground that he had been in the enjoyment of his lodgings some days before he heard of her existence, and because he was then told that she very rarely left her room. Once, indeed, as he was ascending from his room below to his chamber above, he caught a glimpse on the landing-place of a very broad back and shoulders in feminine gear, and a high white muslin cap above the shoulders; but these disappeared within the doorway of the back apartment before he arrived at the top stairs, and for that time, and during the whole time of his sojourn in Jericho, he beheld the vision no more. It did not matter to him, John thought, and as he dismissed the mystery from his mind as soon as formed, we also may dismiss it too for the present.

Great as was the show our friend Tincroft made of his studious inclinations and intentions, he was never less inclined to set to work than at this present time; and when he forced himself to begin, his vagrant thoughts perpetually forced him to lay down his books or his pen (whichever might be in his hand) in despair.

"For which I ought to be whipped if there were anybody to take me in hand," quoth John to himself, in a scold.

But there was not anybody to do it, so the experiment was not tried. Perhaps it would have failed if it had been, for John's wandering ideas were very stubborn, though they were limited to two or three separate topics.

First of all, his failure at Saddlebrook dwelt on his mind. Up to the time of that excursion into Sussex, Tincroft had thought but lightly of his chances of success in the Chancery suit. Possibly he might win, and then so much the better. But the greater probability was that he would lose, so his guardian had always averred; for what chance had he against his prosperous rival and competitor? True, he had occasionally boasted, as to Mark Wilson, for instance, of his great prospects; but this was with the natural desire, and yielding to the natural temptation, to stand at as high a figure as he could in the eyes of that besotted lump of humanity, as the guest of his friend and Mark's landlord, Grigson; and not himself believing in his own "tall talk."

The truth is, John would have abandoned the suit on his first coming of age, or would have sold his pretensions for a very inconsiderable sum of money down, if he could have thus got rid of any future demands on his purse. But he was told then that neither of these courses could be thought of, and that the suit must be carried on. Now, however, a little clearer light had broken in upon his dull comprehension. Mr. Roundhand's explanations had done something in this direction. There wanted only one link, it seemed, in the chain of evidence, and this had been almost in his grasp, but not quite. His expectations had been raised, but only to be disappointed. No doubt the lawyer had, since his return, endeavoured to raise his hope that something might be made of the Saddlebrook notes of his clerk. But Tincroft saw, or thought he saw, that this was to let him down gently. At any rate, he did not implicitly believe in Mr. Roundhand's representations.

But, notwithstanding this, since the vision of property, if not, of great wealth, had loomed with more distinctness on his mind, he could not help thinking what a very pleasant thing it would be, could these expectations be realised. The ideal of a leisurely life of ease had grown upon him more distinctly during his visit to the Manor House in—no, I shall not write the name—in that distant county.

His destination to India had never been very much to John's taste. There was too much work in it, both present and in prospect, to suit his inherent love of inertness and ease—an inclination probably inherited from his father, the literary busy idler. It was not then, as it once had been, or was supposed to have been, that a man had only to get to India and shake the pagoda tree, and then come home with a disordered liver and a fabulous fortune. John, dull as he was, knew better than this; and only for the necessity laid upon him by circumstances, he would willingly long ago have abandoned his Oriental studies and prospects.

And during his sojourn in the Manor House, John had seen so much that was inviting in a life of moneyed ease, that he had thought how cruel it was to be shut out from it. Not that he would ever have emulated or imitated Mr. Richard Grigson in his preposterous activity, with his hunting, and shooting, and cricketing, and other unnecessary occupations, which his (John's) soul abhorred. But to have a quiet home, a sufficient income, a tolerable library, gardens and greenhouses, a corresponding establishment of servants, and—to crown all—a wife!

Poor John Tincroft! Take which way he would to it, there was the ultimatum of bliss—those pretty curls, those bright and beaming eyes, those soft cheeks and pouting lips, that alabaster neck, those gentle hands!

And so, travelling from Tincroft house and estate to Saddlebrook, and from Saddlebrook to Oxford, and from Oxford to Calcutta, or elsewhere in India, and then back again in a trice to Blankshire in England, John Tincroft's vagabond imagination never halted till it rested on that ark of no promise to him, the shabby parlour of High Beech farmhouse, with its knobby-seated chair.

IL was to no purpose that John argued within himself, as he sometimes did, that all this was vain and even sinful.

"I verily believe," said he to himself on one occasion, "that I am led captive of the devil at his will," and he dashed the book he was trying to read on to the floor with such violence that little Mrs. Barry rushed from the kitchen below in alarm to ask if anything was the matter, which for the time brought John to his senses.

But again and again, day after day, the image of the enchantress rose before his thoughts; and not the less so that he well knew, as a man and a gentleman, that Sarah Wilson could be no more to him than a bewitching and distracting though delightful memory of the past.

Thus three or four weeks passed away, with little addition to John Tincroft's stores of Oriental erudition; and the time came when he must quit the retirement of Jericho for the more classic shades of Queen's College, with his two solitary rooms therein. Meanwhile, as he was contemplating this flight, the following epistle reached him:

"DEAR TINCROFT,—This has been a horrid bad season for birds (videlicet, partridges). The wet weeks at hatching time, and the rats and weasels, have brought down our bags to a minimum. I was out all day, the 25th inst., and only bagged a brace and a half. Luckily, there is a good promise of pheasants; and pheasant-shooting, you know, begins to-morrow. And then there's a splendid lot of hares, to say nothing of foxes, on Dick's happy hunting-ground. So I don't mean to see Oxford till Lent term begins. I shan't lose much by dropping Michaelmas term, I reckon; and I shall manage to get an excuse."

"Please make all needful arrangements about my rooms and books, and so forth, and call on Dry, my tailor, in the High Street, and one or two others that you know of, to set their minds at rest that I haven't run away."

"There is not much going on down here. Rubric isn't come back yet from the Continent, and we have got a Cambridge man to do duty for him—a good sort of fellow enough, but he can't shoot."

"The harvest is all got in now, though a late one, and the wheat has turned out an average crop, Dick says. Ditto the barley; and turnips are splendid. But I forget, you are no Agricola. I wish I was going to be one, that's all."

"By the way, I have been over to the Mumbles a few times since you ran away from us. I wish you had gone; I should like to have your opinion of Kate Elliston."

"Dick sends his messages, and says when you like to have another turn out, you know the way to, and the ways of, Liberty Hall. So says also—"

"TOM GRIGSON."

Matters were not much improved with Tincroft when he got, back to his old rooms at Queen's—not at first, that is; but gradually, he slid back into his old habits, and, partially at least, forgot the disturbances of the last three months of his existence. In other words, there was a lull in the visible current of the maelstrom, that was all.

One day came the scout Barry to his room, with a face full of importance.

"Very busy, Mr. Tincroft?"

"Not very—not more than usual. What is it, Barry?"

"I wouldn't trouble you, sir; but my mother is in such a way."

"Your mother?"

"She keeps going on at me for not telling her before. You know my mother, sir?"

"I can't say that I do," said John, wondering whether the scout had lost his senses. "I know you have a mother—that is, I heard as much from your wife while I was staying at Jericho. But I never had the pleasure of seeing her, except, to be sure, her back once," added John, with a strict regard to veracity.

"That's very true, sir. You see she doesn't like to be stared at, mother doesn't; that's why, Mr. Tincroft."

"Was she afraid that your lodger would stare at her?" asked John, without much apparent curiosity.

"Well, partly, sir; otherwise, she is afraid of being stared at when she goes out, which she never does if she can help it, letting alone the getting up and down stairs."

"Ah! How so?" asked John, crossing his legs, and biting the feather end of his pen.

"The truth is, she is so uncommon stout, and she doesn't like it to be seen or known. It isn't her fault, sir; she starves herself to keep it down: that's what mother does. But the more she starves, the fatter she gets, poor thing," said Barry, pathetically.

"Oh," said John, "then I think I should leave off starving myself if I were in her place."

"That's what I tell her, but what's the use? None at all," remarked the affectionate son, in a tone of pathetic remonstrance. "But that's neither here nor there," added he, reverting to his primary topic. "Mother's uncommon sorry she didn't know about who it was had our rooms till you was gone, not till a week ago: and ever since she has been going on in a way, sir; ever since she knowed you was a Tincroft."

"And why—why?" asked John, with a new interest awakened. "I mean, what reason has she to care about my being a Tincroft?"

"Well," said Scout, "that's what I wanted to know of mother."

"Yes; well?"

"Oh!" says mother. "I have known Tincrofts before in my time. You see, sir, before mother got so overgrowed with starving, she was out and about a good deal, here and there as a monthly—" and here Mr. Barry jerked his head once or twice knowingly—

("Monthly! What's that?" John put to himself, mentally, for the term was lost upon him. Not to appear ignorant, however, he nodded his head, too; and Barry went on.)

"And so got acquainted with a many high families. And by reason of this," continued the dutiful, "she laid up a good bit of money against the rainy day; so now she lives comfortable if it wasn't for her fatness, which is none of her choosing, if you'll believe me, sir."

John Tincroft showed no signs of disbelief, so Mr. Barry still proceeded.

"The house we live in is mother's, sir; she bought it and paid for it, and set me up with furniture, wife and all, fifteen years ago, bless her; and I'm down in her will for everything when she dies, which," added the son, "won't be for many years to come, if God pleases. Only as she is five-and-seventy, if ever a day, and with her fat, too, much isn't to be expected."

"I dare say not," said John, dreamily, for he was wondering what would come next. Then he added, "And your good mother, did you say she wishes to see me?"

"Ever since she heard of your being a Tincroft, sir; and more particularly when I happened to mention your having come up from Sussex, where you had been on some law business, as you told me, sir. I hope there was no harm in mentioning that?" said Barry, solicitously.

"None at all."

"Thank ye, sir."

"But why should the old lady be concerned about my having been down to Sussex?" John wanted to be told.

"Why, sir, she says of course then you must be one of the Sussex Tincrofts, begging your pardon for using mother's words."

"Oh! No harm in that; and as to that, I am one of the Sussex Tincrofts, the only one left," said John. "Did she say any more?" he asked, his interest growing stronger.

"Yes, sir. She asked your given name; and when I said it was John, she was rather put out, and said it ought to have been Josiah, or else Makepeace."

John Tincroft started from his chair, and then took what Barry afterwards described as "three skips and a jump to the window just like a flea." And as that useful personage was bedmaker by profession, there was less that was startling and odd in his simile. After looking out of the window, and making sure that the dome of the Radcliffe Library was in its proper place, he turned again to the half-alarmed scout, with a—

"Dear me, Barry! Why, my father's name was Josiah, and my grandfather's was Makepeace. And what came next?" he demanded, wildly.

"Why, sir, she said she nursed a little Josiah Tincroft when he was brought into the world, and Makepeace Tincroft was his father."

"Come with me, Barry; come with me this instant," shouted John, as, rushing to the scout and clutching his arm, he dragged him to the door. "You must go with me to my lawyer, Roundhand, you know, in St. Aldates."

"Yes, sir, yes, certainly, Mr. Tincroft; but won't you put on your cap and gown, sir?"

"Ah! Yes, yes," and John relinquished his hold.

"And excuse me, sir, you have only got your slippers on. Here are your boots, Mr. Tincroft."

"Thank you, Barry. Ah! I forget myself sometimes," said John, as he properly equipped himself. "And now I am ready," he added.

"But, Barry," said he, as they, having taken a short cut, were crossing the Peckwater Quadrangle of Christ Church, "there must be some mistake, I think. For I happen to know that the nurse's name on that occasion was Elizabeth Foold; and your mother's is Barry."

"That's just it, sir," replied the scout, without showing any symptoms of surprise, happening to be tolerably well acquainted with John's absence of mind. "You see most girls or women take another name when they get married; and that's how mother's name is Barry now. Otherwise for five-and-thirty years or more, before she fell in with my father (and lost him ten years after), her name was Elizabeth Foold; and so it stands in her old Bible and her Rippon's hymn-book, that she used to take to chapel with her. For mother's a Baptist, sir; but a good woman for all that, and one that would not deceive you for anything you could name, Mr. Tincroft—not if she knew it."

The information conveyed to Mr. Roundhand by his client and the unexpected witness was too important, as well as welcome, not to be immediately turned to account. Proceeding at once to Jericho, and the old lady having forgotten or overcome her aversion to being made a sight of in her eagerness to behold the grandson of the "dear good gentleman, Makepeace Tincroft, and his lovely, patient Susannah," the two visitors were at once admitted to an audience.

"To think—" exclaimed the amiable obesity, as she filled up the whole space of a ponderous and well-seasoned and doubly-strengthened easy-chair, large enough to accommodate a pair of ordinary-sized mortals with comfort, "To think," said she, as tears of gladness rolled down her plump cheeks, "that I should ever be permitted to set eyes on the only son of that dear little infant that I fed with pap, yes I did, more than fifty years ago! And he is gone, the poor dear! Ah, well, we must all go, my dear," she added, addressing John; "some sooner, some later—"

"Like crowded forest trees we stand

And some are marked to fall."

"It is a blessed thing to be prepared, my dear."

It was a little while before the old lady could be made fully to comprehend what was wanted of her. But as soon as the matter was explained by the lawyer, she entered into it with great heartiness. Even the terrors of having to take a journey to London, and give evidence before the Lord Chancellor or his Vice, were counterbalanced by the ardent desire to see dear little Josiah's son righted. Meanwhile she recognised, and was ready to swear before the Mayor of Oxford to her signature on the certificate. And in confirmation of truthfulness, in respect of that handwriting, she produced her old pocket Bible and her Rippon's hymn-book, in which her name was written in full. Manifestly the writing tallied.

The reader will be mistaken, however, if he thinks that the way was even yet clear for the ending of the Chancery suit. Like a wounded snake, it dragged its slow length along more than two years before it was finally settled.

And we must refer the curious inquirer to the law reports of that time for further particulars. We also must leave John Tincroft to his interrupted Oriental studies—if he still pursued them—for a space of three months or thereabouts, while we take up another of the threads of our story.

CHAPTER X.

IN THE FILBERT ALLEY.

"AND this is all you have to say to me, Sarah?"

"It is all I mean to say about the miserable affair, Walter. If you like to believe me, you can; and if you won't believe me, you may leave it alone."

"And you won't make any confession or apology?"

"What have I got to confess, Walter? And what apology do you expect me to make, I should like to know?"

"Didn't you encourage that college man to come to see you? Didn't you have games with him here in this very garden, and this very walk, and in that very summer-house?" asked poor Walter Wilson, bitterly.

"If you think I did, sir," retorted his cousin, passionately, "it is time we parted."

"Parted, Sarah?"

"Yes, parted for ever. If you choose to believe others before me, it shows you haven't much love for me left."

"You don't mean what you say, I am sure, Sarah," exclaimed the bewildered lover.

"Yes, I do; and a good deal more, if I choose to say it. And I will say it," passionately responded the young lady, who, though equally agitated and troubled, was not going to show it, as she afterwards declared. "Yes, I will say it; and I say that you have used me very badly, Walter Wilson, to be hearing all the ill-natured, spiteful, mean stories Elizabeth has been all along stuffing you up with. Here you have been days and days in this very place, and never coming near me—"

"I have been at my father's house, my old home," put in Walter.

"Yes, you have, I know; and you have been listening to all their wicked inventions about me."

"I had a right to know what father and mother had got to say, let alone Elizabeth and the rest," pleaded the young man, thus put upon his defence.

"No, you hadn't when it was about me; you know you hadn't. I was the first you ought to have come to, and would have come to if you hadn't been tired of me, and wanted to get rid of me. But I know what it is, that Mary Burgess—"

Walter started from Sarah's side—they had been walking in the old lovers' walk side by side, but not arm-in-arm, or arm-encircled—and paced several steps rapidly forward. Then he turned, but did not retrace his steps.

"Have you anything more to say?" he asked, hoarsely.

"Yes, I have, and I will say it. Wasn't it mean of you to be making up to another, and all the while—" She almost broke down here, for her voice faltered, but she presently rallied again and went on, scarcely knowing what she said, or how she said it, "And wasn't it mean of that Mary Burgess—"

"Silence!" shouted Walter, as much beside himself, as Sarah was beside herself. "If you knew as much of that—that young person as I do, you would be sorry for ever having had a hard thought of her. She is as much above me, to say nothing of other things that you don't know of—"

"As I am below you, you mean. Well, I always did hear it said of you that you would be sure to rise in the world, Walter Wilson, so no wonder you are looking above you," cried Sarah, with an attempt at witticism which was a lamentable failure, for she burst into a flood of hysterical tears.

Walter walked further away, partly perhaps to avoid seeing this sudden distress, and partly to recover himself. When he presently returned to where the damsel was yet standing, only the traces of tears remained.

"Let us talk over the matter coolly," he said, "and understand one another."

"Yes, it is all very well for you to say 'talk it over coolly' after going about taking away my character."

"Which I have not done," said Walter.

"You have, and you know it—writing to Mr. Rubric, and all, to find out what he had got to say against me. You can't deny that you did."

"I do not intend to deny it, Sarah. I told you just now that I wrote to him two months ago."

"And wasn't that mean?"

I shall write down no more of this lovers' quarrel, which began in this wise.

During the interval which has been occupied by several of our preceding chapters, and while our friend Tincroft was pursuing his investigations in Sussex, and afterwards quietly settling himself down at Queen's, poor Walter was fretting and fuming under the smart of wounded love, and nursing his wrath against the unhappy damsel, who was as yet unconscious that she had given such grievous offence to her lover. This wrath increased in strength as week after week passed without a reply from Mr. Rubric to the letter which, as our readers are aware, that gentleman had not received.

"I won't write to her again till these stories have been properly contradicted and cleared up," said he to himself.

And the blank silence on his part was met by a corresponding determination on that of his betrothed, who said within herself, as weeks slipped by and no letter reached High Beech Farm—for her at least, "So, my gentleman is in the sulks, is he? I shall wait till he is out of them, then; for I am not going to write to him again till he has written to me."

Poor Sarah had, in fact, enough to think about and to do without writing love-letters. The busy harvest-time gave her abundant employment as a farmer's daughter; and the culminating ruin which hung over her home occupied more and more of her thoughts, as she more clearly saw that that ruin could not be much longer staved off. While good average crops, as we have seen, were being gathered in all the country round, Mark Wilson's farm presented as miserable a specimen of bad husbandry and neglect as could have been met with in a day's march. Poor lean crops overrun with weeds were the rule from one end of the arable land to the other; and Sarah well knew—for who could help knowing?—that the small amount of money the corn would bring in, when thrashed, would not be a tithe that was wanted to clear her father from his accumulated and constantly accumulating difficulties.

And as to Mark, he was becoming more and more infatuated in his vicious course; and it was openly talked about now that at Christmas time the squire would distrain for his rent, and that at Ladytide, when the lease was out, Mark Wilson would have to turn out of High Beech, beggared by his own folly and sin.

No wonder, then, that seeing all this before her, Sarah had but little mind for thinking on anything besides.

Walter might have reflected on all this; but he did not. He must have known how near his uncle's ruinous course was drawing to an end; but his knowledge made but little difference to his state of feeling at that time. There is a form of arrogant egotism not unfrequently to be witnessed. Do we not know that there are persons who, though in some respects estimable, set themselves and their own fancied demands upon others, as above all other considerations, small or large?

"Oh yes," says one; "I knew your son was seriously ill, and you feared he would not recover; but that was no reason why I shouldn't have been attended to directly I wrote to you."

"To be sure," says another, "I daresay you were overwhelmed with family cares at that time, and didn't know which way to turn to make the most of the little time on your hands at that juncture; but I'll never forgive you, if you don't write a humble apology for neglecting to walk three miles out and home, and waste half a day, when I invited you, and indeed made a point of requesting you to come to my house."

I am afraid there was a little too much of this exacting spirit in Walter Wilson at all times, and especially at the time to which our history has brought us. It need scarcely be added that in indulging such a disposition, a man becomes his own worst enemy and tormentor.

"I won't write another line to her till she writes again to me, or not till I have heard from Mr. Rubric," said Walter, and he stuck to his determination.

Meanwhile, if Sarah and Mr. Rubric did not write, others did. To be sure, there was nothing new to be told about Sarah's "goings on;" but the old stories could be repeated. And besides this, every letter from his home now teemed with prognostications, ripened into certainties of "Uncle Mark's" speedy downfall, as well as details of his "shameful, disgraceful doings." And in the more recent ones, Walter was informed that "father has pretty near as good as got Squire Grigson's promise of High Beech Farm when uncle is turned out."

"I can't bear this any longer," said Walter one day to his two counsellors, as they sat together. "I shall go home and see all about it."

"I should if I were you, Walter," responded Ralph. "Don't you think so too, Mary?"

Mary was not quite sure. "You have not written to your cousin since you received her last letter—the one you gave us to read," she said.

"No, Miss Burgess, I haven't," replied Walter, bluntly.

"And that letter came nearly two months ago."

"Yes, I daresay it was as long ago as that. It seems to me a good bit longer," quoth he.

"Don't you think you ought to have answered it?" she asked, insinuatingly.

"I don't. What could I say, after reading that and Elizabeth's? Besides, I have been waiting to hear from Mr. Rubric; and he hasn't written."

"Which seems odd and suspicious, as if he had nothing pleasant to tell you, and doesn't want to make further mischief," added Ralph.

"I do not see that that follows," rejoined May. "He may be away from home, or ill, or may have mislaid your letter, or altogether forgotten it. I should rather think either of these things than what Ralph says, if I were you, Walter. And then as to what you could, or could not, write to your cousin, would it not have been a good plan to have told her what has been on your mind, and asked her to tell you faithfully whether she wishes to break off the connection? I am a poor, inexperienced hand in these affairs," added the invalid, with a pleasant smile, which had no unhappiness or regret in it; "but I fancy that in love, as in everything also, open straightforwardness is the best plan to adopt."

"Just so, and as it is never too late to mend, that's the plan I mean to adopt now. Not in writing—I don't meant that, for letters may get twisted about any way and every way, so as to read crooked. No, I'll go and see into it all myself, offhand. We are not quite so busy now, you know, Ralph, and I can be spared for a week or two, eh?"

"My dear fellow, you needn't ask that question. Go, by all means; I'll work for us both till you come back," said Ralph, heartily.

And so it was decided that Walter should start early in the next week, which he did, the last words of his friend Miss Burgess, as she bade him good-bye, being, "Speak kindly to your cousin, Walter, and don't suffer yourself to be set against her by anything you hear behind her back; but go and see her at once, and get her explanation of all that has happened; and be sure you think kindly of her, and be kind to her. Remember she is a woman, and is young, and is to be your wife some day."

And Walter, perhaps, meant to do and be all this; but when he arrived at his home, late one evening—too late to go up to High Beech then—he suffered to be poured into his ears a great deal more than I should think proper to write. And after this he was the more easily persuaded by his sister to put off seeing Sarah till he had examined certain witnesses whom she had taken care to subpœna, and had heard what they had got to say. This took up two or three days. And then he might as well go and see Mr. Rubric, who by this time had returned from his foreign tour, and of whose long absence from his parish Walter was now, for the first time, made aware.

Now, Mr. Rubric was a good, kind-hearted sort of gentleman, and the perusal of Walter's letter, which he had received only a few days before, after its long wanderings, had thrown him into grave perplexity, for he was as conscientious as he was good-natured; and this unexpected visit from the young man increased that feeling. He would gladly have assured Walter that there was nothing in what he had heard to give him any alarm, as Sarah's affianced; but he felt it impossible to do this, for though he had seen little, he had heard much that was calculated, as he believed, to throw great doubts on that young woman's propriety of conduct, to say the least of it; and he had seen enough, as he thought, to confirm these reports.

We have seen how seriously he looked upon the visits of John Tincroft to High Beech, and he could not help concluding—that is to say, he did conclude—that if John had not been encouraged, he would not have made such frequent calls, nor stayed so long when he did call, at the farm. In short, in good Mr. Rubric's opinion, Sarah was a determined coquette and a flirt; and though he would not, on any account, have placed an obstacle in the way of her marriage with her cousin (for he looked upon such engagements as almost indelibly sacred), he sincerely pitied the man who should be tied for life to such a vain, feather-brained piece of womanhood.

In all this, and arguing upon false premises, the good rector was much too severe and sweeping in his private judgment of the case, though he was desirous to shield, as far as lay in his power, both the farmer's daughter and the young man from Oxford from the grave charges brought against them by Walter's sister and family in general.

Waller soon perceived Mr. Rubric's embarrassment, and drew from it the very worst auguries.

"Don't say any more, sir," he said huskily. "I see what you mean, sir, and I am much obliged to you for not deceiving me."

"Nay, but my good Walter, do not think worse of the matter than there is occasion for. I trust and believe that your cousin is heart-whole; and I am sure she has been, and I trust she is, strongly attached to you; and that if there has been a little undue familiarity, and I don't say that this has been the case, but if there should have been, and if female vanity (she is but young, you know, your cousin, I mean) has been somewhat excited and flattered, I do hope, now the cause is removed, she will come round again all right."

The excellent divine floundered through this long sentence, which he had made all the more complicated by not knowing how he should end it when he began. Presently he went on—

"I am an elderly man, Mr. Wilson, and have some notions I daresay at variance with the greater liberty allowed to young people in the present day in matters of this sort; and besides, my profession as a clergyman makes it essential that I should give no countenance to things which may be lawful but not expedient. I hope you understand me, my dear young friend."

Walter was not at all sure that he did understand all that his clerical friend and former religious instructor had been giving words to, but he understood some parts of it too well. There was nothing more to be made of it, at any rate; and without stopping to mark, much less to inwardly digest, an exhortation which followed regarding the exorcise of charity, the chief of the three heavenly trances, the impetuous young man thanked the rector and hastened away, half determined to return to the far-off field of his business labours, without even an interview with his cousin.

On second thoughts, however, he decided that this course would be cowardly; and then some yearning towards the old and happy days of early love prompted him to the following course. He would go and see his cousin, would lay before her very plainly her misdeeds, and would then, if she seemed penitent, offer her his forgiveness (he intended to be very magnanimous, you see) on condition that she made full confession of all that she had been charged with, and humbly sued for his mercy.

The visit to High Beech was accordingly paid, but not till after the lapse of another day or two, which he required for setting all his arguments and reproaches and reproofs in due methodical order. Then he took the road he had so often, under happier circumstances, and at other times, taken. Almost as a matter of course, his uncle Mark was not about home; and Walter so timed the visit that, almost as a matter of course also (it being afternoon), his aunt was having her diurnal "lay down."

The first greeting with his cousin was short and incisive on both sides, for Sarah had her grounds of resentment in the fact, which had come to her knowledge, that her lover had been a week almost within sight of her home without deigning to see her, or even to send a message.

"We had better go into the garden and say what we have to say, Sarah; we shall be more out of hearing there," said Walter, and, without knowing what she did, the poor girl obeyed the imperious and dictatorial invitation.

Then Walter commenced his attack. For a time Sarah heard what he urged with a flushed cheek and a heaving bosom, but in silence. At length she said—

"And that is what you have got to tell me; and that is your love for me, is it, Walter?"

And then, having recovered her thoughts, she found words for them, as volubly at least as Walter had found words for his. A small part of the dialogue has already been given at the commencement of this chapter, and the two misguided and mistaken young persons were still in the flushed and fevered excitement of their lovers' quarrel, when, just as they emerged into the open garden, heavy, stumbling footsteps approached, unnoticed by them, however, till the thick and uncertain voice of Mark Wilson fell upon their ears in some such words as these—

"Ho! Ho! Master Walter; so you are turned up, are you? Now, let me tell you, you are come where you are not wanted, not a bit of it. It'll be time enough for you to be poking about these premises when your father has got the farm; and the sooner you make yourself scarce now the better. And you, girl, had better go indoors and see to your mother, and your proper work."

"Father, father!" cried the agitated girl, very softly, for if she felt angry with her lover, and reproachfully towards him, her heart was not so untrue to him as he thought it to be.

"And you needn't think, Master Walter, that Sarah is anything to you any more, or you to her," the insensate man went on, without heeding his daughter's agonised look. "We've a better match in store, and a better husband, too, haven't we, girl? You've heard of Master Tincroft, I daresay, nephew; and if you haven't, you may hear of him now. A true gentleman, and none of your low-bred sort, like you; and coming into a fortune, too, when he gets his rights. There, what do you think of that?"

Until the sot came to this pause it was next to impossible for either the daughter or nephew to say a word to any effect. Now, however, the voice of Sarah rang through the air, in a long wailing cry—

"Oh, father, father! What have you done? What have you said?"

"Nothing but the truth, and I am obliged to him for saying it, if for nothing else," said Walter, bitterly. "There is no need for more words," he added, "except to say that I won't trespass on forbidden grounds any longer. Good-bye, Sarah. It is all over between us two now."

And the young man walked rapidly away.

"Stop him, stop him, father!" shrieked the unhappy girl. "Oh, father, father! You don't know what you have done! Walter—dear Walter!"

But Walter was gone.

The next day, when Sarah, unable to leave her bed, after the fearful hysterical fit in which she had on the previous evening been found by the sympathising servant-of-all-work, was trying to recall the particulars of that last meeting and parting, a packet was placed in her hands by her attendant. Tremblingly she opened it. It was as she thought. It contained all the little love-gifts she had in days gone by made over to her cousin Walter, and all the letters she had ever written to him. There was no other writing; not a scrap from him to soften the terrible blow. Yes, it was all over between the two.

"Darling, darling, don't take on so, don't 'ee then?" sobbed Meg, the handmaiden, when Sarah once and again gave way to paroxysms of grief. "Oh, deary, deary me; what is to be done? And didn't I think how it would turn out? But don't 'ee fret so, darling! It'll all come round again, it will, if you only keep up a good heart."

But Sarah knew better than this.

That same day Walter left his home, and travelled, with as hot speed as he could, to rejoin his friend Ralph.

CHAPTER XI.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT.

LEAVING the stormy latitude of High Beech, we retrace our steps to the classic shades of Oxford, where we find the undergraduate Tincroft, some three months after our last parting with him, again quietly ensconced in his rather dingy rooms at Queen's. The time which had thus passed away had not been altogether unprofitably spent by him. He had, for one thing, put himself to school. It is said that a man who is his own lawyer has a fool for a client; and I have been told that when a doctor is seriously ill, he generally consults a brother Galen—whether or not it is because he has little faith in his own prescriptions, I have no means of knowing.

On a parity of reasoning, and on the same principle, it would seem that when a man sees occasion to put himself to school, he should not be his own schoolmaster; and yet it is not so. There is, of course, one Teacher of whom all ought to learn, and the neglect of whose instructions is infinite loss. But next to Divine instructions, it is almost important that every man should school himself, listening to his own reason and conscience. And this John Tincroft had done.

First, as to his faint hopes of ever succeeding to the inheritance which he believed to be his, he was kindly enough but faithfully recommended by his monitor to forget them. He was reminded of the law's proverbial delays, and especially of the wearying and wearing and disappointing perplexities of a Chancery suit.

He was told in this new school (for it was new to him) that even if he could and did obtain possession of the Tincroft estate, to which he thought he had a right, and which it now seemed possible would be his—say, if he should live another fifty years—it would not be worth having.

"Therefore," said the schoolmaster, "dismiss it from your mind altogether; and if it must be still battled about, let the lawyers do it."

And John said, "I will."

Next, "You have been shamefully neglecting your preparations for India these many weeks," quoth the schoolmaster; "you know you have."

John hung his head.

"Now this won't do. You know quite well, John, that you are not over-bright. You have no genius; you are not a genius."

"Not a bit of one," John readily acknowledged.

"You have not much talent, even."

John admitted this with a sorrowful shake of his head.

"But you have a little, perhaps, and you used what little you had with a proper amount of industry for a time. But now, what have you been doing since you came back from that harum-scarum—"

"Please, don't. Yes, yes, I know. What have I been doing? Nothing, nothing," John confessed, dolefully.

"For which you ought to be ashamed," said the schoolmaster; "but if you will set to at once, and make up for lost time, we shall get you through your examinations. And you know, John, that you can do nothing better than take that appointment. You won't get rich out there, I daresay. You haven't the talent for that sort, of thing; but then you will, at all events, be doing something for yourself; and, in fact, it is the road plainly pointed out to you by circumstances, and you ought to walk in it."

"True, true," responded John.

"And not falteringly or imperfectly. Whatsoever your hand findeth to do, do it with all your might."

"I will, God helping me," John aspirated.

"The wisest thing I have heard you say yet, John," quoth the schoolmaster; "keep to that, and you will do. 'In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.' And there's another matter in which you require that help. You know what I mean."

John again hung his head and blushed deep red.

"That folly, and worse than folly, of yours, down in the country."

"I was very foolish, very; but was there anything worse than that in it?" John pondered.

"The thought of foolishness is sin," observed the schoolmaster, severely.

"God forgive me!" prayed John, penitently.

"He will if you ask Him truly and sincerely. And He will help you too; but you have something to do for yourself, in which you must ask this help. You must put away from you those vain thoughts, those captivating remembrances. You have no business to be thinking admiringly of any daughter of Eve just now; and of her (you know who I mean) least of all."

"True, true," John confessed.

"Well, then, what a blockhead you must be to go about dreaming and mooning as you have done since you got back to Oxford. Why, the other evening, when you went for that stroll round the Magdalen Water Walk, you looked so distraught, and played such moon-struck antics, that a pair of undergraduates burst out in a merry laugh when you passed them."

"I heard them," John reflected.

"You must have done with this nonsense," the schoolmaster went on. "You have done mischief enough down there already, for anything we know: and the only wise thing you did was when you ran away from the place. Now you must abandon all that folly, and pray to be forgiven the sin there was in it, whether more or less."

"God helping me, I will," said John again, and the best thing he could do or say, it was.

These conferences and lectures went on from day to day, and from the time they commenced John Tincroft began to amend. I am not quite sure that his internal schoolmaster did not—or rather, I am not quite of opinion that he did—receive some assistance from no less a personage than the good old stout Baptist lady at Jericho, who, having been brought into personal acquaintance with the veritable son of the dear little Josiah at Saddlebrook, desired to make his further acquaintance if the gownsman of Queen's would so far condescend as to notice one so far beneath him.

John did not profess to condescend, and he would not have known how to do it, if he had tried. It was out of his line, he said, and so it was; but his good-nature induced him to give ear to the request; and the subsequent intercourse with the pleasant and not vulgar, though fat, proprietress of "Rippon's Selection" redounded to John's advantage, though, perhaps, he was not at the time conscious of it.

Not that he had anything further to learn about the signature, which had, by the promptitude of Mr. Roundhand, been duly and legally attested. That subject was altogether exhausted and done with, so far as John was concerned. Neither did good Mrs. Barry and John enter into any discussions respecting the differences which existed between their several and separate religious communities. Indeed, if the compilation of hymns just referred to had not so constantly lain on Mrs. Barry's table, as her favourite book next to the Bible, John would almost have forgotten all about his new friend being a Baptist.

But the charm of the intercourse was that, in the company of the motherly old lady, John could forget his isolation and loneliness, and receive sympathy and kindly regard from one of the softer sex, without the possible intrusion of such wild vagrant thoughts as those which had entranced, yet troubled him, at High Beech Farm.

And so, as we have said, three months passed away the short vacation was over, and with the commencement of Lent term came up Tom Grigson, fresh from the field, and fit for the first week to talk of nothing else but horses, dogs, foxes, and hares.

"By the way, Tincroft, I have been back a week or more, and you have never spoken a word nor asked a question about your old friends at High Beech. Where's your curiosity?"

"I have not thought much about them lately," said John, reddening rather. "The truth is—" he added, and then he stopped short with, "I suppose there is nothing new to tell."

"Isn't there, though? For one thing, it is all done and done for with Mark Wilson."

"I am sorry to hear it. Your brother carried out his threat, then?"

"No, not so bad as that. Brother Dick's bark is worse than his bite generally; and it was so in this case. I don't think in any case he would choose to sell up an old tenant, at least he never has done it. And as to Mark Wilson, the truth is he would have got very little by it, for the live and dead stock, crops and implements altogether, if sold, wouldn't much more than have paid expenses. No, he didn't sell him up. But the fact is, things had got so bad that a week or two before Christmas, Mark himself came and offered to put himself into Dick's hands, to do what he liked with him and his belongings."

"The most sensible thing he could do under the circumstances, I suppose," said John. "And what followed?"

"Why, Richard offered to forgive him his rent—the rector did the same about his tithes—and to let him remain for a time in the house, which isn't much of a place, you know, and to keep his household furniture, which isn't any better, if he would give up possession of the farm at once, which he was glad enough to do."

"Who has the farm, then?"

"Oh, Matthew Wilson, of course, Mark's brother. He has had half a promise of it a good while, supposing Mark should have to leave. And it was only fair that Matthew should get it, if he can make anything out of it, for by all accounts, he has lost a good bit of money by that sottish brother of his."

"Ah!" ejaculated John, mentally. "To be sure. I heard something of this that evening of the picnic." He did not say this, however, but substituted for it, "And what will the poor man do now he has no farm to attend to?"

"Not to attend to, you mean. Well, his brother has promised to employ him on the farm, if the stupid fellow will work; and, at any rate, to take some care of Mrs. Mark and the daughter. But it will be hard lines with them all, for Matthew Wilson is rather a sharp hand, and there isn't much love lost between any of them, I expect."

"A good thing for Miss Sarah that she is engaged to be married. I am glad to think that she will escape from this state of pauperism, at all events," said John, thoughtfully.

"Ah! But there's something else I have to tell you, Tincroft. That affair is all broken off. She and her cousin have had a quarrel, and there is an end to that connection."

"Do you really mean that, Grigson?" demanded John, visibly startled.

"I do mean it; and I reckon that's why Matthew is more willing than he would have been to lend the wife and Sarah a helping hand. Depend on it, he would have had nothing to say to them if Walter Wilson had gone on with his courtship."

"But—but I don't understand it at all. There was nothing amiss, was there, when I came away?"

"No, I suppose not; but a month or two ago, it must have been, the young fellow came post-haste, and quite unexpectedly, from the north, where he had been the last two years, and had a desperate quarrel with the girl. You haven't heard about it before, I suppose, Tincroft?" said Tom, interrupting himself, and looking keenly into his friend's face.

"Of course not, Grigson. How should I have known anything on the subject?" John wished to be told, wincing a little beneath Tom's inquisitive look.

"Ah, well, I don't know, I'm sure; but I am glad you have not heard of it before from any other quarter, for the truth is—I am rather loth to mention it, but the truth is (it all came out afterwards through Rubric, who told Dick all about it, and Dick told me) that you, John—there don't be alarmed, dear fellow—" for John began to show lively signs of astonishment, "that you had something to do with the quarrel."

And then, by cautious degrees, and tenderly (for Tom Grigson was a true-hearted friend), came out the whole story, much as I have told it.

"But don't take it to heart, Tincroft," added the good fellow; "Dick and I both thought it right you should know what has been talked about. But, of course, it is no fault of yours. If the poor girl has been silly, or her father stupid, or that Walter Wilson outrageously and madly jealous, you can't help it, you know. So think no more about it; I shouldn't if I were you."

"How can I help it?" asked John, sadly. "For it is my fault—it is all my fault. I see it now. But I must know more about it, Tom, if I can. The poor girl—poor Sarah; how does she take it?"

"Why, she is sadly enough, by all accounts. But no wonder, you see, considering the trouble that has fallen on the whole of them."

"And, Tom—tell me true, dear Tom—don't you think the young fellow, Walter Wilson, will come round again? Lovers' quarrels, you know, are said to be only the renewal, or revival, or something of the sort, of love. Not that I know anything about it; but don't you think he will come round again?" asked Tincroft.

"Why, how should I know?" responded Tom, laughing a little at John's earnestness. Then he added, "Nobody believes it will be, or can be made up. The fact is (it may as well come out), young Wilson has been crammed with so many stories, and is consequently so sure that you did make love to Mark's daughter, and that she encouraged you, on the principle of having two strings to a bow (in this affair I should say two beaux to her string), that he is determined never to speak to her again. At least, this is what I have heard."

"But, Tom, you don't believe what they say about me and Sarah Wilson, do you?" John Tincroft asked piteously.

"No, of course, I don't, my good fellow, and Richard doesn't believe it either. Why, you don't think we believe it, do you?"

"No, not if you say so, Tom. But I am so bewildered with your news that I don't know what to think." And John pressed his two hands against his forehead. "To think that the poor thing should be suffering through my fault!" he added.

"I don't see much fault in it, Tincroft," argued Tom Grigson. "Of course, if you had never seen Miss Wilson, this could not have happened. And if you hadn't gone up to her father's house so often, it might not have happened."

"True, true, true," groaned John.

"But as what can't be cured, must be endured, we had better drop the subject, my boy."

"Ha! I'll think about it, that will be best," said John, dreamily, as was his wont when his mind was otherwise occupied than with the exact words he was speaking.

"I don't know about thinking, dear fellow. Thinking doesn't always do good. I have been thinking all day what a blockhead I have been not to tell Dick about that horribly long bill of Dry's; but I didn't tell him, and I don't like to write directly after coming up. So I have made up my mind not to think about it all this term. I recommend the same to you. You'll forget it all the sooner through not thinking about it."

"But not thinking about Dry's bill won't pay it, Tom, will it?" asked Tincroft, gravely.

"No, that's the worst of it," laughed Grigson; "so I shall be obliged to think about it some day, whether I like it or not."

"Ah! Just so!" said John; and then the friends separated.

John did think about it. He passed an almost sleepless night in troubled thought; and the next morning after chapel, drawing his friend Grigson aside, he proposed a walk round the Magdalen Water Walk.

"Very good, John, it will give us an appetite for breakfast."

"Grigson," said John, after they had gone round and round the walk, almost in silence, and they were returning into the High Street through the cloisters, "I am off by the Tally-ho to-day. Can I do anything for you at the Manor House!"

"The Manor House! Tally-ho! What is the meaning of this sudden freak, Tincroft?" his friend naturally enough asked.

"I don't wonder at your wondering. Look here, Tom, I have been thinking all night of what you told me yesterday, and though I know very well that I am a blockhead, and you know it too—"

"I know nothing of the sort. You are one of the best fellows I know. You have kept me out of a world of mischief here, and if you are not up to some things that some of us know too much of, you are none the worse for that."

"Well, blockhead or not, Grigson, I have made up my mind not to be a knave."

"Ho! Ho! Sets the wind in that quarter?" thought Tom, within himself. And then he said, rather sharply, "You don't mean to finish up by marrying that girl yourself after all, do you?"

"No," said John, mildly. "I don't wonder at your thinking so, of course. But that isn't my meaning. For all that, I have done her great wrong, not wilfully, not wickedly, I hope not, at least not intentionally, only as there is sin in most folly, and if not sin there is harm. Yes, I have harmed the poor girl," continued John, sadly. "I see it all now, and I must undo it if I can."

"If I can understand what you are aiming at, may I be carbonadoed, dear fellow," rejoined Tom.

"I'll explain my meaning, if I can. You see, don't, you? That by going so often as I did to High Beech Farm, I laid myself open to suspicion."

"Well, if you come to that, of course the idea was that you were smitten. I know more about that sort of thing than I did then, for I know, before I came up, there was no road so pleasant to me as the road to the Mumbles. An abominable road it is to be sure, but then there was a Kate at the end of it; and so I made a point of riding out there every day almost."

"A gate?" said John, whose mind, occupied with one idea, could with difficulty take in another.

"A gate! No, no, a Kate—Kate Elliston."

"I see, I see! My dear fellow, I wish you joy and success. But, as I was saying, I did lay myself open to suspicion. And I was warned about it. Your brother warned me, and so did Mr. Rubric; and at the time I am afraid I was more vexed than pleased with their kind intentions. But that does not matter—my being suspected. The worst of it was, the poor girl came to be suspected too. And then, it seems, stories have been told about her, and she has lost a husband that was to be, and all through me. You said as much as this last night, Tom."

"Did I? I don't know that I did, Tincroft."

"Oh, but you did. And now, the least I can do, and the only thing I can do, as an honourable man, is to try and make things straight again between young Wilson and his poor cousin."

"You'll be a clever fellow to do that, John," observed his friend, thoughtfully, and inwardly quoting a couplet he had somewhere met with in his reading—

"Who now to sense, and now to nonsense leaning,

Means not, but blunders round about his 'meaning.'"

"And how in the world will you set about it?" he asked.

"Ah! There I want your advice, Tom. I don't think it will do for me to go to the farm. There would be more suspicions then, I suppose."

"Yes, decidedly, I should say. No, I wouldn't go to the farm if I were you."

"I am glad you think as I do about that," rejoined John Tincroft, beamingly. "For, to tell you the truth—may I, Tom? I know I may, though, and that you won't betray me."

"Not I, John. Say on."

"Well—" and then he whispered in his friend's ear, "if things hadn't been as they were with me, and if Sarah Wilson had been free, I should have been proud to make her my wife; but under all the circumstances of the case, it wasn't to be dreamt of for a moment. I didn't think so much about it then as I ought to have done. And I ought to have kept away on that very account. But I have seen my terrible mistake since, and must do my best to remedy it."

"Whew!" whistled Tom. "You want to put yourself out of temptation, then?"

"No, the temptation is past and gone, I hope. At least, I know I have striven and prayed against it. No, it is not of myself I am thinking, but of her. And it strikes me—doesn't it you?—that if I were to go and see your brother and Mr. Rubric, and tell them honestly that all the fault was mine, and that the poor girl was as innocent of anything like flirting as any modest girl could be, don't you think they would believe me, and try to sot matters straight again?"

"They would believe you, of course, John, as readily and strongly as I do. But as to setting matters straight—well, I think it likely they would try. I know they feel a good deal for—well, say for Walter Wilson, and I daresay they will for his cousin when things are put before them in the way you have put them now."

"Thank you, Tom; I should not care undergoing any mortification."

"Oh, no occasion for mortification that I can see," said Tom Grigson, cheerily. "There's no mortification in doing what is right, I think; and you are right in this, old fellow."

"Thank you heartily, Tom," said John, warmly. "Then we'll turn back, and I'll take my place for the Tally-ho, and then go and pack up a few things for the journey."

"But, I say John," said his friend presently, as they were emerging into the High Street, "suppose things shouldn't turn out as you wish to make them; what then?"

"I would rather not think about it," quoth John. "But now, can I do anything for you with Mr. Richard about that bill of Dry's?"

"Thank you, John; no, I think not; I fancy you have as much on your hands already as you can well manage," replied Tom Grigson, with a merry laugh.

And then presently they reached Queen's, and each went to his own rooms.

"As good a fellow as ever lived, and as honourable a man as ever breathed; and his honour will undo him. If he doesn't marry S. Wilson after all, I'll be—carbonadoed. There! Shall I go after him, and tell him so? No, I don't think I will."

CHAPTER XII.

THE LION'S MOUTH.

WE won't laugh again at John Tincroft and his awkwardness, if it so please you, reader. We see him now under a new phase; his awkward shyness vanished, he is coming out a man, a gentleman, and if it so please you, as I hope it does, a Christian. I have said that John was no hero. I revoke the charge. He is a hero now, and I am absolutely proud of him, as I see him, on that cold January day, on the top of the Tally-ho, dragging on through snowdrifts; for a snowstorm had set in at midday, which had also covered him with its hoary fleece.

It was late at night when he reached the town nearest the Manor House, for the coach was delayed by the snow, which partially blocked the road, and there being no dog-cart to meet him on this occasion, he was obliged to put up at an inn.

The next morning, however, saw him on foot, unencumbered with luggage, for he meant to decline the hospitality which he knew would be offered him, and having transacted his business, to return at once to Oxford. So he plodded on through the snow, which was sometimes up to his knees, and sometimes higher, over the six or seven miles of country road that separated him from the goal of his high duty—which he reached at last.

"I tell you what, my dear Tincroft," said Mr. Richard Grigson to him, when John's story was told: "I am heartily glad to see you, and it is all nonsense about your not stopping here two or three days, or as long as you like, for that matter. Come, draw nearer the fire; you must be frozen inside as well as out."

This was spoken as the two were seated at lunch, after John had, by the help of his friend's wardrobe, changed his wet stockings, boots, and nether garments.

"Thank you, thank you, heartily, Mr. Grigson; but you see I must get back to my rooms at college as soon as I can. This is my last term, and I have no time to waste. But I could not rest satisfied till I had done what I could for the poor girl."

"And that is what I was coming to, Tincroft. I am afraid, as for as that is concerned, yours is a lost journey. Of course, I know all about it, and how innocent you are—"

"No, no; don't say that. I am not innocent, being the cause of all the mischief. It is the poor girl, Sarah Wilson, who is the innocent sufferer from my blunders."

"Well, well, put it that way if you like; but what I was going to say is that I, as far as I am concerned, think it a good thing for young Wilson—Walter—that the whole affair is ended."

"Do you really mean that, Mr. Grigson?" asked John in a troubled tone.

"Yes, I do. I have nothing to say against the girl particularly; but I don't approve of cousins marrying, in any case. And in this case, the young fellow may do better for himself, and can scarcely do worse, than by marrying that young woman."

"I am afraid, then, that I am not to have your help," said John, dolefully.

"Not in patching up the quarrel, just because I think it is a good thing they did quarrel."

"But think of the poor young person," John pleaded.

Mr. Grigson smiled. "You take a great interest in the poor young person," said he.

And John acknowledged that he did.

"Now, I don't," said the squire, bluntly; "for I think she is feather-brained, and won't make a good wife for any man. Look at her up-bringing."

"But that is not her fault," argued John.

"No; but it is her misfortune."

"Then you won't make an effort to set things straight between the two cousins?"

"I really would rather not, my dear Tincroft," said Mr. Richard.

John did not succeed much better in his interview with his clerical friend Mr. Rubric, upon whom he presently called.

Mr. Rubric received the collegian graciously, and would have set lunch before him, if John had not already undergone and duly performed that operation. But he had not much to say in praise of our hero's amiable quixotism.

"Let the matter rest, Mr. Tincroft; you will do no good," said he. "Of course," he added, "I look upon such engagements as being very serious and solemn; and I did what I could to make things straight when young Wilson honoured me with his confidence. But he is an obstinate young man, I am afraid. At least, I could make no impression upon him. And perhaps, after all, it is best as it is, Mr. Tincroft. And let me tell you, my dear friend—" this was spoken in a soft, confidential tone, "that your interference will be interpreted—shall I say?—interpreted unfavourably against yourself. Just consider, Mr. Tincroft."

"Mr. Rubric—" said John, not without dignity, for there is dignity in holiest feeling and intentions, and in taking an honest course, even if the honesty be clumsy, "will you, if you have it in your power, kindly let me know Mr. Walter Wilson's address?"

Mr. Rubric could and did give the address. "But you won't write to him, will you?"

"No, sir; I will go and see him," said John.

The rector looked aghast. "My very good friend, don't think of such a thing," said he. "You don't know what a strong feeling there is against you in that quarter. Why, you will be eaten up alive! Absolutely rushing to the lion's mouth!"

"I think not," said John, serenely. "At all events, I'll run the risk."

That same afternoon saw John trudging back to the little town where he had left his portmanteau, to pass another night at the Saracen's Head. The next day, instead of returning to Oxford, he secured a place in the mail, and at night was on his travels due north, whither we must precede him.

When Walter Wilson returned from his journey homewards to his professional pursuits, there was no need for his friends Ralph and Mary to question him as to his speed. A few words were indeed spoken; but at Walter's rather stern request that nothing more might be said on the subject, or rather on the object of his journey, they silently acquiesced.

From that time onward, Walter paid more attention, if that were possible, to business, but his whole nature seemed changed. The frank good humour which, unless he were over-tired or in any respect put out of his way, generally marked him, had departed; and even to Mary Burgess his entire manner was altered. As to his constant pipe, it seemed to have lost its charm. He smoked more than ever, it is true; but he brooded over it.

"I must have some talk with Wilson," said Ralph to his sister one evening, as they were sitting together after a hard day's work.

"No, don't, Ralph. He will come to his old self again soon, I hope. Poor fellow, he has been sadly disappointed, you know."

"In that stupid love affair, you mean. Well, I suppose he has, but that needn't make him so mopish. There are as good fish in the sea as there are out of it, as your favourite, John Newton, says in one of his letters. There, you see, I can quote John Newton as well as you, Mary."

Mary smiled, and then sighed.

"And as to Walter having been crossed in love, after the specimen he has given of being in that happy state, I think I would rather keep out of it altogether, though it is love that 'makes the world go round, go round.'"

Many conversations of a like sort had been held between the brother and sister, but no improvement had taken place in the subject of them, who, on the contrary, seemed to grow more dissatisfied, morose, and silent.

One day, a month or so after Christmas, when both Ralph and Walter were from home, a knock at the front door announced a visitor, and the servant subsequently announced to Miss Burgess that a gentleman, who sent in his card, wished to see Mr. Wilson. The card had on it the name—

JOHN TINCROFT,

QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD.

"Ask the gentleman to come in," Mary said, after a moment's thought. "I will speak to him."

The gentleman accordingly entered the room, and was rather ceremoniously invited to be seated.

"Walter is not within now, but he soon will be, if you would like to wait," said Mary Burgess.

"I can call again," replied John. "I came in by coach an hour or two ago, and shall not be leaving till to-morrow. I can therefore adapt my time to your friend's leisure. Or, probably, when he sees my card, he will prefer seeing me at the inn where I am now staying;" and Tincroft named a certain inn near at hand.

"I think you had better see him here, if you are really anxious for an interview, Mr. Tincroft," said the lady, hesitatingly. "You see I have soon learned your name, sir. But excuse me," she added, "are you not putting your hand too near the lion's mouth?"

"I really beg your pardon, madam—" John looked rather nervously round as he spoke, especially as these or similar words of warning had been uttered by Mr. Rubric, only two days before; "but—I do not understand your meaning."

"I should apologise, then, for speaking in figures. I mean, are you prepared to quarrel with Walter Wilson, or is it your purpose to quarrel with him?"

"Assuredly not; quite the contrary; but—"

"But you do not yet understand me. The fact is, Mr. Tincroft, your name is not strange to me; and excuse me for saying that I am afraid it will have an unpleasant effect on my friend Mr. Wilson."

"I am also almost afraid that it will, at first; but I also trust that he will ultimately see no reason to regret that I have taken this long journey for the sake of a personal interview. At any rate, I must see him if possible." John added, "May I be so bold as to ask—" and here he stopped short.

"To ask in what way your name came to be so familiar to me?"

"Yes;" John acknowledged that the thought had occurred to him.

"In the simplest of all ways, Mr. Tincroft. In having heard it repeatedly at some former time, but not lately, from the lips of my friend Mr. Wilson; and also from having seen it in letters which he put into my hands."

John looked up inquisitively, but did not speak.

"I am dealing openly with you, you see, sir," continued the lady.

"And no doubt—" John found tongue at last to say, "no doubt your impressions or preconceptions are not altogether in my favour."

Mary Burgess now hesitated; in a moment or two, however, she said, "I would rather not speak of my previous impressions. It is more to the purpose to say that both my brother—"

"It is Miss Burgess, then, whom I have the honour of addressing?"

"I am Mary Burgess, yes; but, as I was remarking, it is more to the purpose to say that both my brother and Walter Wilson are strongly prejudiced against you; and unless your design in coming here is clearly and plainly of a friendly and honourable nature, I am sorry you should have come at all."

"My motive is both honourable and friendly, I know," said John, quietly, "and I trust it will be so understood. Unfortunately, it should be otherwise, I for one shall deeply regret it."

There was another awkward silence; and then again the lady spoke.

"Mr. Tincroft," she said, "I have read somewhere that half the troubles in life—the minor troubles I mean, of course—would be escaped, if those who live in the world would be but true to each other, open and straightforward. And I very much believe it. Now we two are thrown into each other's society under rather exceptional circumstances, and, at any rate, we are strangers to each other. Is it not so?"

It certainly was so, John admitted.

"But that is no reason why we should not be plain and outspoken. I told you a minute ago that I would rather not speak of my preconceptions of the Mr. Tincroft of whom I had heard. Let me say now that those preconceptions, as far as they may have been unfavourable, are to a great extent removed. At any rate, I believe I may trust you."

"You do me great honour," said John, with a kind of pleasurable emotion.

"And I ask you, Mr. Tincroft, to trust me. Do you think you can?"

John had never been addressed in this way before by any living woman. Have we not said that it was his misfortune to have been, from childhood, almost bereft of female society? To be sure, of late, he had known Sarah Wilson, and had seen something—a very little—of Mrs. Mark Wilson; he had been intimate also with good obese Mrs. Barry, and had been waited on by Mrs. Barry the younger. But here, setting aside the female domestics of the Manor House, his experience almost ended.

It was a wonderful thing to John to be appealed to with such confidence, and in such well-chosen language, as he thought it, by a ladylike woman to whom, less than an hour ago, he had been a complete stranger, and to be thought by her as worthy of trust.

"Could he trust her?" Yes, to be sure he could; and he answered her with a little more enthusiasm than was his wont that he could and would. "If I only had a sister to have advised with and consulted, mine would have been in many respects a different and a happier life," he silently reflected.

I am not sure, and John was not sure, that this lurking regret might not have been half-revealed to the gentlewoman on the opposite side of the hearth, by the sigh which accompanied it. At any rate, she said, with a half-smile,—

"Think of me for the little while we are together as a sister."

"I will indeed," said Tincroft.

"Allow me then to ask—you said a minute or two ago that your intentions are honourable and friendly—allow me to ask you to confide those intentions to me."

And John did. He told his whole story from beginning to end. He stammered awkwardly at first, perhaps; but he gained courage as he went on. He did not spare himself in the least. He painted himself in darker colours, or, at least, he placed himself in a more preposterous light than that in which we have represented him. He declared himself so heartily ashamed of his folly in that last month of his sojourn at the Manor House, that his fair auditor had to check his self-accusations. On the other hand, he warmly vindicated poor Sarah from any intentional or unintentional cause for real blame; while, with much good feeling, he described the unhappy circumstances by which she had been and was still surrounded—her wretched home, her unkind relatives at Low Beech, the scandal-loving and scandal-breathing social atmosphere of the place, and a great deal more of the same sort.

"I am come," said John, "to say all this to Walter Wilson. I have made up my mind, of course, to hear myself harshly abused, because I really deserve to be abused by him. I will submit to any mortifications and humiliations he may see fit to demand from me. I will do anything in my power—and I wish more were in my power-if only the mischief I have so foolishly and wrongfully done may be remedied. I hope you believe me in this, Miss Burgess," he added.

"I believe you to be sincere and honest in all you have said," the lady responded; "and now I will be open and candid with you. It is an unusual course I am taking, perhaps, and I suppose the polite world with which you are acquainted—"

"Not a bit of it," thought John.

"Would say that I am very bold at the least; but then I do not belong to the polite world."

"Nor do I," said John aloud; "and if you can only assure me that I may hope to be the means of reconciling the two cousins, I shall be satisfied. I shall not care—I shall not so much care, at any rate—what is thought of me."

"We will not discuss that, Mr. Tincroft. But I must tell you, having promised to be candid, that from what I know of Walter Wilson, your appearance here will probably so rouse his passion that you will not get even a hearing."

"I am sorry for that," said John.

"He will only think, and perhaps say, that being already tired of your new toy, you are only anxious to resign it to the old possessor."

"But you do not think so, Miss Burgess?" John asked, anxiously.

"No, I do not; but our judgments of each other so much depend on the points of view from which they are taken. Now, my friend Walter has been wounded in his love for his cousin, and also, I may say (having promised to be candid), in his self-love. He looks upon you as the destroyer of his peace, and he will naturally attribute to you the worst motives for what others would, it may be, consider very generous and self-denying."

"I see all this, Miss Burgess," said the penitent; "but what better can I do?"

"Will you entrust your cause to an advocate?"

"Willingly; but you see it is not my cause so much as that of others. It is Miss Wilson's cause, and not only hers, it is Walter Wilson's cause also."

"You are right; and the greater the need of an advocate. A man needs a strong, or at least an unexceptionable advocate, when he is at odds with himself. Now, I am almost sure Walter will not hear you. Will you place your cause—his, I mean, and his cousin's—in my hands?"

"Gladly," said Tincroft, "if—"

"If—But let me explain myself more clearly. My brother and Walter Wilson will be in very soon now," said Mary Burgess, looking at the timepiece in the room, and speaking hurriedly. "If they find you here, your name will greatly excite them both, I am sure; and I doubt whether Walter would hear a word from your lips. Go now, and leave me to do your errand. I will tell them all that you have said—"

"Don't forget to say that it was all my fault, Miss Burgess."

"No, I will not forget that; and I will try and smooth the way for a meeting between you and Walter to-morrow. I believe, and am sure, this is the best thing to be done. And you shall have a note from me in the morning. Where are you staying?"

John named the inn.

"Do you agree to this, Mr. Tincroft?"

John did agree to it. What else could he do? And then he took his departure.

"If I had but had a sister—and such a sister!" quoth John, sorrowfully, as he took his way to his inn.

A meeting did take place between John Tincroft and Walter Wilson on the morrow; but the reader shall be spared the particulars of this interview. It is enough to say that John had, metaphorically speaking, put his hand into the lion's mouth.

Some of our former chapters will have shown that Walter Wilson, though sterling in principle, and true-hearted as far as he knew himself, was egotistical, dogmatical, and hard judging. These characteristics showed themselves forcibly and unpleasantly on the preceding evening, when, on his return home, Mary Burgess performed her promise to John Tincroft. It was a disagreeable office she had undertaken, and we may say, in passing, that any one proposing to be a mediator or mediatrix between contending parties should expect no selfish pleasure to spring from the efforts thus made. Miss Burgess had no such expectations, but she did not shrink from the self-imposed task.

At the first mention of Tincroft's name, and of his near vicinity, Walter started to his feet, and would have rushed out then to "have it out," he said (whatever this might mean), "with the miscreant." But he was restrained by the interposition of Ralph, who also persuaded his friend to hear all his sister had to tell.

As Mary went on, describing John's honest, compunctious self-accusation, Walter uttered not a word, but smiled bitterly and contemptuously. But when, with kindling eloquence and womanly sympathy, she spoke of his cousin's unhappy surroundings, and of her guilelessness, notwithstanding the rancour with which she had been slanderously assailed—a guilelessness in which the amiable advocate believed—he rudely interrupted her, and bade her cease dinning him with her pleadings.

"I made Sarah a fair offer the last time I saw her," he said, fiercely. "I told her that if she would confess and apologise—"

"Confess what?—apologise for what?" his friend asked, mildly.

"To having deceived me; for having laid traps for that Tincroft, meaning to turn me off when she had secured her richer prize. That's what I meant, and what I said."

"But knowing that she was not guilty of such baseness, how could she make such a confession and apology? Did she not deny the charge?"

"Deny! What has that to do with it? Deny! Of course she denied it. Oh yes—yes, she could talk fair enough, calling me 'Dear Walter,' and all that sort of thing. But do you think I was going to believe her?"

"But after she denied it, and explained—did she not explain?"

"Oh, to be sure: she was ready enough with her explanations."

"And after that, if in her sorrow for having offended you, she had confessed to an untruth, should you have believed her then?"

"I might, or I might not," said the unhappy young man, sullenly. "At any rate, it is all over with us now," he added; "and as to that canting hypocrite who has come over you—"

Here he was interrupted by the strong, determined voice of Ralph Burgess, saying gravely, but good-temperedly notwithstanding—

"That will do. You must not abuse my sister, Walter. You don't know what you are saying, or how you are saying it. If you were not beside yourself, you would not do as you are doing. For my party I think your cousin has had a happy escape. There are two words which I have somewhere met with in the Bible that describe your feelings towards her, and these are 'implacable and unmerciful.' And if you don't mind my saying it, or if you do it doesn't much matter, there is another word that tells how you are conducting yourself now, and that is 'arrogantly.'"

"Oh, that is it! Is it?" said Walter, as leaving the room, he lighted his chamber-candle and was seen no more that night.

A brief note from Miss Burgess informed John Tincroft of the non-success of her attempted mediation. And while he was pondering what next he should do, the door of the room at the inn in which he had taken breakfast opened and admitted Wilson. The interview was short and sharp. Much abuse was heaped upon the head of poor John, who bore it patiently. And then, with a declaration that he had done with his cousin for ever, Walter said that the other might take his leavings and welcome.

"You will some day be sorry for the injustice you are now doing to your cousin," said John, sorrowfully; but the latch of the door was in Walter's hand as he spoke, and in the next instant he was gone.

There was nothing more for John after this but to return, not to the Manor House, but to Oxford, which place he disconsolately reached on the fifth day after his departure from it.

CHAPTER XIII.

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?"

CHAPTER XIV.

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.

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.

CHAPTER XV.

FIREWORKS.

YEARS ago there lived in a small house—one of a row of similar tenements, dignified by the name of terrace—in the suburbs of Oxford, known as Jericho, a young married couple who had but few acquaintances in the city, and who probably had no desire to make them. They were poor; their home was scantily furnished, and the only inmate of their dwelling, besides themselves, was an elderly, slatternly woman, who was understood to be the mother of the young wife. They had been married more than a year at the time when we take up their story, and a little weakly blossom of mortality had a short while before struggled into existence, to the unbounded astonishment of those most immediately concerned in its advent. But as it had soon afterwards made its escape from a world which certainly did not look over-inviting, nothing more need be said on this particular topic.

The husband was a quiet, gentlemanly sort of man, who obtained a scanty enough subsistence, but paid his way notwithstanding, as a teacher of mathematics and classics at one or two boarding schools in the neighbourhood of Oxford, where his rather shabby costume, his ill-got-up linen, his oddity of manner, and his frequent absences of mind, gave abundant scope for merriment among his pupils. They liked him notwithstanding, for he was "a good sort of fellow," they said, "and never got a chap into trouble" with the principal.

It was known by the neighbours around—the dwellers in Jericho, I mean—that Mr. Tincroft (for that was the gentleman's name) had been formerly a gownsman of the university; but that, in consequence of his marrying beneath him, he had been obliged to relinquish his prospects, and to take to teaching, which, in their opinion, evidently was something near akin to scavengering; and if he hadn't had "something to fall back upon," they did not see how he could manage to rub along at all. What this something was nobody knew, and, as it was no matter of theirs, they didn't want to know. It being no matter of ours either, we may as well share in their blissful ignorance, only adding that although "under a cloud," it was sagely believed that, some day or other, the object of their contemplation would emerge from his obscurity.

"He will be a rich man when he wins his lawsuit," was whispered.

I am rather inclined to think that this whisper about a mysterious lawsuit was intentionally set afloat by a good-natured gownsman (Tincroft's almost only university acquaintance), Tom Grigson by name, who persisted in taking his supper with the Tincrofts at least once a week, and in dragging out the male Tincroft for a constitutional, as he termed it, at all times, seasonable or unseasonable, whenever he was to be found at home.

"You shan't vegetate while I am here, John," said Tom, on one such occasion; "when I am gone you must do as you like, I suppose."

Let me do Tom the justice, moreover, of saying that, like a preux chevalier—or, rather, like a true gentleman—he paid all due courtesies to the young wife of his friend. There are different ways of showing such courtesies. Tom chose the right way—he treated poor Sarah as though she were in every particular his equal. He made no condescending efforts to seem at his ease in her society. He placed himself on a right footing by the respect he paid to her.

One summer evening, more than a year, as I have said, after the marriage of John and Sarah, Tom made his appearance at their cottage. John was at home.

"You'll go and see the fireworks, John?" said Tom.

"Fireworks? What—where?"

"In Christchurch meadow, by the water-side. Haven't you heard about them?"

"No," John knew nothing about the fireworks.

"Oh! Then I am the first to tell you of them. There's to be a grand display to-night in honour of somebody, or something or other—I don't know what."

"Oh!" said Tincroft.

"And you must go and see them, Mrs. Tincroft, too."

"Really," said John, "I don't know. I don't care much for sights, you know; and I daresay Sarah would rather be at home."

"Nonsense. One would think you were too wise to be pleased with anything. I know better—don't you, Mrs. Tincroft?"

"John is always pleased when he sees you, Mr. Grigson," said Sarah.

"I am glad of it. You must persuade him then to go with us to see the sight, for you and I are not too clever to be amused, are we? Come, John, there's a good fellow—"

"'Doff your doublet, your best coat put on;

Make haste, or we shall find the sport begun!'"

John did as he was bid, and half an hour later the three were on their way to the meadow. Presently, as the darkness increased, the fireworks began to fizz and explode. The display was good, and John was contented with being a spectator. Sarah was delighted, like a child, as in some respects she was.

"It was very kind of you to make him come out," said she, turning to Tom, who was by their side.

"Oh see! How lovely bright!" she exclaimed, as a brilliant blue light suddenly lighted up the river-side, and the whole of the ground on which the spectators were standing, till all around for a few moments was as clear as in daylight.

At this moment a faint shriek from Sarah roused the attention of her husband. At the same moment Grigson disappeared from their side.

"What is it, Sarah?" John asked, tenderly.

"Oh! Nothing, nothing;" but she clung closer to John's arm, and asked him to remove a little farther from the fireworks, which somehow dazzled her, which he did.

Meanwhile Tom Grigson had darted into the thick of the crowd, and laid his hand on the arm of a stranger, a tall, pale young man who had been standing not many yards off and watching, not the fireworks, but Tom's friends and companions.

"Walter Wilson!"

"Mr. Grigson."

"What brings you here?" asked Tom, sternly.

"I am going abroad," answered Walter, submissively; "I can't stop in England, and I am going to Australia. But I didn't think it any harm to have a last look at Sarah before going. I didn't mean any harm," he added.

"I daresay not, Wilson; but after all that has passed, I think you are very unwise."

"I have been a fool from beginning to end," said Walter, impetuously. "I was a fool to listen to what they said at home about Sarah. I was a fool not to listen to what Tincroft would have told me; but I wouldn't hear him. And I am a fool now, I daresay, for coming all this way to ask Sarah's pardon, as I mean to do, for having mistrusted her ever, before going out of the country. But this is what I am come here for."

"Come this way, Wilson, and tell me all about it," said Tom Grigson, more mildly, as he drew the young man from the thickest of the crowd into the more secluded parts of the river-side walk.

Walter's story was soon told. By some means or other, which we need not stay to explain, he had been convinced of the wrong he had done to his cousin by his unworthy suspicion. Torn with remorse for his unkindness, and indignant with the mischief-mongers who had stepped in between himself and his long-hoped-for happiness, he was seized with serious illness, which for a time threatened first his life and then his reason. From this danger, however, he was rescued mainly by the care and sympathy of his friends the Burgesses; and eventually recovering, humbled also by the severe discipline he had undergone, he endeavoured to settle down again to business. But the attempt was unsuccessful.

The object of life, so far as his future happiness was concerned, was lost; and alienated from his own family, he suddenly resolved to banish himself for ever from the scene of his bitter disappointment. It was at a time when wonderful stories were told of the opening for industry and enterprise in the Australian colonies; and what could he do better than put half the circumference of the world between himself and his lost hopes? He had earned the means for the voyage, and something more, during his business connection with his friend Ralph; and, better than this, he had obtained a practical knowledge of the profession which, above all others, was at that time in request in the strange land of which so much began to be told.

But he must see his cousin before bidding farewell to home—must ask her forgiveness for his cruelty—must be reconciled to his successful rival, and then—

"You must do nothing of the sort, Wilson," said Tom, who had listened to him patiently thus far, and who had witnessed the effect of Walter's unexpected appearance. "But you have not yet explained by what evil chance you came upon us just now."

It was easily explained, Walter said. He knew of his cousin's being in Oxford, and he had journeyed thither from London, where he had already taken his passage, and whence he was to sail on the following week. It was by the merest accident that on this, the very day of his arrival, he had, while wandering through the streets, caught a glimpse of his cousin, her husband, and their friend when on their way to the meadow. Concealing himself from them as he best could, he had followed them, and kept near to them in the increasing dusk of evening, waiting only a favourable opportunity of making himself known.

"Which you have no right to do," said Tom, quietly. "Look here, Walter; you, with your bad temper and your ridiculous jealousy, and all that sort of thing, have done mischief enough already, and you are not going to do more, if I can help it. You have seen your cousin—that's enough for you; and if it is any pleasure for you to know it, she has a good husband, who knows, at any rate, how to behave kindly to her. Now I don't leave you till I see you safe off again to London. So come."

It may be that Tom Grigson used other arguments; but whether he did or not, I am sure of one thing—that a night coach conveyed Walter Wilson back again whence he came before three hours were over, and Oxford saw him no more.

CHAPTER XVI.

JOHN TINCROFT STILL UNDER A CLOUD.

A LONG half-year after the events recorded in the foregoing chapter, John Tincroft received a visit from his lawyer.

"I am going to London to-morrow," he said.

"I hope you will have a pleasant journey," John responded.

"Well, yes, I hope so too. I think I shall," said Mr. Roundhand.

"If it is about my affairs—" John began.

"It is about your affairs. The cause comes on the day after to-morrow. That is, it is down for hearing then."

"You know," said John, hastily, "that I have wiped my hands of it long ago."

"Oh yes, I know; and you have left us poor lawyers to take our chances of victory or defeat at our own cost. Come now; what shall I pay you down for the Tincroft estate in nubibus?—win or lose."

John shook his head. "I never gamble," said he.

"And you are wise. Look here, Tincroft; since we last talked about this business, and that was a good while ago, some changes have been going on in the world."

"No doubt; but I don't see the papers now," said stolid John.

"You ought to see them. But I suppose you think that because the old Greeks and Romans did without newspapers you can do without them too. But you are wrong. By the way, you have heard of the Augean stables, no doubt?"

John thought he had—was sure he had.

"And of the labours of Hercules?"

"Yes," John had heard of them too—strange if he hadn't.

"Well, Hercules is come to life again, and has got a new broom, and our Augean stables are being swept out. But I am talking Greek to you, I suppose."

"Worse than Greek. I don't understand you a bit, Mr. Roundhand."

"Ah! You'll see. By the way, do you happen to know who is Lord Chancellor now?"

John did not know even that.

"I don't suppose you do. He is the new broom I was telling you of, and he is sweeping out the Augean stables—our Augean stables—with a vengeance. There will be nothing left for us lawyers to fatten on soon, they say. But it is an ill wind that blows no one any good; and you will be all the better for it—you'll see. You won't go with me to Westminster, I suppose?"

"I do not understand you, Mr. Roundhand," John reiterated; "only that you seem in high spirits," he added.

"And you are not so infected. Well, I'll go. You shall hear from me again soon."

"I am always pleased to see you, you know, Mr. Roundhand," said John.

"Ah! You'll have reason to say so this day week, perhaps. We shall see."

And so he departed, leaving Tincroft in a brown study. For John had lately become more addicted to brown studies than ever. And not altogether without reason. At any rate he had more than one source of disquietude. The first was in the unprofitable nature of his engagements. Do what he might, he had found that grinding mathematics and classics in boarding schools at so much an hour (with frequent gaps between), is about on a par with brickmaking. To supplement this occupation, he had lately tried his hand (as his father Josiah had done before him) at literary composition, but thus far had failed in making any impression on stony-hearted editors. So, if the truth must be told, he was more than ever under a cloud, for his small reserve fund was melting slowly away.

Next, our friend was under much concern regarding the health and comfort of the poor girl who was now his wife. He had conscientiously performed his promises, he had sought to make her happy; and he had found, if not happiness, yet a degree of quiet repose in this union, which perhaps compensated in some measure for the absence of more congenial companionship, which he might have found in a more intellectual and cultivated help-meet. I believe he was even proud of his young wife, and though her bloom was somewhat faded, John loved, as of yore, to sit by her side (not now on a knobby chair, though a cheap one) and contemplate the charms which had first enthralled him. Be this as it might, I know that he cherished her as a thing of price, and would not allow, so far as he could prevent, his own anxious cares for the future to disturb her mind.

And Sarah seemed grateful to her John, and desirous of pleasing him; very submissive, too, to his little whims, she would have been, I think, and very indulgent to his peculiarities, if there had been any need for submission and indulgence. But, notwithstanding all this, poor Sarah pined. She missed the fresh air and the freedom, perhaps, of her native place, and of High Beech Farm, with all its drawbacks. John had watchfully noticed this almost from the first; and now, of late, during the last six months—dating, let us say, from the evening of the fireworks—she had more manifestly fallen off in health and spirits, giving way sometimes to tears on very slight occasions, as John thought, which perplexed him mightily.

In truth, on looking back, John remembered that on that very evening just mentioned, on their return from the pyrotechnics, Sarah was suddenly seized with violent shakings and tremblings, which terminated in hysterics as soon as they reached their own little parlour. And he had reproached himself at the time, as he still did, for having kept his tender little wife too long standing on the damp ground and in the miasmatic air of the river-side meadow. Perhaps Tom Grigson could have better accounted for this sudden affection; but he was a good fellow, and he did not.

Another of Tincroft's worries was in the increasing necessity felt by his mother-in-law for those afternoon "lyings down" which used to excite his sympathy, as well as puzzle him, but the too obvious cause of which began slowly to dawn on John's unsuspicious and unimaginative mind.

With all these cares, however, John was not unhappy. To a considerable degree they were counteracted by the Mens conscia recti, which, at any rate, lightened his burden. Then his friend Grigson was constant.

And, lastly, if he wanted a little good solid talk, was not there his old friend Mrs. Elizabeth Barry, with her cheerful, old-fashioned piety (old-fashioned, I mean, in her way of expressing it), and her favourite hymn-book, of which John became at last positively enamoured. He was ever a welcome guest at the Barrys; and in virtue of his family relationship to the obese old lady, Sarah was admitted into her presence-chamber, not altogether without a beneficial effect. And this connection was advantageous in obtaining for Sarah the sometimes help and sometimes sympathy and sometimes cheering companionship of little Mrs. Barry the younger, when John was away on his professional engagements, or racking his brains (alas, in vain it seemed!) in a small closet about nine feet square, which he called his study.

But a change was impending; and to show how "great events from little causes spring" (am I right in my quotation?), his gracious Majesty of Great Britain and Ireland was little aware how he was helping of John Tincroft's fortunes when, on a certain trivial occasion, he changed his Cabinet Ministers, and, of necessity, appointed a new Lord Chancellor.

"Tincroft v. Tincroft.—This suit is at last ended in favour of the Sussex branch of the family. His lordship, in giving judgment, remarked that whatever doubts or uncertainties in relation to the legitimate heirship of John Tincroft, the claimant of that branch, might formerly have been entertained, had been entirely removed by the latest evidence produced in his favour." So the newspapers report.

"I congratulate you with all my heart," said Mr. Roundhand when next they met. "You won't be a rich man, you know; but there is the estate, such as it is, unencumbered; and though the funded property has been pretty considerably reduced, and may be more so before affairs are finally wound up, there will be something to patch up the old house with, and to give you a fixed income, if a small one."

"And I congratulate you too with a 'Hip, hip, hurrah!'" shouted Tom Grigson, who had come in with the lawyer. "And won't Dick be pleased? I tell you what, we must have another picnic for this, only it must be in the Tincroft grounds this time."

"It shall be as you please, Tom," said John, faintly, and with a bewildered air, for the news had come upon him suddenly and unexpectedly. He had never less believed in the breaking of the cloud under which he had lain all his life, notwithstanding all his lawyer had said, than at the very moment when, looking up, he saw that the cloud was gone.

On the whole, however, John Tincroft conducted himself with tolerable composure as soon as he clearly understood his altered circumstances.

"I am glad of it for Sarah's sake," he said. "Poor dear Sarah! She will rally now, I hope. It will be pleasant for her to live in the country again."

And so, after a while, they went to live in the country, John Tincroft and his Sarah, and Sarah's mother. And they had, instead of a picnic, what they called a "house-warming," at which were present Mr. Richard Grigson and his brother Tom, Mr. Rubric, Mr. Rackstraw, Mr. Roundhand, and his confidential clerk Mr. Foster, with sundry others. It took time to bring this about, however, for the old dilapidated house first had to be made habitable, and its grounds presentable to strangers. And after all, as the lawyer had predicted, Tincroft's means of keeping up appearances and entertaining visitors were limited within narrow bounds.

Great expectations were excited around Tincroft House, and in the not far-off town of Trotbury, when it was known that a real Tincroft—the Tincroft—was coming to enjoy his own again. Tradesmen of all degrees, from the showy upholsterer of Trotbury to the indispensable butcher, baker, and grocer of the immediate village, looked forward to an accession of custom, and left their cards at the door. The cards were graciously received; but little came of it. A family of three, living in a few rooms in a large mansion, the rest being shut up, was not likely to make the fortunes of many tradespeople. So they drew off disgusted, as their way too often is.

In truth it was a quiet recluse kind of life that John began to lead in his new home. He cultivated no friendships, and was soon dropped by the few wealthier neighbours who at first made some advances towards his acquaintance. In a short space of time, therefore, Tincroft House seemed to have returned almost to its former condition.

Nevertheless, this way of life suited John Tincroft perhaps better than any other would have done. He could study if and when he pleased. He could put pen to paper without caring much about the "declined with thanks" which had formerly damped his ardour; for if the editors would not print his lucubrations, he could read them in manuscript to his young wife, though poor Sarah was no wiser when he had done than she had been before; and this served his purpose. And, finally, he could cultivate his own cabbages and gather his own apples, and that privilege, he did not count as nothing.

At times, too, he received visitors. Now that he had obtained the estate, such as it was, his London relative, Mr. Rackstraw, found it pleasant enough to run down into the country for a few days in the autumn, under pretence Of shooting, when he took up free quarters at Tincroft House, and talked somewhat boastfully of the hand he had had in John's fortunes; or would have had if the dear fellow had gone out to India, as he had planned. John made him welcome enough; he would not have known how to do otherwise.

But more welcome guests were Richard and Tom Grigson, who, sometimes together and sometimes apart, periodically and for some years gave John the benefit and pleasure of their society. And on occasion of Tom's marriage to Kate Elliston of the Mumbles, a part of their honeymoon was spent at Tincroft House, the unused state apartments being prepared and hospitably thrown open to them for that auspicious occasion. But respecting this matrimonial event, we shall have something to tell in a future chapter.

Mr. Rubric also sometimes found his way to Tincroft House. And it is to be expressly stated that this gentleman, as well as those above mentioned, made themselves agreeable to Mrs. Tincroft by the respectful gallantry with which they treated her.

John would fain have extended his hospitality to excellent Mrs. Barry, to whom he was, on more than one account, indebted. But she laughingly declined the invitation.

"When I travel the country in a showman's van, as the fat woman of Oxford, I'll be sure to give you a call," said she; "but till then, I think you must come and see me sometimes, Mr. John."

Which he did.

Once the Tincrofts received an unexpected call from Ralph Burgess, out of the far north, whose professional engagements in connection with a projected railroad (for it was at the time when railroads began to be surveyed) carried him southward.

On this occasion, John was taken aside by his visitor.

"You have heard nothing of Walter Wilson of late, I suppose!"

"Nothing," said John, "except that he went to Australia soon after—not long after—"

"Not long after your marriage. True. You will not be sorry to hear that he is not doing badly out there, I hope?"

"Sorry!" Why should John be sorry? He was very glad, and so would Sarah be, when she heard it.

"But perhaps you will be surprised to hear that he is married?"

"Better news still," said John. "It makes me uncommonly happy to hear it."

And now, having made a sort of hero of one who became so without intending it, and in spite of himself, we here make our bow to John Tincroft, to bring him forward again after many years. Before taking this stride, however, it will be incumbent on us to leave him some little time to repose under his laurels, while we glance at the fortunes of two or more of the dramatis personæ of this history.

CHAPTER XVII.

HELEN.

SOME years before the occurrence of the events recorded in the former part of our narrative, Mr. Sedley, a professional gentleman, pretty well off in the world, and with a good position in society, having taken umbrage at some slight offered him in the county town where he had imagined his influence to be paramount, hastily made up his mind to leave the country.

In pursuance of this design, he first of all disposed of his practice; sold the house in which he lived, and the greater part of his furniture; went into lodgings; and then, when all these steps had been taken, began to study the science of emigration in connection with the numerous and various British colonies scattered over the face of the globe.

If Mr. Sedley had had only himself to please, the matter would have been of smaller consequence than it was. But he was a married man, and was, in sequence, the father of some half-dozen sons and daughters. Of these appendages, or encumbrances as they are sometimes called, such as were old enough to have any opinions of their own were at first rather rebellious; at least, they thought it hard to have to give up the comforts and luxuries of a genteel home in England for the uncertain prospects and advantages, and the certain toils and sacrifices, of an emigrant life.

But Mr. Sedley had a strong will of his own, and was especially liable to attacks of obstinacy which sometimes seemed to lead on to remorselessness of purpose, and which, as is usual in such cases, gained strength by opposition. It was natural enough, therefore, though not necessarily judicious, that he should silence the objections of these younger members of his family, by the unanswerable argument wrapped up in Le roi le veut.

As to Mrs. Sedley, the meek-spirited wife, it was sufficient for her to know that she must follow in her husband's wake. Had she not vowed to "love, honour, and obey"? So, without any fruitless remonstrances, she prepared quietly to fulfil her duty.

As, however, my story is about John Tincroft, I must follow the fortunes of the Sedley family only so far as they relate indirectly to the continuance of his history. Briefly, then, after long pondering on the subject, and consulting as many authorities as he thought expedient, the ex-lawyer fixed on the then almost terra incognita of Australia as his general, and the part of it known as New South Wales as his particular, destination.

Those were not the times of fast clippers, to say nothing of ocean steamers. As Mr. Sedley, however, could afford to pay good passage-money, he and his set sail one day in late summer from Gravesend, under comparatively comfortable circumstances.

The voyage was attended with the usual variety of monotonous incidents. It was long and wearying, but it came to an end; and about the commencement of the Australian summer, the party landed at Sydney. Not long to remain there, but to proceed a good way up the country to a farm or settlement, which, on the representation of an advertisement, and forgetting his professional caution, the gentleman had purchased without seeing.

The bargain probably was not a bad one, after all; or it might not have been, in the hands of one who understood the ins and outs of a pastoral life at the Antipodes. But, unfortunately, Mr. Sedley would have been at his wits' ends on an English farm; for farming comes no more by nature than gig-driving. Very soon, therefore, he found himself altogether beyond his wits on an Australian settlement. In other words, misfortunes rapidly set in upon him; and to add to his embarrassments, one of those periodical times of depression, to which all now colonies are more or less subject, fell upon New South Wales.

Happily for the Sedleys, their whole property was not invested in land and stock, and they outrode the storm. After the lapse of a year or two, their circumstances began to mend; and they had their share in the returning and increasing prosperity of their adopted country.

But while regaining his lost ground in this respect, Mr. Sedley had still reason to regret the course into which he had been driven by the impulses of his unreasoning obstinacy. In England he had maintained a certain position in social life for which he was very well suited, and in which were combined and concentrated a good many rational pleasures, counterbalanced, it is true, by a liability to be slighted and mortified occasionally.

In Australia, he had none with whom to dispute precedence, or to stand up for his rights, simply because he had no such neighbours. He was "monarch of all he surveyed," it is true; but then it was because he had no equals or fancied superiors his "right to dispute." Wife and children—an ignorant and awkward and untoward woman-help who had come out to the colony under the pressure of circumstances, and at the expense of the home Government—a shepherd and hut keeper (obtained under similar advantages or disadvantages), who drew monthly rations and smoked strong tobacco, and otherwise comported themselves as free and independent savages in a shanty some three miles away—a rough-and-ready bush carpenter and blacksmith, with a rather more civilised groom of the stables at home, and one or two farm labourers, who called Mr. Sedley their "boss," obeying him when it suited them, and setting him aside when it did not, formed the whole of the community within a radius of some ten miles in every direction.

Now, this was not, in all respects, pleasant to Mr. Sedley. Authority is gratifying, no doubt, under certain conditions, and when it can be enforced. But in this case, those conditions were wanting, and all that Mr. Sedley got for his occasional outbreaks of despotic temper was the timid fear of those to whose confiding love he thought he had a right, and the contempt and daring rebellion of the few to whom he looked for unlimited obedience.

If Mr. Sedley was disappointed in his fancy-drawn pictures of an emigrant life (on which he ought never to have entered, because totally unfitted for it), his wife and children were confirmed in their prophetic dread of it. To have exchanged a respectable family mansion in a quiet country town, a bevy of well-conducted servants, a circle of friends and acquaintances, the delights of leisurely occupations, the conveniences of life in general, for a rough log-house in what to them was a desert, with all its disadvantages and drawbacks, was simply disgusting.

They had not been accustomed to hardships, and the freedom they might have exercised and enjoyed in their new home, and which to many others would have been a boon of price, was to them mere slavery. We have thought proper to drew attention to, and to dwell for a minute or two on, this state of things at Sedley Station, as the settlement was called, for a reason of our own. It is a benevolent one: let this suffice.

To go on with our episodal sketch.

The Sedleys were to pass through deeper trials than the disappointments and coarse toils of an emigrant life. Not many years after their settling down at the station, a fever (introduced, as was supposed, by a miserable, half-starved wretch who was loafing his way from settlement to settlement professedly in search of work, and who was taken in out of charity, and suffered to remain for some days to recruit his strength) broke out among them. Only those who have passed through a like experience can fully enter into the terrors of that time.

At first, recourse was had to the family medicine chest which the Sedleys had brought out with them from London. This failing, the nearest doctor was sent for. He lived full thirty miles away, and he came to find two of the stricken ones already dead, two in a state of collapse, the remaining two in the earlier stages of the fever, and the parents, who had been deserted by their faithless helps at the outbreak of the sickness, in almost speechless agony of mind, and worn out with bodily fatigue.

A few weeks later, and the home was desolate. Of all who had, a few years before, left a happy home in England, only two remained—the father, prematurely aged, and Helen, a maiden of fifteen; the fever had carried off all beside—the mother last of all. She had been spared, upheld as it seemed by the strength of a mother's devotion, till her services were no longer needed, and then she too was stricken down.

Time softens sorrow, especially to the young. Helen Sedley had felt, with all the poignancy of a daughter's and a sister's grief, the bereavement of which we have told. But as months, and afterwards years, passed away, her tears ceased to flow as she thought of the lost ones; and she bent herself with more determination to the duties in life which lay before her.

She had need enough to do this, for her path was rough, and her duties were severe. The infirmities of age were fast gathering and concentrating themselves upon Mr. Sedley, and through these the infirmities of his natural temper became more and more glaring. To Helen, indeed, he was gentle and loving; to his dependents, he was as morose and arbitrary as the conditions of their service permitted or enabled him to be, and the kind-hearted girl had constantly to watch for those outbursts of anger, so as both to moderate their fury and to prevent their worst consequences.

We have hinted that some of the servants at Sedley Station were of the convict class. Indeed, the labour market of the colony was, at the time of which we write, in a great measure supplied by convicts on ticket-of-leave. Many of these turned out valuable servants. In fact, knavery, at any rate on a small scale, was too bad a trade to fall back upon; it paid a transported housebreaker or pickpocket much better to practise honest labour. The spell, therefore, was to a great extent broken. At the same time, there were desperate characters among the convicts whom no discipline could tame, and whom experience could not teach; and there is no doubt that such as these were an element of danger to all concerned.

The men whom Mr. Sedley first engaged, or rather obtained from the proper authorities, as his bond-servants, had worked out their time and disappeared soon after the terrible blow fell on him and Helen. But others of the same class succeeded, and it was between these and her father, when in his moods of obstinate despotism, that Helen had so frequently to mediate, or afterwards to interpose the balm of soft and kindly words to the chafed and galled.

"Your father may thank you, Helen Sedley, for being in a whole skin at this present," said a man to her one day, when Sedley had been mare than usually violent in his language and bearing towards him for having, in some trivial matter, disobeyed his orders. "He taunted me with having been lagged, as you heard, Miss Sedley; and it isn't the first nor the second time, and my opinion is that he will do it once too often. He threatened me with Norfolk Island, too, did he? Let him take care that he isn't sent to a darker and narrower hole than Norfolk Island one of these days."

"You must not speak so to me, Styles," said Helen, firmly, though her heart secretly fluttered at seeing the dark eyes of the man glisten, as with the wild fire of rage and vengeance, while he was speaking. But Helen, though scarcely twenty years old, was wise and brave as well as good and kind; and she knew that she must not show signs of fear.

"I must speak, Miss Sedley," rejoined the man, respectfully enough so far as Helen was concerned, but doggedly and fiercely too; "if I don't speak here and now, I shall talk to another purpose somewhere else, and at some other time, not far-off, perhaps. Look here, Miss Sedley, in the old country I was as good a man as your father, I reckon, though I mightn't have had his education. At all events, I wasn't a lawyer as he was—so I have heard, at least. But I was a gentleman's son, and might have been a gentleman myself at this time if it hadn't been for—there, never mind. But I don't forget what I was once; and 'tis hard lines to be treated worse than a dog, as your father treats me."

"I have told you many times, Styles, how much I feel for you—for all who are in your unhappy position," said Helen, softly; "and now I ask you for my sake to make allowances for my father."

"He makes precious few allowances for me," retorted the man, gloomily. Nevertheless, he remained waiting to hear what more Helen had to say.

"You know what a loss he—what a loss both of us had to bear five years ago. My mother, my sisters, my brothers—there were six of us then—" Helen's firmness gave way here.

"I know—that is, I have heard it all," said Styles, more mildly than he had before spoken; "and I am a brute not to make allowances, as you say. But it is hard, Miss Sedley, for all that, to be a—to be what I am, and to feel what I feel at times. It gets over me. Do you know why I was sent out and am here, Miss Sedley?"

"I have never inquired, and I have never been told," the young woman answered.

"It was not for dishonesty; I never stole a penny, I never cheated any man out of a farthing to my knowledge; but I struck a man when I was in a passion, and I struck him hard. I didn't mean to do mischief; I didn't know what I was doing till it was too late. The man insulted me, but not so bad as your father has done the same thing, and I was too high-spirited to stand it. Before he could speak another word, the deed was done; he fell down like lead, and he never spoke again."

The perspiration broke out on Styles's forehead, and his lips quivered as he spoke; and then presently he added, more quietly and softly—

"I tell you, Miss Sedley, it isn't safe for your father to go on as he does with others as well as with me. I don't want to hurt him. It is bad enough to have one man's death on the mind, to want to have another. But what has happened once unawares might happen a second time. There's some of the old grit left, I sometimes feel; and setting myself aside, there are others who wouldn't care a straw so they could have their revenge."

"I thank you for your warning, Styles," said Helen; "and I will do what I can to make your position—I mean to shield you from trouble of any sort. I did not before know what you have now told me; but as you are feeling now the consequences of rash anger, you surely would not give way again to the same temptation?"

"I don't know why not, Miss Sedley. Life such as mine out here is not so valuable as to be worth keeping. But you speak about my feeling the consequences, you don't know all."

The man's voice faltered here, and the muscles of his face were painfully moved.

"I had a wife—I hadn't been married a year." The poor ticket-of-leave man here broke out into a passionate cry, and hastily turned away.

"Don't speak of it to me, Styles. It only distresses you. Pray to God to give you pardon and strength to bear your sorrow. The Lord Jesus will give you rest and peace. Go to Him."

"Yes, I know, I know," said the man, again facing his monitress; "but I think for all that, the devil would long before now have got the mastery, if it hadn't been for you. Helen Sedley, you are like my Caroline, like what she was; and when I look on you, my heart seems to soften."

"And have you no hope of being restored to her?"

"No hope. She is dead; she died on ship-board the year after our last parting in prison. She was following me out." And the man walked slowly away when he had said this.

It was with experiences such as these that Helen Sedley became familiar in her life in the Australian bush. Let it be borne in mind that I am writing of what is now long past. Australian life, whether in bush or towns and cities, has strangely altered since then. But is it to be wondered that, under such circumstances, a feeling of desolation sometimes made the solitary young woman sad, while the need for constant watchfulness and daily labour, not always of the most feminine kind, made her seem and feel older than her years.

As time wore on, Helen had to take active superintendence of her father's concerns, even to the occasional visiting of the out-station, for he was becoming feeble and forgetful. It was in fulfilment of this duty that she had, soon after the conversation just recorded, to take cognisance of a plot she had discovered (but in which the man Styles had no part), and which had some time been in operation, for seriously damaging the livestock on the distant run.

On making this discovery, there was no alternative but to lodge an information with the nearest district magistrate; and Helen had, reluctantly enough but courageously, to be a witness against the conspirators. These were convicted, principally on her evidence, and heavily sentenced. Being remitted to headquarters to undergo a lengthened imprisonment, these men were replaced in the station by others of the same class.

But thenceforth it could not be concealed from the Sedleys (father and daughter) that they were surrounded by greater dangers than ever. Is it to be wondered that, in the bitterness of her loneliness, Helen sometimes uttered the mournful plaint within herself, "Oh, why did we ever leave England?"

CHAPTER XVIII.

AN ADVENTURE.

ON the afternoon of an early day in an Australian spring, a solitary horseman was leisurely enough passing over a longish stretch of plain, bounded behind him by a forest from which he must have emerged some half an hour or more, and in advance by a range of hills looking blue by reason of distance. On either hand the ground rose irregularly, so as to hide any distant prospect.

The traveller was a tall young man, strongly built, with an open countenance, somewhat sunburnt, expressive of unsuspiciousness and general good humour, though with a dash of determination in some of the features—especially the firmly-set lips, which, to a physiognomist, might have denoted a certain amount of obstinate determination. An old colonist would, moreover, have discovered at the first glance that the stranger was but a recent importation from the old country.

The horse on which he rode was a serviceable, rough-coated animal, strong-limbed and long-winded, as it had need to be, seeing that though it had already made several days' journeys, on scant fare and with little stable luxury, it had yet to bear its rider many other days before a day's rest could be granted. The steed was plainly accoutred, well-bitted, however; and the saddle, though it had seen service, was sufficiently comfortable for both man and beast.

The traveller was clad in homely garb, such as indicated a probable connection with farming and grazing, and behind him was strapped a tolerable-sized portmanteau, most likely containing necessary or desirable conveniences for his journey; while a haversack suspended over his shoulder showed that he had provisioned himself against one of the inconveniences of desert travelling—a lack of hospitality on the road. This was likely enough to be his experience.

He had left a township where he had passed the preceding night, some forty miles behind him, with the expectation of having to camp out after sundown, or when his horse and himself should be too tired to proceed further; and he had journeyed on all day without any signs of human life. He had been told, indeed, that there was a station near the road where he might possibly obtain accommodation; but the character given of its owner was not sufficiently inviting to induce him to turn aside from his course.

He had only recently rested on the bank of a narrow creek, or streamlet, or irregular watercourse, where he had refreshed himself and his steed, and guided partly by the direction of that stream, partly by a pocket compass, was steadily renewing his journey, when a loud, long-continued cry smote suddenly upon his senses. New as he evidently was to bush life in the colony, the young man might have mistaken the sound for the far-off call of some strange bird or beast if it had not been repeated with greater distinctness, which enabled him to recognise in it the far-extending call of a human voice, peculiar, we believe, to the Australian world in the prolonged shout of "Coo-ee."

A tightening of the bridle brought the obedient horse to a standstill, while the rider listened again to hear the sound, but this time in fainter tones, and accompanied by a shriller shriek, as of one in agony or bodily fear. The traveller did not hesitate any longer, but turning his horse's head in the direction whence the sounds seemed to come, he applied spurs and whip, and was the next minute galloping towards the summit of the irregular incline on the left hand, which, as we have said, had, shut out any distant prospect in that direction.

Arriving at the summit, he beheld, at the distance of some quarter mile beyond, a scene which quickened at once his pulse and his movements. Two horses were running loose on the open plain, others were hobbled near a clump of trees, and were consequently unable to enjoy the same liberty. Close by this clump of trees, also, a desperate struggle seemed to be in progress—as far as the stranger could make out—between three men, one of whom was desperately resisting the combined efforts of the other two to bear him to the ground. Besides these a female appeared to have been taken captive by a fourth man, who was dragging her by the arm towards the hobbled horses.

In much less time than it has occupied in telling, the young traveller had taken in the whole of these details, and was hastening to the rescue as rapidly as the impetus of whip and spur could act upon the frightened animal he bestrode.

Fast as he rode, however, the changes in the strange drama on which he kept his eye fixed were outstripping him. In one of these changes, the report of a pistol-shot reached his ear; and a puff of smoke for a moment veiled the woman and her assailant. Only for a moment, and when it had passed, greatly to his astonishment, the spectator perceived that the man was staggering backward and falling, and that the female, instead of making her escape, was in the act of springing forward to the help of the one who, in the part of the scene first described, was evidently on the point of being overcome in the odds that were against him.

There was no time for reflection; and once more applying the spur, the traveller, ere three minutes had passed away, added another to the fierce conflict. What occurred then, he never afterwards remembered consecutively.

He knew only that, first throwing himself off his horse and then into the fray, he received a heavy blow on his head, which, thanks to the felt that he wore, did not stun, though for an instant it confused him; that by this time, one of the two men—who might be rogues or honest men for anything he knew, all his knowledge being that they were two to one—had been stricken by him to the ground, and that the female, whoever she might be, was calling to him for help, but impeding his free action by her unconsciously clinging to him for protection; and that, in a short space of time, as it seemed to him, he and this unknown fair one in distress were apparently master and mistress of the field—two of the combatants having retreated to the trees, unhobbled two of the horses, mounted, and ridden fast away, while two others lay on the turf, at a little distance apart, hors de combat, at any rate for the time being.

We left the bush traveller in a rather awkward state of confusion, but he had sufficient gallantry to commence offering some respectful attentions to the female he had rescued, and whom he perceived to be young, though her countenance—now that the excitement was over—had become deadly pale, when she pointed to one of the men on the sward, and hurriedly begged the unknown to render any aid in his power. He therefore turned his attention to this benevolent purpose, and while thus employed, the young woman stood at a little distance, watching his proceedings with anxiety, but apparently without fear; for her colour soon returned, and she stood firm, and even employed her hands in readjusting some disordered folds in her stout riding dress, still keeping her gaze fixed on the stranger.

"Badly hurt, this one," said the stranger, as he raised the head of the man in whose cause he himself had received the blow which made him still feel dizzy, and who was a tall, well-made fellow, thirty years old or thereabout, in the ordinary dress of a labourer or shepherd of those parts. He had been not only savagely beaten, but had received an apparently deep knife-wound above the collar-bone during the scuffle.

"Badly hurt, he seems to be," the stranger repeated.

"Oh, I hope not!" said the anxious watcher, stepping forward and stooping down to observe more closely.

And then, without showing any signs of weakness or affectation, she rendered such assistance as time and place allowed, much as a nurse in a hospital would have done, the traveller thought, and with equal skill and presence of mind.

In a moment or two the man revived sufficiently to open his eyes and to say, faintly—

"Thank you, Miss Helen; and thank God you are safe. I was afraid it was all up with us both."

"It would have been, Styles, but for this good man who came to our help," said the young woman.

"He has done a good deed to-day, if he never did before," said the wounded man. "I suppose you knew who those fellows were?"

Yes, she knew two of them well enough, the girl answered. They were the men she had witnessed against.

"But do not say any more—it only hurts you" (this was manifestly true, for the man drew his breath thick and painfully)—"we must get you home as soon as we can. Do you think you can mount your horse?" she asked, forgetting her own injunction of silence.

"I doubt if I shall ever ride again," groaned the man. "The knife has done its work, I guess; and it is only what I might have expected. It has come home to me—my own—"

"Don't speak of it."

"Well, what's done can't be undone. But I am glad 'twas in defending you that I got it."

While this conversation was going on, brokenly, the stranger was busy in completing the binding up of the wound as carefully and quickly as he was able, remembering that a few yards off another was needing his help. This done, he allowed the female to take his place by the head of the patient, so as to give the needed support, and turned towards the clump of trees behind which that other had fallen. But, to his astonishment, when he reached the spot, no man was there. In another minute, the mystery was explained by a hoarse shout of derision, as it seemed, from the direction in which the hobbled horses had been; and glancing thitherward, the young man perceived that the ruffian, as no doubt he was, had so far recovered from the effects of the bullet wound as to crawl to the remaining horse, which he had managed to unhobble and mount.

"A pretty enough shot," he hallooed, laughing, as he rode away; "but it would take more than a popgun like that to—" The remainder of the sentence was lost in the distance.

The "popgun" lay at the stranger's feet. It was a small pocket-pistol, but sufficiently venomous-looking, he thought, as he picked it up, and retraced his steps to the wounded man still on his hands.

"The fellow has got off without serious damage, it seems," he said to the young woman. "I don't know whether I ought to be glad or sorry that you did not kill him outright," he added.

"Oh, I did not want to hurt him much," she replied, gravely. "I only shot him in the knee. I judged that the shock would make him let me go then, and I knew that he would not be able to run after me. If I hadn't done that, I might have been beyond the reach of help."

("You are a cool hand, at all events," thought the stranger, but he did not speak.)

"And now, if you will be so good as to help me home with poor Styles; but must you be getting forward with your own affairs?"

He could not leave his present work unfinished, said the traveller; and as to his own affairs, they were in no such great hurry. Was the home of which the Amazon (as he began to think the young woman)—of which she spoke very far-away? He might very well ask this, for no habitation, nor sign of habitation, had he seen in that day's journey.

"Only half an hour's ride; and if we could but get poor Styles on his horse—"

"You must get the horse to come to him first, and yours too," thought the traveller once more, though he did not say it, when he saw them still capering wildly in the distance. As to his own steed, it had trotted and galloped too many miles that day to take advantage of the confusion, or care for making the most of its liberty. The question, however, was soon set at rest by the young horsewoman rising and uttering a peculiar cry, which first caused the stray animals to prick up their ears, and then to quietly trot back to their mistress's side.

By this time, the man Styles had somewhat rallied, and his returning strength being for the time still further recruited by the contents of a flask which the stranger had in his haversack, he declared himself, though still faint, not beyond the power of necessary exertion. Aided, therefore, by the stranger, he remounted; the Amazon doing the same without assistance. The young traveller then sprang on to his horse, and placed himself on the bridle-hand side of the wounded man, so as to render help, if his strength were to fail.

As the cavalcade proceeded slowly—for the wounded man was manifestly unequal to rapid motion—there was opportunity for a few hurried explanations. For instance, the stranger told how he had recently landed at Sydney, and had been advised—as being used to land-surveying—to join a company of explorers some distance up the country, and was thus far on his journey with that intention, when the opportunity of rendering this slight service was thrown in his way.

On the other hand, the young horsewoman explained that she was the daughter of a bush farmer and grazier, whose station they were now approaching; and that, because of her father's age and infirmities, she had occasionally to visit an out-station; that, in consequence of recent alarms, she had of late, for her protection, been attended by the faithful man-servant, and had also chosen to carry with her the bosom-companion which had fortunately conduced to her deliverance. She knew two of her assailants, she repeated: they were men of bad character, who had formerly been employed at her father's station, and who, having been defeated in an atrocious plot, and sent to the barracks at Sydney for punishment, had escaped, and, as bushrangers, were spreading terror around, at all stations within a widespread area.

These explanations, which the circumstances of the case rendered natural, opened the way for other topics of conversation, relating principally to life in the bush. And this, together with the necessary assistance which the stranger had to give to the disabled man, whose faintness scarcely permitted him to keep the saddle, brought them to Sedley Station, where it was arranged that the traveller should lodge, at any rate till the following morning.

Our readers will have known from the first that the bush traveller in the scene just described was none other than the Walter Wilson of the early part of our narrative. Arriving at Sydney with sufficient means to equip himself, as we have narrated, and learning there that a good chance of getting on in the colony presented itself in joining the band of adventurers who were pushing their way into the interior, he had not hesitated in proceeding in the direction in which they were likely to be found. It was otherwise determined for him, however, that he should stop short in an expedition which eventually proved to be a failure, attended with much physical suffering and some loss of life to those concerned in it.

New as Walter was to bush life, he was not sorry to find himself between clean sheets in a tolerably comfortable chamber, instead of having to roll himself up in his poncho on the bare ground, and under a canopy of sky, as he had anticipated. And we may suppose that his rest that night was as free from unquiet thoughts as it was untroubled by actual alarms. In other words, he slept soundly, and it was not till broad daylight, streamed in upon him in his resting-place that he opened his eyes wonderingly, and then, when he had collected his senses, sprang from his comfortable couch.

On entering the living-room of the log-house, Walter found that the heroine of the preceding evening was not so Amazonian as he had thought her. She was, in fact, so unnerved, he was told, as to be unable to make her appearance at the breakfast-table. Also, he was concerned to hear that the wounded man was in a more critical state than had been suspected. The weapon had not indeed penetrated to any vital part, so as to make the stab immediately fatal; but the internal bleeding had been considerable, and the man was consequently so weakened and faint, and evidently in so critical a state, as to make it necessary to despatch a messenger for surgical assistance.

All this was told to Walter Wilson by the infirm and easily alarmed host, who supplemented the recital of his troubles by inviting the stranger to remain at the station for at least a few days.

We have already intimated that Wilson had received a somewhat unfavourable impression concerning the owner of this station—principally, however, turning on his suspiciousness and want of hospitality to chance travellers. And it may be understood that the circumstances under which the greater part of his family had been swept off, might have accounted for his unwillingness to entertain strangers. On the present occasion, however, this unwillingness had given way to fear of another character; and he so earnestly made his request, that it would have been almost cruel in Wilson to refuse the favour asked. Though, at the same time, he was amused by the evident attempt to give the invitation the appearance of an offered favour.

"You see," said Mr. Sedley, in urging his plea, "the fellows who attacked my daughter are most likely hanging about in the bush not very far-off; and if you should fall into their hands, you will have no mercy shown to you. They are desperate men, as I know full well; and your having interrupted them in their designs of yesterday will have made you a marked man. It will not be safe for you to be travelling alone through the bush for days, and perhaps weeks, to come."

Walter thanked the old colonist for his concern on this account, but added that he was pretty well prepared to defend himself, if attacked. And he showed, what he had not produced on the field of action, one of those formidable tools, not then so common as they have since become—a six-barrelled revolver.

"I carry the lives of six men in my belt, you see, sir," said he, as the old gentleman handled the weapon curiously but cautiously. "I think," he added, "that this gives the odds in my favour against any three such scoundrels as those that were sent to the right-about yesterday—especially as they seemed to have no firearms."

Finding that this argument did not avail him, Mr. Sedley shifted his ground by acknowledging some apprehension that an attack might be made upon the station; "and now that Styles is in his present state, he would be of no use to me. As to myself, you see I am no fighting man; and the labourers about the station would take care not to endanger their lives to save my property nor my life either, even if they should not take part with the scoundrels. And then there is my daughter—"

Wilson cut short this plea by saying that it mattered little to him where he might be; and as to his own safety, or life even, he did not value it much—he had no particular reason to do so. And as he might be of some use where he was, he would remain, at any rate until the danger his host apprehended should have blown over. And so, therefore, it was finally arranged.

In the course of the day, the surgeon arrived and examined the wounded man, who was evidently sinking. The knife, as Styles himself had said, had done its work, and on the following day, it was manifest that he was dying. By this time, Helen Sedley had so far recovered from the effects of her alarm as to be able to resume her active and multiform duties. Among these were those devolving on her as the manager-general of the station; and another, of which I must now write a few words.

It is one of the great drawbacks, and one of the saddest features, properly looked at, of life in the bush (it was so in the days of which I write, and it is so now), that Sunday, with all its spiritual associations, is almost forgotten; it is looked upon, at best (with some exceptions), as a day of rest from physical toil. "God-forsaken" seems to be written on, at least, a large number of the wilderness homes which so-called Christians have planted. The isolated character of the settlements, or stations, or townships, and their distance apart, make it impossible for congregations of families to meet for weekly public worship; and except in those few instances in which the settler is under the influence of strong and abiding religious principle, the Bible is generally neglected, if it is possessed; and even a decent respect for the outward observance of family piety ceases to be paid. This the writer has been given to understand by those who ought to be better informed on the subject than himself. It would give him devout satisfaction to be convinced that the charge, as regards the present race of colonists, is unfounded—that a change for the better has taken place.

In the first years of the Sedleys' emigrant life, they had gradually sunk down from a form of religion, which it had been considered decent to keep up in the old country, to no religion at all in the new. It was not to be wondered at, for the form of godliness without the power is a dead thing, after all.

But when the great trial of which I have spoken fell upon the family, old associations were brought to mind, and new thoughts and feelings sprang up; so that the almost forgotten Bibles (each member of the family had his or her own pocket Bible in England, as a matter of course, and these Bibles were among the books which were taken out to Australia) were brought out from their long repose. This is not the place to tell at large (even if it could be known) how the gracious influences of the Divine Word smoothed the passage to the grave of those who were taken away, or sanctified and softened the grief of those who were left behind. It is enough to say that on the mind of Helen Sedley, at least, a striking change took place, so that from being first of all shocked to think of her own past carelessness and ignorance, she came to the conclusion that the great object of her life should thenceforth be, resting on Divine help, the care of her own soul and that of others.

From this time, she had sought diligently to use the opportunities she had; and, as far as lay in her power, she became not only a learner, but a teacher of Christianity. Showing piety at home, she could recommend it to the few with whom she came into daily contact. With her father's consent, she made a not unsuccessful attempt to initiate what may be called a "Lord's Day Observance Society" on Sedley Station; and she prevailed on the rough human materials around her to yield to the magic influence of her earnest desire to do them good.

We have seen how, in a conversation with the broken-spirited Styles, she had reminded him of the great Burden-bearer of the sorrowful and distressed; and that these were not words of course, and without meaning to her, he quite well knew. So far, indeed, had her influence extended over this unhappy man, that a kind of chivalrous spirit of devotion to her service had sprung up in his soul, in consequence of which he had not only endured with patience the peculiar hardships of his lot, but had sought and obtained the privilege of being her body-guard, as we have seen, in her periodical excursions to the out-station.

If any of our lady readers think the character I have here briefly sketched of Helen Sedley inconsistent with her not only carrying a pocket-pistol, but of putting it to use, I beg to say that, placed in similar circumstances, the fair impugner, if of sufficient pluck, would probably have been disposed to carry a brace of pistols; and that, in shooting her assailant's knee-cap, instead of sending a bullet through his head, Helen displayed not only admirable presence of mind and sound judgment, but also exercised much Christian charity.

This slight sketch of Helen Sedley, which, if the reader pleases, may be called a parenthesis within a parenthesis, is not only, as the present writer is fain to believe, sufficiently interesting in itself, but it is needful to our story. At any rate, it will make plain why poor Styles (to go back to him) desired in moving terms to see his young mistress, and why Helen, as soon as she knew of this request, passed over the compound to the hut where he lay dying.

It was a wretched sort of habitation for one who, in earlier life, had known not only the comforts but the luxuries of comparative affluence; but it had been reckoned good enough for a convict on ticket-of-leave. Moreover, small and scantily furnished as it was, Styles had shared it with two others whose lower origin and coarser natures, or habits, had added to his consciousness of degradation. But all this was passing away now; and something like a smile of triumph flickered on his pale countenance as the young mistress entered the apartment, or loft, and, seating herself by the couch, placed one of her hands in the pair of his which were outstretched to receive it.

"I would have come sooner, Styles, if I had known you were so bad," she said, gently. "But I only heard just now the doctor's report. They kept it from me till only a few minutes ago. You do not know how sorry I am to feel that we must lose you."

"It is best so, Miss Helen. I told you a while ago that there was not much in life to make me loth to leave it. I would say the same now, only that my poor services to you are over. And it is worth something to think about as long as I lie here, that it was in trying to protect you, I got my hurt. But this is not what I have mostly to say. I want to thank you for all you have done, and for having turned me back from thoughts of hate and vengeance to different and better feelings and wishes."

"I have brought my Bible with me, Styles; would you like me to read a little to you?" Helen whispered falteringly.

"Please do."

"Is there anything I can do for you first? Are you easy? Do you feel pain?"

"The pain is nothing. No, I want nothing. I have done with wants for this world. Please read."

And so the gentle ministrant soothed and comforted the dying man, pointing his weak and feeble faith to Him who came to seek and to save the lost, and who is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by Him.

CHAPTER XIX.

WHAT HAPPENED AT LOW BEECH FARM.

A WEEK had passed away. Poor Styles was dead, and had been buried in the small enclosed plot which five years before was set apart as the burial-ground of Sedley Station. All were on a level there.

Walter Wilson still remained at the station, and, nothing having been seen or heard of the bushrangers, whose career, it was afterwards found, had been cut short in an unsuccessful raid upon another station, he was thinking of renewing his journey, when a proposal was made to him by his host which altered his intention. And, without lingering unnecessarily over this part of our history, it is sufficient to say that the young man remained to take the oversight of the home and out-stations, and to add to the protection of the lonely inhabitants of the log-house.

Walter had his desire now, so far as being a farmer was concerned; and he turned his previous knowledge to good account. And I hope my readers are sufficiently impressed in his favour by what they already know of him—though he has shown himself to be impetuous, obstinate, and unreasonable—to be pleased to learn that he not only honestly and honourably threw all his energies into the service of his new employer, but gradually lost the first smart of the bitter disappointment which he could not help knowing he had brought upon himself, and in the first flush of which he had abandoned his bright prospects of success in England, and severed himself from his own family by a distance of so many thousands of miles, and by a greater distance still in sympathy.

For Walter could but attribute to the deliberate design of these relatives, and their constant ill-offices, the loss of his cousin; and, on the first discovery of what he called their cruelty and treachery, he vowed that he would have no more to say to them. Perhaps the time came when he was sorry for this resolution, but that time was not yet.

Gradually, however, as I have said, Walter became reconciled to his lot, or at least more contented with it.

After all, he argued within himself, and as, indeed, he wrote to his friend Ralph Burgess, it was only a woman he had lost, and he was not going to make himself miserable all his life long because of this. As to Sarah, he loved her as a cousin still, and there was no harm in that, he hoped. He was also heartily sorry that he had ever suspected her, and so caused her a moment's sorrow. But that was among the bygones now; and he was glad his cousin had got a good husband, though not the one first thought of and planned for and wished for.

But he was sure that Mr. Tincroft, who was a worthy fellow, after all his hard thoughts of him, and his insults too, would use her well; and he hoped and believed that Sarah would be a happy wife, especially as there would be no want nor hard work for her in her new home, now that her husband had got back his rights, as he (Walter) had happened to find out. All this and more the softened penitent wrote to Ralph; and if there was a blot on the paper, as if a big tear had dropped upon one particular part of it while the ink was yet wet, I don't think that either Ralph Burgess or Ralph's sister thought the worse of him for that.

And now we shall leave Walter Wilson to the experiences of colonial life, in which the reader may, if so disposed, picture him as a faithful steward, in all the delights of a life in the bush—the stockyard, the branding-day, with its bustling excitement, shepherding, sheep-shearing, and so forth—with an occasional brush with the natives thrown into the bargain. Occupying him thus, we have leisure to turn to other parties concerned in this narrative. Not to our principal hero, however, whom we must keep in the background for a little while longer, in the yet novel experience of married life, and his otium cum (vel sine) dignitate.

We are once more in England, and at the old Manor House. Not many changes have taken place there, save that Richard Grigson (with all besides) is several years older than when we first made his acquaintance. He is more than ever confirmed in his bachelorhood; it does not lie in his way, he says, to be married. He is as keen a sportsman as ever; and, as of yore, he maintains a sufficient establishment and keeps a hospitable table, though he has not been able to persuade his good friend Tincroft to pay him another visit.

We can understand very well, without having to explain in many words (though we may as well tell it in few), that John has a kind of undefined shrinking from visiting the old spot where, without intending it, he did so much that gave so entirely a new direction to his after-life.

"I'll let well enough alone," says John.

Tom Grigson has some time since left college, but his particular affairs must wait while we devote this chapter to looking up one or two other of our former acquaintances.

First and foremost is our good friend Rubric, who, becoming a trifle more infirm, as well as convinced that his "cure of souls" is over-weighty for his single strength, has taken to himself a curate, who, by some, is reckoned as much too fast as the rector was, by others, thought too slow. It is to be hoped, however, that after a little shaking up together, as they are both good men and true, the mixture of fast and slow will be found the right pace for all parties concerned.

Then there are the Wilsons (Matthew and his family) of Low Beech, and High Beech also. It falls to my lot to report of them that they are prospering in the world, apparently. Matthew is as industrious and plodding as ever; so is his wife. He pays his rent (of both farms), and also his tithe and poor's-rate punctually, and without more than the regular amount of grumbling which certain days in the year (especially tithe-paying days) always witnessed, for they were not yet commuted.

The married son lives at High Beech, as has been previously intimated, and being of a prudent turn of mind, and having got his late uncle's furniture at a low valuation, he is contented with the knobby-seated parlour chairs aforementioned. He is the better satisfied with them that he rarely uses them, preferring to rest and refresh himself in the roomy kitchen of the old farmhouse.

His younger brothers work on the farm, or on one or other of the farms, and are understood to be keeping an eye (of hope and expectation) on two other of the squire's farms which report says will soon be vacant. So "Long live the Plough," say we.

It is a small trouble to the Matthew Wilsons that they never hear from Walter—never have heard from him, nor of him, except indirectly, since he went to Australia.

"His spirit is that high," says the father, "that he doesn't choose to let us know what he is doing; which isn't much, I reckon, or else we should have heard his brag soon enough, I'll warrant."

But for all he talks about his eldest son in this fashion, he knows in his heart, what he does not care to acknowledge, that why Walter keeps such silence has a deeper and sadder reason, or unreason; and that the quarrel (for a quarrel there is) is traceable to much underdealing on the part of himself and his.

They never say much, if anything—these thriving Wilsons—of their niece or cousin, Sarah Tincroft. I am afraid it rather galls them to think of her being "a grand lady;" and that, in fact, their ill-nature and injustice towards her turned out to be, as they believe, the making of her. There are few sayings oftener found true, than that people almost always dislike those whom they have striven without cause to injure, except, perhaps, this other saying, that a sure way to incur the lasting ill-will of some persons is to confer on them a signal benefit. I do not know how this too well-known fact is to be accounted for, except by supposing that to receive a great boon with true gratitude from one whom we had always looked upon as an equal, requires magnanimity of which few are capable. This, however, is a digression: we return to our narrative.

There is yet another reason, however, why the Wilsons are chary of speaking of Mrs. Tincroft. They dare not do this in the hearing of their daughter Elizabeth, of whom I have not yet spoken, but of whom I have somewhat to say. Poor remorse-stricken Elizabeth! Here is her little story:

Not long after the death of her uncle Mark, and the annexation of High Beech to Low Beech by her father, Miss Elizabeth was made sensible of having, of course undesignedly and unaidingly on her part, become the object of admiration to a certain rich young farmer in the neighbouring parish. How could she help this? She wanted to know, when her brothers joked her about it.

And how could she prevent his leaving his own parish church every Sunday to walk three miles, through almost all weathers, to hers—being suddenly enlightened, as he said, as to the superiority of dear good Mr. Rubric's discourses? No, she couldn't prevent this any more than she was able to prevent his offering her his arm on her return home from church, and his insisting on relieving her of the weight of her prayer-book even before they had left the building. And this, although it took Mr. Admirer, otherwise named Smith, another long mile out of his way.

And so the intimacy increased as weeks and even months wore on, till Elizabeth was called upon, as she thought, to yield up her heart, or what she believed to be that seat of affection, without much struggling, to the—Ah, well! We will not talk about the little blind god Cupid, which is heathenish; but without even so much as mentioning the name, you know what I mean, darling wife and daughters.

But poor Elizabeth was unwise. To be sure, it was pleasant to think of stopping from the hard work of Low Beech Farm, which now she began to despise for its smallness and meanness, into the cosy, comfortable position of a rich farmer's wife, with no occasion to do more work than she pleased, and with fine furniture and plenty of servants at her command. And, oh! Who of all the fair readers of this history has not had day-dreams like this? Nevertheless, Miss Elizabeth would have been happier if she had not yielded up her fortress so readily; for Mr. Admirer had never yet taken a step that he could not retrace without fear of "damages."

And he did retrace his steps, every one of them. First, the attendances at church slackened—but perhaps Mr. Rubric was getting prosy; or perhaps the new curate (for he had now made his appearance) was not to the gentleman's taste. Still, there were other days in the week besides Sunday, when he would have been welcomed to Low Beech. But he did not come. And then—but let us draw a veil over the rest; only it soon became known that the cautious gentleman (an admirer no longer) was about to be married, indeed—but not to Elizabeth Wilson. Worse even than this, the unfeeling man had the hardihood to boast of his achievement at Low Beech Farm, saying that at last the blushing damsel there did go in for it so strong, and was so sentimental over it, that he could not stand it any longer.

This being conveyed to the forsaken one by a dear female friend, who thought she ought to know what the perfidious man said of her, was the sharpest, deepest cut Of all. She could have borne anything else, Elizabeth said; but to be called SENTIMENTAL!—she who had despised sentiment in her cousin Sarah!

One Sunday, a few weeks after this terrible blow, Miss Elizabeth opened the great family Bible, which, covered with green baize, ordinarily lay in repose on a side-table in the state-room (otherwise called the parlour) of Low Beech farmhouse, a room always smelling damp and musty, but carefully swept and garnished every seventh day, and put to use after dinner every first day (unless the roads were muddy), and on first days only.

Well, one first day, or Sunday, Miss Elizabeth, happening to be curious concerning some birth, death, or marriage therein recorded, opened the family Bible to refresh her memory respecting that particular event. And then, being in a reflective mood, she turned over the leaves of the heavy volume, not to find consolation under her trial, nor instruction to her ignorance, I am sorry to say, but to forget her harassment in meditating over the wonderful engravings interspersed throughout the book. In doing this, her eye caught the word "treacherously" on the large letterpress of the page opposite one of those pretty pictures. The word tallied with the poor forlorn one's thoughts; for had she not known treachery? So she read the verse. This it was:

"Woe to thee that spoilest, and thou wast not spoiled; and dealest treacherously, and they dealt not treacherously with thee! When thou shalt cease to spoil, thou shalt be spoiled; and when thou shalt make an end to deal treacherously, they shall deal treacherously with thee."

Now, I am grieved to say, Elizabeth Wilson was not a Bible student. But, like many others who rarely open the sacred book, she had a kind of superstitious reverence for, not unmingled with fear of, its "lively oracles." And now, without knowing or seeking to know of whom and on what occasion those ominous words were originally spoken by the prophet, she gave them, rightly enough, a general application. More than this, she believed that they had a particular application to herself, and that they now stared her in the face to taunt and condemn her.

"Oh, it is true!" she cried, hastily shutting up the book. "I did deal treacherously with poor dear Sarah, and now it is come home to me just as the Bible says. He" (the false and fickle one, she meant) "has dealt treacherously with me, to punish me for what I did to my poor cousin and my brother Walter."

We need not follow the distressed girl in her self-reproaches, which were loud and long, and were openly as well as often repeated—so often that her father and mother and brothers got tired of hearing them; the more so, that they themselves did not mean to repent of their misdeeds as Elizabeth was doing. It is enough to say that since that time, the heart-stricken girl has always stood up for her cousin Sarah and her brother Walter when they have been spoken about; and, indeed, often drags in their names and their virtues, and their sufferings of social and domestic martyrdom—so often that father, mother, and brothers now dread to make the slightest allusion to them, in Elizabeth's presence, at all events. Possibly they also feel some pangs of remorse, especially when they think of the absent and expatriated eldest son and brother. But remorse is not real sorrow.

This is rather a dull chapter perhaps, but it will not have been written in vain, if it should start a few serious reflections in any thoughtless mind. There is an old saying that unmerited curses come home to roost. And it is quite as true of treachery, such as has been rather hinted at than described in our previous pages.

CHAPTER XX.

HOW TOM GRIGSON SPED IN HIS WOOING.

AND now for Tom Grigson, and how his wooing sped. That he is married has already been told in the early part of our story, and to the lady of his first choice, moreover. But, having promised to give some account of this important matter, we must invite our readers to accompany us (and Tom) one fine day to the place called the Mumbles, which, as already intimated, had strong attractions to the younger Grigson, even in the early days of our history.

Tom had left college—had had enough of Oxford, he said. The truth is, he and Oxford did not very well agree with each other. Understand me, they never exactly fell out; that is to say, Tom had been neither rusticated nor plucked. He had passed his "Little-go" with tolerable credit. What might have happened at the "Great-go" can never be known, as Tom was too modest, say, to face the ordeal. At all events, he had brought home his cap and gown unsullied; but it would not have broken his heart to know that he should never wear gown, of any shape or texture, again.

But what was Tom to do? He had only a younger son's portion, and that was a small one. As to waiting to step into his brother's shoes, such a thought had never entered his head. He would have despised himself, if it had. And, good-tempered as he was, he would have quarrelled with any one offhand who had hinted at such a conclusion. Besides, Richard, though so many years older than himself, might outlive him for all that. Still, when the question occurred to him as to how he was to make his way in the world—and in spite of his habit of putting off disagreeable topics the thought would come into his mind now and then—he was at a loss for a reply. He had learned "how not to do it" with great success at Oxford. But "how to do it" was yet to be proved.

He could hunt and shoot and ride (his brother's horses, of course) to perfection, or pretty near it, it is true; but as he was not likely to be a candidate for the situation of a gamekeeper or whipper-in, or master of the hounds even, these qualifications were not likely to help him on in the world much. So Richard Grigson sometimes reflected, when he saw Tom employing himself industriously enough in these special gifts, but otherwise "taking it easy," as he said. But Richard was too fond of his brother to want to part with him, and so contented himself with hoping and trusting and half-believing in something turning up unexpectedly so as to solve the difficult problem.

How, under such circumstances, could Tom (as we must go on calling him) possibly commit the imprudence of falling seriously in love with Kate Elliston or any other Kate? Or how could that young lady for a moment seriously think of Tom as her future husband? And yet so it was. And the infatuated youth, on the fine morning of which I am thinking, rode over to the Mumbles as happy perhaps as the richest fellow in the world; for on the previous day he had made the young lady an offer, and had been accepted—conditionally.

On his way he met Mr. Elliston, the owner of that large house and estate. Mr. Elliston was also on horseback, and he saluted the young gentleman thus:

"Well met, Grigson. I was going over to your brother's place expressly to have some talk with you; but as you are come so far, I'll turn back, and say my say at the Mumbles. I suppose you will like that as well, on the whole?"

"A good deal better," said Tom, lightly; and then his heart began to beat a little faster than usual, for he was not quite sure as to what Kate's father might have to say to him, looking so serious too.

Mr. Elliston was the father of the gentleman of whom mention has already been made in these memoirs, as having, according to Miss Elizabeth Wilson's version, discarded a certain Miss Summerfield for a richer prize; and it was further reported that he had been advised, if not compelled, to this course by the old gentleman, who knew as well as any one—so the gossip-mongers said—how many shillings should go to make a guinea.

Now, the condition on which Tom had been blushingly accepted as a lover by the fair Kate, was that her father's consent to the arrangement should be obtained. And though the young gentleman had reason to believe that he was a special favourite with the old one, he was not quite sure whether that favour would safely carry him over the bridge which still lay between him and the fulfilment of his hopes. So, between hoping and fearing, Tom rode silently alongside Mr. Elliston till they reached the stable-yard of the Mumbles, where he gave up his horse to the groom, and, on further invitation, followed the master of the great house into his study.

"So," said the old gentleman, when the door was closely shut, "I understand you have been talking to Kate."

"She has told you, then, what passed yesterday?" said Tom, eagerly.

"Of course she has. She is a good girl, and has made an open breast of it."

"And may I venture to hope, sir, that you will consent to my—to make me—to make Kate, I mean—happy?" blurted out Tom, stammering rather awkwardly. "She—that is, we—love one another very much, sir," said Tom, looking very red, I daresay.

"In other words," said the grey-headed senior, very gravely, "you propose to be my son-in-law—at some future time—and venture to hope that I see no objection to the arrangement. But suppose I do see a very serious and grave and almost insuperable objection to it, my dear Tom, what would you say then?"

Tom had no hesitation in saying and believing that the hypothetical objection being only almost, and not entirely insuperable, it might be overcome.

Mr. Elliston was not so sure of this.

"You must have seen long ago, sir," pleaded the lover, "that there were attractions at the Mumbles which I could not resist."

"You give me credit for great powers of discernment," said the old gentleman, smiling, in spite of his grave countenance. "But granted that I supposed you were attracted by the pleasure and advantage of my society, for instance—I am not sure that this warrants me in approving of your—shall I call it presumption?—in aspiring to my daughter's hand. Moreover, I may have been pleased with you as a guest, and may like you as a friend and acquaintance and welcome visitor, and yet not think you altogether a suitable match for my daughter."

"I know I am not in all respects worthy of Miss Elliston," said puzzled Tom; "and yet—"

"Let me say what I was going to say, young man," continued the elder. "And I may as well tell you at once that I have known, as well as you can tell me now, what your attraction was in coming to my house; and I have waited for some such interview as this."

"Then I may hope," said the other, "that my suit is to prosper; for I am sure, sir, you would not have permitted me to indulge expectations to disappoint them at last."

"I have waited this opportunity," continued the host, "to tell you that, much as I like you, as you are now going on, you cannot marry my daughter; and that it entirely depends on yourself whether or not Kate can ever be your wife. Now, I know as well as you can tell me what your possessions and prospects are. You have no home, properly speaking; you have no profession; your independent income was not sufficient to maintain you at college—it is swallowed up now in your personal expenses; and yet you want my girl for a wife. How do you mean to support her?"

"I'll work, sir," cried Tom, frantically; "I'll work hard, sir. I'll work the skin off my bones."

"Poor Tom! Dear Grigson!" said the gentleman more kindly than he had yet spoken, "I have no doubt you think so, but what will you work at? You cannot answer that question, so I will answer it for you. You are not fit for the law. You have no vocation, as I have often heard you say, for the Church, otherwise the living of your parish, which is in your brother's gift, might eventually come to you. But you have set this aside as out of the question, and I honour you for your honesty. Now listen: I have a living in my gift; I offer it to you, and if you choose to accept it, you shall marry my daughter as soon as she and you can agree on the subject. I have told Kate so, and now I tell you so. But you must either accept or refuse; and I should not wonder if you were to refuse it."

Puzzled Tom looked up into his old friend's face. "I don't understand you, sir," he said, faintly; adding, with emphasis, "There is nothing that I would not do, not inconsistent with honesty and the honour of a gentleman."

"Ah, there it is! I said I thought the objection would be insuperable; for, of course, you would consider it a great sacrifice of the honour, and a great lowering of the dignity, of a gentleman to go into trade."

"Trade, Mr. Elliston?"

"Yes, trade. Look you here, Mr. Grigson, my money was made in trade. My father and my grandfather before him were in trade. In my early life, I was in trade, and if you have Kate for a wife, you must go into trade too. You are cut out for it; you have good common sense, a clear head, and a cool one. You have plenty of pluck, and plenty of industry, if well applied. The old firm with which I first became connected forty years ago, and a prosperous one it is still, wants an active partner. You will do as well as another, and better. If you choose to put your aristocratic notions into your pocket and go in for trade, I will furnish the capital wanted, and you shall have Kate into the bargain."

Tom looked rueful enough. The Grigsons, the old county family, that might have come in with the Conqueror, for anything that can be told, had never suffered the contamination of trade. They had been in the Church (one of them a bishop), in the law (one of them a judge), in the army (one of them a general); but in trade, never. So Tom thought. And then he asked, falteringly—

"Wouldn't it do if I were to go into farming, sir? My brother's largest farm, Broad Lees, eight hundred acres or more, will soon be vacant; at any rate, the lease will be out next Michaelmas; and I have had a talk with Dick about it. I should like that better than going into trade, Mr. Elliston."

"I daresay you would; and you would like to be a gentleman farmer, I have no doubt. You could hunt and shoot and ride, and make ducks and drakes of your money—that is, if you had the handling of any; and in three years you would be—well, I won't say where. But, nice as you think it, I can tell you, you would never make money at that sort of work, nor even keep it; at least, that is the opinion I have formed. No, no, my dear fellow; I stick to my first offer. Take it or leave it."

"And Kate—Miss Elliston, I mean—does she ap-ap-prove of your decision, sir?"

"She submits to it, at any rate."

"I should like to consult my brother about it," said Tom, on whom the unexpected proposal had produced an extraordinary effect, not to be easily understood by any who are not intimately acquainted with the strong feeling, bordering on absolute contempt, with which certain persons—some educated, some uneducated—look down upon trade and traders.

We could produce numerous examples of this extreme prejudice, but it is not needful. The reader must take for granted that it does exist, and that Tom Grigson had imbibed it. Of course he had heard, in one way or another, that Mr. Elliston had at some former time been in some kind of business (he had never troubled himself to find out in what kind of business) in London; and that, having made a large fortune by trading, he had retired to the country, and bought the estate on which he now lived. He knew, too, that Mr. Elliston had all, or most of, the tastes and feelings of a gentleman, which he rather wondered at.

And let it be confessed, that when he first of all became conscious of the peculiar sensation which, for want of a better word, we call love, towards the fair Kate, he made a strong though unsuccessful effort to overcome it, on the ground of her distant connection with what he would, in any other case, have called the "shop." And when eventually, he made up his mind not to let that obstacle stand in his way, he gave himself credit, I am afraid, for wonderful magnanimity in overlooking that blot on the lady's escutcheon, and for great discernment in having arrived at the conclusion that the ex-tradesman's daughter was after all not unworthy of his fond admiration.

I daresay that this part of our veracious history will be looked upon by some readers as apocryphal. But it is not; and, taking our word for it that it is a true representation, it may be conceived how great a blow it was to poor Tom's self-pride to be told that he must stoop still lower than he had yet stooped, in order to possess the prize he longed for.

All these thoughts and remembrances possibly rushed through Tom's mind in a few brief moments; and then followed his mental resolution, "After all, I can't and won't give up Kate;" adding aloud, "I should like to consult my brother about it."

"By all means speak to Mr. Richard," said the old gentleman; and there the subject was, for that time, dropped, Master Tom being quietly, though courteously enough, dismissed without seeing the young lady for whom he was expected to make such a sacrifice.

Tom returned to the Manor House somewhat disconsolate, and was soon pouring out his sorrows into Richard Grigson's ear.

"Why, this is another Tincroft affair," said the elder brother, when the younger had gone over the several items of the previous interview. He said it with such mock gravity that Tom remonstrated.

"Don't laugh at me, Richard. I want your advice."

"To follow if you like it, I suppose. Well, Tom, here goes, then."

But as I am writing Tom's history only in brief, and just so far as concerns our friend John Tincroft, it is enough to say that the elder brother gave the younger brother very good advice, and the younger brother took it. For the very next day he presented himself at the Mumbles, and was again in conference with Kate's father.

"I am come to say I will do everything you wish me to do, sir, if I may still hope for your consent," said Tom, and feeling when he had said it as Cæsar may have felt when he crossed the Rubicon.

"I don't often contradict myself or recall my words, and I have no wish to do so now, dear Tom," said the old gentleman, as he took Tom's outstretched hand and shook it. "And I wish you to believe that, according to my notions, I am doing the best I can for you and Kate."

"I hope it may turn out so," said Tom; "and now I am in for it, I'll do my best to fulfil your expectations. But Richard thinks, and I am afraid, that I shall make a poor hand at business of any sort, never having been used to it."

"I am not at all afraid of that," replied the elder. "If a man goes in for doing his best, as you say, he is in a fair way to succeed, whatever he attempts, unless he is an absolute blockhead, which you are not, Tom. Of course it will be strange to you at first, but you will get on by degrees—fast, too, for you will be sure to like it. If I could only be a young man again!" said the senior, with enthusiasm, as he called to remembrance former days of successes and triumphs.

And then, with a sigh, he added more soberly, "It will all come to you in good time, Tom; and you won't stand alone, remember. You will have two partners who know what business is, and how to do it; one of them is Kate's brother, you know, and the other is likely to be a member of Parliament soon, as well as a tradesman. Think of that!"

Well, to be sure, there was something in that idea, Tom thought; and then it occurred to him that he had not been informed of the nature of the business into which he was to be so unceremoniously thrust, and in which he was expected to become so expert. And as it is no particular concern of ours, it is enough to say that, being satisfied on this head, Tom made no further objection to the plans of his future father-in-law, except to say that his brother, on good cause being shown, would furnish half the capital required in carrying them out. This being eventually conceded, all diligence was used in getting through the preliminaries.

And in less than a month, Mr. Thomas Grigson found himself a citizen of London, with a private office in the heart of the city, and in lodgings five or six miles away, looking out for a home for Kate. This was soon found and furnished; and barely six months had passed away before the bells of Mumbleton Church one day rang a merry peal, and all Mumbleton was in an uproar of rejoicing, because Kate Elliston had taken to herself a husband, and changed her name to Kate Grigson.

And so they were married; and our friend Tom, having, as already intimated, spent part of his honeymoon with his old fellow-collegian at Tincroft House, went back to his pretty villa on the banks of the Thames, and liked his home with its surroundings, and loved his young wife none the less for having to spend the greater part of the day away from it and her in the active business of life.

It will, perhaps, be incredible to some of my readers that Tom really began to take an interest in, and to like, the excitement of everyday trade. But it is true, nevertheless; and it is equally true that when any man does "with all his might" whatsoever his "hand findeth to do," provided it is an honest and upright doing, he will hardly fail of liking to do it.

It is true that Tom's love for his old country life and occupations did not diminish as time wore on. His riding and driving he kept up, for he rode to and from the city daily, and found time also to drive his Kate out in her pony-chaise now and then. As to hunting and shooting, a week or two in September, and another week or two after Christmas, spent at the Manor House with brother Richard, satisfied all his longings.

And he, after a time, began to pity "poor Richard," and to wonder how he could manage to exist all the year round in his country home. At any rate, his (Tom's) own pretty villa on the banks of the Thames had increasing charms and attractions for him, which threw all the glories of the Manor House into the shade; while "the house in the city was nothing to be ashamed of," Tom averred. In fact, every year added to the balance in his favour as a partner in the firm, while at least every other year added to the olive branches around his table.

And so the whirligig of time carried Tom on until we find him, some sixteen years after his marriage, on a summer evening with his eldest son (a boy of fifteen or thereabout) rowing in a pair-oar boat, with the Kate of early days acting as steerswoman, and looking almost as young as when Tom first made her acquaintance.

Presently the oarsmen rested on their oars to admire the bright hues of sunset, to which their attention had been called by the lady at the helm.

"It is very beautiful," said the elder. "It puts me in mind of an evening, some sixteen or seventeen years ago, Kate, when—do you remember when and where?"

The lady thought perhaps she did; but she wasn't sure. She had witnessed a good many lovely sunsets when her home was at the Mumbles.

"Yes, and since then, Kate. But the evening I mean was an especially lovely one. And the best of it is, that since that evening, there has been a long day of sunshine for us. By the way, a fellow was in our house to-day who had come over from Australia—he lives at Sydney when he is at home—and I happened to ask him if he knew young Wilson—Walter Wilson—you remember him, don't you?"

"I remember hearing enough about him and his cousin whom he was to have married, and didn't."

"Just so, because she married somebody else, and became—you know who."

"I never like to remember that when we go—you know where, for I think she didn't use her poor cousin well," said the lady.

"And I think," rejoined Tom Grigson, laughing, "that Walter didn't use his poor cousin well."

"Ah, yes; you men always take sides with us women—when you can."

"Yes, dear, when we can; and you women with us men. I suppose it is the natural order of things. But, anyhow, Wilson isn't much to be pitied. Brooks, the Sydney man, knows him; says he is one of the most thriving men in the colony, and, what is as much to the purpose, has one of the best of women for a wife, and one of the prettiest girls for a daughter that he has ever known. They do business together, Brooks says, he and Wilson, principally in wool; and the Wilsons sometimes come to Sydney, and sometimes he goes up the country to Sedley Station, as Wilson's place is called. So it seems to have all turned out for the best—for him, at any rate."

And so the talk went on, till presently the sunset hues died away, and the oars were resumed; and they little thought how another sunset was at this time drawing on, thousands of miles away, to close in the happy day of the prosperous man of whom they had lightly spoken. But before we come to this, we must go back a few years in our narrative.

In the same month and in the same year in which Tom Grigson settled down in his nest on the banks of the Thames, an event of equal importance to other parties took place at Sedley Station, in New South Wales.

When Walter Wilson left England, after that last despairing sight of his lost love previously mentioned, he made up his mind that the pole-star of his life had disappeared—that his sun had set, never more to rise—that the romance of existence was, to him, past and gone. A good many such foolish and incongruous images rising in his mind, found words in a letter he wrote to Ralph Burgess while on his outward-bound voyage, whereat Ralph good-naturedly smiled. The upshot and conclusion in Walter's thoughts were that he couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't, oughtn't ever to think of matrimony. He would go into the wilds of Australia, he would bury himself alive, he would shun the sight of womankind, he would be a woman-hater all the remainder of his days. This also he wrote to his friend Ralph in bitter self-reproach for having suffered himself to be "choused out" of his life's happiness.

"Poor Wilson! Poor Walter!" sighed Ralph's sister when she read these ravings.

"You needn't pity him so very much, Mary," said the more far-seeing brother; "he isn't heart-broken, depend on it; and if he has had a crack in that region, it will be soldered up in time, and he will be all the wiser for it. If he had married his cousin, I should not have liked (if I had been a woman) to stand in her shoes. When he does marry, as he will—and we shall hear about it some of these days—his wife will stand a good chance of being a happy woman—if she likes."

Ralph's prognostications were fulfilled; they did hear of Walter's marrying. He did not say much about the matter in the letter he wrote announcing the event, excepting that his young wife's name was Helen, which he thought was a pretty name, and he hoped his friend would be pleased with it. The truth perhaps is, that Walter was half-ashamed of his weakness, as he might have thought it, in having permitted his fortress to be again assailed, and successfully too. Having hummed and strummed so long on the wonderful couplet—

"There's such a charm in melancholy,

I would not, if I could."

He was determined not to confess how gay-hearted he really had become.

And something better than this. And we, who have the advantage of knowing more than the name of the young Helen, may quite believe that she would not have committed herself to the care and fond affection of one of whom, in higher and nobler and more enduring qualities, she had any reason to doubt.

We will not have any more love scenes—in this part of our story at least; so all I have to observe in relation to Walter's courtship is, that after having for two years acquitted himself with satisfaction to the Sedley of that ilk, he one day craved an audience with his employer, and boldly proposed himself as a suitor for Helen's hand, Helen herself having consented.

At first the ex-lawyer was astounded at the audacity of his steward. But he soon summoned wisdom enough to reflect that before many years could pass away, his daughter would be alone in the world, with considerable property, of a kind which would require a stronger hand than a woman's to manage; that there was no one else in the field, nor likely to be, in the solitude of that bush life to which Helen had become so accustomed, that perhaps she was fitted for no other kind of life. That the girl, moreover, had her own notions of what was convenient, proper, right, and so forth, and had been accustomed to have her way pretty much as she pleased—which, being a good way, had been all the better for him; that if she had taken a liking to the young fellow, she had a right to please herself, all the more that he (the father) had taken a liking to him also; and that, to sum up all, he did not know how Sedley Station would get on without Wilson to manage it. And so the bargain was struck, and the knot was tied.

And now we must get over our Australian ground as rapidly as possible, for we have a strong longing to see John Tincroft once more in the flesh. So we have only to say, in the first place, that after Walter's sober, quiet sort of wedding, his father-in-law, becoming increasingly infirm, withdrew altogether from any interference in the management of his property, and gradually sank into a torpid state of existence, which terminated in death about two years from the date of his daughter's marriage. He was reverently laid in the small graveyard of Sedley Station; and then, in right of his wife, Wilson entered into full possession of the estate, which was her lawful inheritance. Before this time, a little Helen had appeared upon the scene, and Mrs. Wilson was comforted for her father's death in the new duties of a mother.

At about the same time the affairs of the colony almost suddenly put on a new phase of prosperity, in consequence of which the district around Sedley Station began to increase in population. One after another, purchasers of Government lands, technically calling themselves squatters, settled down on their farms, built themselves houses, established out-stations, and turned to account the stock-feeding capability of the bush. In all this advancing prosperity, Walter Wilson had his share. He increased his flocks and herds, and gradually brought his home farm into a state of cultivation previously unknown. In carrying out his plans, and following up his various successes, it was necessary to add to the number of his hands on the settlement, and to enlarge his establishment generally.

All this, however, was a work of time, and we must pass over some intervening years, merely explaining that though in the particulars just mentioned Walter Wilson was reckoned a fortunate man, he had one source of dissatisfaction with his lot. He hadn't a son to succeed him; indeed, he had but one child, and that child was, as we have said, a daughter.

"If I had been a poor man in the old country, as I should have been if I had stopped there," said Walter to himself one day, "I should have had more mouths to feed than bread to feed them with, I suppose."

But the complaining mood passed away at the first sight of his wife's peaceful countenance, and at the first contact of his little Helen's rosy lips with his weather-beaten cheek.

Did Walter, in these days, ever think of his old home? Most likely he did; but he very seldom spoke of it. Even to his wife, he maintained a studied reserve. He had friends in England, some of whom had not used him well; but he had forgiven them, he hoped. So he stated once; and as Helen Wilson was not very curious, and was perfectly satisfied with her husband's love, she asked for nothing more from him.

At length Walter Wilson's one unsatisfied wish was gratified. Fourteen years had passed away since the birth of his daughter, and now a son was given to him. A fine thriving, bouncing boy, the happy father pronounced this precious gift to be, when he first daintily held it in his strong arms, and kissed it again and again before he could be persuaded to restore it to the nurse, who had been borrowed for the time from the nearest settlement, where her services had been in request a short time before.

"We only wanted this, Helen," he whispered, as he bent over his wife, and kissed her pale forehead. "We shall be happy now."

A faint smile overspread Helen's countenance. "If it please God to spare the babe, I trust he will grow up to make us happy, Walter; but we must not forget our little Helen."

There was no danger of this, Walter replied. He loved his daughter very dearly; "but then," added he, repeating what he had often before said, "she is only a girl, and in the bush, girls don't count for so much as boys. All girls are not like what you were, and always have been. But never fear, I shall love our darling Helen all the better for her having a baby brother; and she, too, will be all the happier and better for having some one beside our two selves to care about and think about. And there will be enough and to spare for both when it pleases God to take us away," he concluded.

In truth, it would have been strangely unnatural if Walter had not loved his daughter very dearly. She was a fine-spirited girl, uniting in her character the sweetness and, at the same time, the firmness of her mother's temper, with the fearlessness and energy of her father. A bold rider from the age of five years, under his tuition, she had been accustomed to accompany him in his frequent excursions around the settlement; while, under her mother's eye, she had learned the more valuable lessons of patience, and love, and trust in God.

I am compelled to state, however, that Helen Wilson at fourteen was a very unaccomplished young person, and would have been looked upon by any average boarding school miss with whom she might have come into contact as extremely uncultivated, and indeed as shy and awkward even as John Tincroft himself had ever been. But this was of all the less consequence, seeing that at this time, boarding school misses had not found their way into the bush in any alarming number; and that as long as she could read a chapter in the Bible, to say nothing of other books in the small library at Sedley Station, with unimpeachable accuracy and sweetness of tone, write a letter (if she had had one to write) in a good, firm, though rather masculine, hand, and without any ungrammatical blunders, and use her needle with tolerable facility, her parents were quite satisfied with her accomplishments.

Now, however, the young Helen rejoiced in the anticipation of including the nursing of her baby brother in her list of attainments; but, alas! This anticipation was never fulfilled. For a few short days the mother and infant were considered to be making satisfactory progress; then fever came, and the bewildered husband was suddenly summoned to the bedside of his dying wife almost before he was aware that her life was in peril. And then the baby died. Let us draw a veil over poor Walter Wilson's agony of soul, and the grief of the now motherless and brotherless girl.

CHAPTER XXI.

JOHN TINCROFT AT HOME; AND THE SKELETON THERE.

BY not a very large fire, though the day was cold—for it was the end of the year, and there was a black frost without—and in a room rather too large for snug comfort, sat John Tincroft, Benedict.

Add nearly or quite twenty years to the day when we first made his acquaintance as he mounted the Tally-ho coach in Oxford High Street, and we now find him in middle age—a convenient form of expression, by the way, embracing, as it does, the life of a man at any epoch from five-and-thirty to five-and-fifty. We know, however, that John at this time was not much over forty years old; but he looked older, for he was partially bald; and what remained of the covering of his scalp was more than tinged with grey. Moreover, there were lines on his exposed forehead, and elsewhere on his countenance, which betokened the encroachments of time.

He was closely shaven, or would have been, had he performed this part of his toilet duties that morning, which, however, he had not, though the time of day was near noon; and the stubbly bristles on the lower half of his face did not improve its hue or the general expression of his countenance—the first being somewhat sallow, and the second pensive.

Tincroft was clad in dark-coloured garments, of not very modern date, and, to tell the truth, both rusty and threadbare. But then it was a winter morning; and had he been dressed in the height of fashion, there would have been no one to see him, save his wife and the single maid-servant and a house-boy, who made up the full complement of his establishment. So what did it signify how he dressed? John would have argued.

"The full complement of his establishment," we have written; for a few months before the time at which we take up this thread of our story, a grave had been opened to receive poor Mrs. Mark Wilson, of whom we have little to record save that she had ample reason, to the end of her days, to be grateful for the uniform kindness she had so many long years received from her daughter's husband.

Our old friend was seated in an easy-chair, which, being covered with faded chintz, harmonised well enough with the general aspect of everything else in the apartment, for its entire furnishing was ancient, and tending to decay. The carpet was well worn and, in places, threadbare, the dark mahogany chairs were worm-eaten, the very fire-irons were rusty. There were better and more modern furnished rooms in Tincroft House, no doubt. But then what did it matter? One room was as good as another to John; and this was his own room—his study, or library, or both in one; and as far as he himself was concerned, he cared very little where he passed his solitary hours, so that he might have his books in peace and quietness.

John had a good many solitary hours, mostly spent in this shabby room—the charm of which consisted, to him, in the rows of books contained in unglazed bookcases which occupied one entire side of it, and the table in the centre, at which he sometimes sat and wrote. For our friend was enrolled in the honourable guild of authors, having written sundry books which, as the reviewers declared, evinced much labour, a wonderful amount of deep research, and great erudition. It is to be hoped that Tincroft derived satisfaction from this favourable opinion, and from the testimony of his publisher that he was undoubtedly a man of very considerable learning, who had translated a great many classical works, and written a valuable treatise on Oriental literature; for it is certain that, beyond this glorification, he had obtained small profit from the productions of his pen; I am afraid, indeed, that a five-pound note would have covered all the balances ever paid over to him by his bookseller in the Row.

John liked his work, however, and the honour he derived from it; and as he had a moderate income, sufficient for his small wants, independently of his literary earnings, there is reason to believe that he and his flattering publisher were mutually well enough pleased with the arrangement which divided between them, in what proportions the present deponent sayeth not, the "solid pudding" and the "empty praise."

It was well for John Tincroft that he could find pleasure in his lonely pursuit; for after his marriage, he gradually relapsed into his old recluse habits, and was, if there was any difference, more shy and awkward than we found him on our first acquaintance. The result of this was that he had made no friends among his neighbours; and the few of the surrounding gentry who, on his first settling down at Tincroft House, had called to congratulate him on his success in Chancery, and to welcome him home, soon seemed to forget all about him, and turned again to more congenial companionships.

No doubt John's natural shrinking from society partly accounted for this estrangement, and his studious habits were only too likely to increase this retiring disposition, for it is rarely found that a person who, either from choice or necessity, follows a literary occupation for any length of time, shines much in society, even if he does not take a morbid dislike to it. There was another element, however, in Tincroft's case, which more than sufficiently accounted for this feeling.

Poor John Tincroft! Without intending it, he had so many years ago placed himself in a position from which, as an honourable man, he saw no way of retreat open; and he had married a wife who could neither sympathise with, nor even understand him intellectually, and whose dulness, if he had not successfully striven against the feeling, might long since have wearied him.

Too uneducated to be his companion, too feeble-hearted to attempt or even to desire to improve herself up to his standard, and too fond of ease to be a stirring housewife and home-sweetener, what was to be expected of the Sarah of our early narrative but that she should sink down into self-indulgent indolence of mind and body, now that calls for exertion were not imperative?

Happily for her soul's welfare, or for anything that might, in the course of God's providence, occur to rouse her to thoughtfulness, and resuscitate her interest in the life present, as well as to implant a corresponding interest in the life to come—happily, too, for her husband's comfort—Sarah had avoided the rock on which both her parents had made fatal shipwreck. For I must add to what I just now wrote relating to the departed Mrs. Mark, that the habit she had acquired when she was the mistress of High Beech Farm clung to her with terrible tenacity when she became the guest of Tincroft House. Frightened and warned by these examples, the daughter steered clear of the vice which would inevitably have made her home, her husband, and herself miserable.

And Tincroft House, for all I have written, was not a home of misery, nor even of positive discomfort. It might perhaps have been to you or to me, reader, under similar circumstances; but John was easily satisfied; he had never known the true happiness of domestic life, and he believed he had as much of it as was good for him—as much at any rate, he might have argued, as falls to the lot of poor mortals in a general way.

He was, in fact, in a similar position to that of a person who, having been blind from infancy, is necessarily ignorant of the pleasures and advantages of eyesight. Moreover, John was really fond of his Sarah, in spite of her dulness and her frequent transgressions of grammatical rules, her dropped or superfluous h's, and her many provincialisms, of which, if we give no examples in the dialogues in which she bears a part, it is because we think a story is as well and effectually told without such minute personifications and descriptions as with them. I daresay all the speakers in Old Testament histories were not alike pure Hebraists, any more than those in the New discoursed in choice Greek or Syriac. But we do not find the sacred writers holding up either their solecisms or their vulgarities to notice. So, if the reader pleases, Sarah shall still speak with reasonable accuracy.

Yes, John Tincroft was still fond of his wife. I don't doubt that, as he sometimes sat by her side, the old feeling of admiration came over him which had formerly reconciled him to the knobby-seated parlour chair at High Beech Farm; and he forgot (even if he had ever suffered his mind to dwell upon) the want of congeniality which held them, husband and wife, intellectually at a distance from each other.

Besides all this, John had perception enough to have found out long ago, though he had too much delicacy and kindness to have ever told of his discovery, that, true and faithful as his Sarah was, and had always been, she was never his lover. Grateful to him the poor little thing was when he rushed forward to rescue her, at what cost she could not help knowing, from the worst consequences, or what might have been the worst consequences, of his own, or say of their joint imprudence. But even at that time she had sobbed out:

"I don't love you, Mr. Tincroft—not as you ought to be loved, you know."

And John had taken her, hoping and believing that the love would come in due course. But it had not, and he knew it. A quiet, noiseless wife she was, timid, submissive, and sometimes even slave-like to the benefactor who had ransomed her from ill-will and scorn and poverty. But there the matter ended.

"Poor Sarah!" John sometimes reflected. "She has given me all that is in her power; and I am better off with that than many a husband is with the woman who has made stronger and louder professions. And why should I complain?" And he never did complain.

There was once a time when Sarah probably would have forgotten the past, except that the memory might have added to her contentment with her lot. It was when she pressed to her bosom that delicate blossom of which we have spoken. But the bud was nipped, and bright hopes then formed to be withered were never renewed. No children's feet had pattered, no childish voices had sounded through, and broken the silence of, the rooms and corridors of Tincroft House—none, at least, that had a legitimate right to be heard there.

No doubt there were times, when Tom Grigson and his Kate, and one or two, or three, as it happened, of the full nest on the banks of the Thames, took flight for a few summer days and nights to be near the seaside, and within reach of sea-breezes. These were royally entertained at Tincroft House on their way, and cast some gleams of unwonted hilarity around them. But these passages were comparatively seldom, and when they were over, the solitary house seemed for a time more lonely than before.

And so time had worn on with John and Sarah, and there is no need to dwell longer on their by no means uncommon history. Ah! There are more ghastly skeletons hidden in many a pleasant-looking home than that which was supposed to be concealed within the walls of Tincroft House, where we found John at the beginning of this chapter musing by his study fireside.

Not many letters in general were delivered by the country letter-carrier at Tincroft House. John had not many correspondents. Every quarter, to be sure, Mr. Roundhand, who still managed his successful client's property, forwarded its interest with praiseworthy punctuality; and every now and then, John received proof-sheets (if nothing else) from his publisher in the Row. Besides these, our dear friend occasionally received a rattling epistle from Tom Grigson. But beyond these tokens of remembrance, I am not aware that John ever expected a letter from mortal man or woman.

As to Sarah, we know well enough that it was not likely she would be troubled, or gratified, with news from either High or Low Beech. And apart from her relatives there, she had none to bestow many thoughts, much less many letters, upon her.

No doubt Tincroft House had its share of circulars by post, because John Tincroft, Esq., of Tincroft House, had found his way into the County Directory. But I am quite sure that these baits were wasted, for John was no bargain hunter, even if he had had money to waste on needless purchases, which he had not. So if it had not been for the regular arrival of the "Trotbury Weekly Chronicle," the postman's entrance into the village, so far as Tincroft House was concerned, was looked for with but a small amount of interest.

But on the winter morning which has brought us back to honest John Tincroft, the postman, instead of silently passing by the gate, as was his usual wont, sounded his horn as he arrived at it, and boldly turning in, traversed the broad gravelled road which led to the front door, rang the bell, and put a letter into the servant's hand.

"For the missus: it comes from abroad," said the postman, as he readjusted the leather bag from which he had taken it. And then he retraced his steps.

The mistress was in the kitchen; she liked being in the kitchen better than any other part of Tincroft House. Not that she did much when she was there; for there was not much to do. But just at this time, as it happened, she had on a linen apron, and her hands were floury, for needs must that she and John must dine. There is no occasion, however, to penetrate into the mysteries of Sarah's culinary operations at this particular time; but there will be no harm in giving a descriptive sketch of her person as those operations are being carried on.

Mrs. Tincroft, then, was still fair in complexion. Her flaxen hair, unchanged in hue, though in some measure robbed of its former gloss and stinted in its luxuriousness of growth, and partially confined by a broad velvet band, hung in loose ringlets down her neck in the old fashion. Her morning dress was of some dark, half-mourning material, and looked, to tell the truth, somewhat carelessly, not to say ungracefully, put on. She had not shrunken in bulk, as John had; in fact, time had played its pranks with her as it had with him, only in a different fashion, for her once slim figure had become more rounded and expanded. Nevertheless, Sarah was still comely, and her countenance might even have been pronounced pleasing and attractive, but for an expression of weariness and vacuity which a physiognomist might have noted lurking in the corners of the mouth, and the somewhat diminished lustre of the once bright eyes.

"A letter for you, ma'am," said the handmaiden, as she laid the missive on the deal kitchen table, near to the lady's elbow.

It was an ordinary-sized letter, not over clean, and it had two or three broad post-marks on it; and on the top, at one corner, was written, in a bold hand, "Ship Letter."

"It must be for your master; you had better take it to the study, Jane," said Mrs. T., barely glancing at it as it lay.

"No, ma'am, there's the 's' plain enough; and Austin said it was for you."

"Well, you may leave it where it is. I'll see about it presently, when I've rolled out the pie-crust and wiped my hands. I can't do two things at once, can I?"

"No, nor yet one, properly," muttered Jane to herself, with a look of contempt mingled with pity, for Jane liked and despised her mistress in about equal proportions. She liked her; for her mistress was good-natured, and liberal in the matter of wages, and also of cast-off clothes, of which, by the way, she obtained a plentiful store when Sarah went into mourning for her mother. And, added to these causes of approbation, the mistress let the maid have her own way in general, and never scolded her. But these very qualities provoked June's contempt also.

"She is such a noodle," said Jane, inwardly.

At this present time, Mrs. Tincroft had rather annoyed the girl by "putting her dainty hands into the flour tub, where they had no business to be," Jane would have argued.

No wonder, therefore, that when the lady said, rather fretfully, that she could not do two things at one time, the damsel inwardly retorted, "No, nor yet one, properly. Call that a pie-crust? Who is going to eat it, I wonder?"

Of course this was pure envy in Jane; for who doesn't know that Sarah had made good pie crusts in former times? John knew it, at any rate.

Now, we are not forgetting the letter at Sarah's elbow; nor did she forget it either; for no sooner had the handmaid departed to "finish her work upstairs," as she said, than the indifference disappeared, and gave place to a kind of indolent curiosity to know who in the world should have taken the trouble to write to her.

In another moment she had hastily wiped her hands and taken up the letter, and then—but what follows requires a new chapter.

CHAPTER XXII.

A LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA.

JOHN had not moved from his easy-chair by the study-fire, where we just now left him. His thoughts were wandering far-away, perhaps; or he might have been cogitating a new chapter in the particular work on which he had been some time engaged. Whatever the subject of his meditations, they had been so engrossing that his fire had dwindled down to a handful of embers, and he had been oblivious of the postman's horn-blast and ring.

From these meditations, he was suddenly roused by the entrance of his wife, in such a state of agitation that even he, absorbed as he was, took alarm.

"My dear love, what is the matter? What has happened?" he exclaimed, hastily looking up, and glancing first at Sarah's pale face, then at her white linen apron, and lastly at an open letter she held in the hand which bore traces of its late interesting occupation.

"John Tincroft, did I ever deceive you?" said poor Sarah, with a great sob.

"My darling, no. Who ever thought of such a thing? Who has been saying or writing anything to distress you, Sarah?"

"Did I ever have a letter from anybody, and you know nothing about it, John?" she demanded, plaintively.

"I am quite sure you never did," replied John, gallantly venturing an assertion which, undoubtedly, he had no means of confirming or proving.

"They told me, John, when I—when you—when you and I went to church together, that I was only deceiving you—at least, some of them did; and that I shouldn't be a true wife to you."

"Whoever told you so, told a great falsehood," said John, warmly. "No truer wife than you ever lived; and if I were you, I wouldn't think about such rubbish."

"But I can't help it sometimes, John, though I don't talk about it to vex you, for I know I haven't been everything that another might have been to you. I couldn't, John; but you have had the best I had to give." And here again poor Sarah moaned sadly.

"I am sure of it, Sarah; and I have never asked for more. But why do you bring this up? And why do you stand there when I am keeping my seat, like a stupid clown as I am? And, bless me, if the fire isn't all but out too! I declare forgot all about it."

So saying, John sprang from his chair, and gallantly taking his wife's unoccupied hand, gently led her to it.

"Do sit down, my dear; you do not often honour me with your presence in this dull room."

And thus gently constrained, Sarah took the seat, still holding in her hand the open letter.

Then the wakened-up husband placed a billet or two of wood on his expiring fire, and coaxed it to a cheerful blaze before he again spoke.

All this time Sarah was sobbing out her griefs—whatever they were—and declaring (a very fertile theme of complaining with her) how badly she had been treated by Uncle Matthew and her aunt, and Elizabeth, in times gone by.

"So you were, my darling," John acquiesced, as he ceased blowing the fire with the breath of his mouth, in which operation the wood smoke had puffed out into his face end half-blinded him. "So you were," said he, drawing another chair to the fireside, and seating himself. "But why do you trouble about it? That's all past and gone, years ago. Or—" and then he caught sight again of the open letter Sarah held in her hand—"or, has any one of them been writing to you?"

"No, no; worse than that, John. He has been writing to me; he, his very self. Oh, why can't he let me alone?"

"Do you mean that that letter is from your cousin in Australia, my dear?"

"Yes, that is what it is."

"Well, my pretty, I don't know why he should not write to you. He writes no harm, does he? He is a married man, you know. He does not ask you to run away from your own husband, does he, love?" asked John, gravely, but not without a gleam of humour, perhaps, on his countenance.

"How should I know what he writes?" cried Sarah, piteously.

"Have you not read the letter, then?" Tincroft asked, wonderingly.

"Read it! Read it! No, I should think not, John. You don't think I could ever be so wicked, John, as to read a letter from him, do you?"

"I am not sure it would have been wicked; indeed, I am sure it would not have been," said the husband, soothingly. "But if you have not read it, how do you know it is from your cousin?" he asked.

"As if I didn't know his writing!" said poor weeping Sarah, adding, "though it is so long since I saw any of it. But I did look at the beginning and end; and it says, 'My dear cousin Sarah' at the top, and 'Your affectionate cousin, Walter Wilson,' at the bottom; and that is how I know it. But I didn't read another word, John, indeed I didn't," said she, very earnestly. "And I have brought it for you to read, or to put in the fire, just which you please, John."

"I think we had better read it before we burn it, at all events," he gravely replied, as he held out his hand for the suspected treasonable epistle.

"Don't read it out loud, please, if there is anything in it that I shouldn't hear," said the frightened wife, as she gave it to him.

"Oh, certainly not," said the husband, smiling.

And then he commenced reading the first page of the letter, while Sarah sat with her eyes directed to his, ready, as it seemed, like a timid bird, to take wing on the first symptoms of displeasure or alarm.

But no such symptoms appeared, only that John's usually quiet and sedate countenance gradually became sorrowful, and at last his eyes had tears in them ready to start.

"Oh, John, what is it?" exclaimed Sarah, forgetting that she had not wanted to hear a word of the letter.

Before answering the question, John read on to the end, then he turned to Sarah.

"Your cousin is in great trouble," he said.

"Trouble?"

"Yes; listen. I will read the letter:"

"'My dear cousin Sarah,—It is so long since I heard anything about you, that I am not at all sure of this reaching you, for I do not even know whether you are yet living. I never have letters from England now, since Ralph Burgess and his sister went to America, three years ago.'"

("This is the first we have heard of this," quoth John, in a parenthesis; and then he resumed reading):

"'For I never hear from home.'"

("Which is a great pity—" in another parenthesis).

"'Hoping, however, that you still live and are happy, I take up my pen to do what ought to have done long and long ago.'"

"'Dear Sarah, I write first of all humbly to ask you to forgive me all the wrong I did you so many years ago. You knew partly how it was, but not all that was said. But I don't blame anybody so much as myself. I used you cruelly, shamefully, Sarah; and now I am made to feel it, now my great trouble is on me. And I ask you again for your forgiveness. Not but what it has been better for you, I make no doubt; for I know you got a good—'"

("I think I had better not read the next line or two, my dear," said John, looking up from the letter; so he skipped that part, and went on again).

"'And I have to ask Mr. Tincroft's pardon too, which I ought to have done long ago, for the way I treated him. He didn't deserve it; but I was blinded with obstinacy and jealousy, and didn't know what I did. And I know now, and have long known—'"

("Well, never mind that part; it is only a little that he may have heard, somehow or other, about me, my dear," said John, once more looking up. All this time Sarah had silently listened; but now she sobbed quickly, "If it is anything good he writes about you, John, it can't be too strong; for you have always been a good, kind husband, I know." "As far as I have known how, I have tried to be," said John, softly; "but I would rather leave that out," and he then proceeded):

"'I daresay'" (continued the letter) "'you have heard—but perhaps not—that after I came out here—a good bit after—I married a young person I met with. Her name was Helen; and my life from that time became a very happy one, for I loved my wife very dearly; and she gave all her love to me.'" (Here a deep sigh escaped from Sarah.) "'And we lived together all through many years, God prospering me in His providence, until—until God saw fit to take my Helen from me three months ago.'"

("Poor Walter!" whispered Sarah, softening.)

"'This is the great trouble I mentioned; and since then my life has been a blank to me, or it would be, only I have a daughter whom I dearly love. She is about fifteen years old, and I am troubled about her. For I feel I have not long to live. The doctors out here tell me I have had a mortal disease hanging over me for years and years, and that it has laid hold of me all the sooner because of my fretting about my poor dear Helen who is gone. I am in a hopeless decline, they say; and I feel it to be true. I am worn away to a shadow of what I was; and they tell me if I want to prolong my life, even for a few months, I must have a sea-voyage, and get to my native climate.'"

"'My dear cousin, I would not care to prolong my life, even for a single day, if it were not for my poor young Helen (for that is my daughter's name, named after her mother). If it wasn't for her, I seem as if I could have done with this world to-morrow. But I am bound to care for my poor motherless girl. And if she were left here, all alone and unprotected, it would be bad for her. So, as soon as I heard what the doctors said, I made up my mind what to do. I have sold my small property here to a person who knows how to manage it, and I mean to take passage home for my Helen and myself by next month's mail ship. It may be that I shall not live to reach England; but if I don't, I have left my affairs in proper order, so that there will not be any trouble about them. There will be enough for poor Helen after I am gone.'"

"'Now, my dear cousin,'" John went on reading, after a little pause, "'I have done a very bold thing. I have put in my will, and the instructions to my London lawyer, that your husband, Mr. Tincroft, is to be my sole executor, and my daughter's guardian, if he will be so kind as to undertake all the trouble for one who used him, and you too, so badly as I did. I know his goodness. I know more of it than you would think, Sarah; and there isn't anybody in the world I would so soon have as Mr. Tincroft and you for my poor Helen's friend.'"

("Oh, John, does Walter Wilson say that?" said Sarah, interrupting the reading.)

"Yes; and he goes on to say that, trusting to our being willing to befriend his Helen, he intends to give directions, in case of his not living through the voyage, that notice shall be sent to us when the ship comes in, so that his daughter may have friends to take care of her and do the best for her. And he says that if he should reach England himself, he will write to us directly he gets to London. That's all, Sarah. No, not quite; for he writes down the name of the ship they are coming by. It is the Sea Bird."

"There, my wife, that is your cousin's letter," said John, when he had finished reading it. "There is no harm in it, you see, though there is a good deal of trouble."

"Poor Walter!" sobbed Sarah. "But, John, you wouldn't like that trouble put upon you—and you with all your books to write, that keep you so busy always; besides—"

"My books may go to the bottom of the Red Sea, for anything I care," quoth John, with unwonted alacrity.

"Oh, John, John! And you so fond of writing!"

"I won't write another line," said John, heroically, "while there is anything better to do. And there is something better to do now, Sarah; we must get our best rooms ready for your cousin and his dear girl; and we must look out for the Sea Bird, and go and meet them when it comes in; and we must make them come down here, and get Walter strong again if we can. And if he hasn't got money enough to set him up in a farm, why, I must help him; and there, I think that's all I have to say about it just now."

"But, John, dear John!" remonstrated Sarah.

"Why, isn't it what you would like to be done?" said he.

"But think how he used you, John, when you were trying to help him out of his troubles once," said she. "You can't have forgotten," Sarah added, "how he used you then."

"I shall never forget that I have had you to love and cherish ever since then, my dear," said John, gallantly.

And then, fairly broken down, poor Sarah, with a thrill of joy she had not felt for a long time, fairly broke out into a childlike cry,—

"Oh, John! I love you, I love you; I do love you, and only you!"

And then, in the midst of their newly-found happiness, came a sharp tap at the study door, with a—

"Please, ma'am, it is two o'clock, and there's that pie-crust on the board as you left it."

CHAPTER XXIII.

A MONTH OF WONDERS.

CHRISTMAS had come and was gone; it had been gone a month or more, and there had been an unwonted bustle in Tincroft House. The best rooms, usually shut up, had been duly put in order, and for a whole week, fires had been kept burning in them—that is to say, in the great or state parlour facing the south, on the first floor, and the chamber adjoining; and also in another pretty room on the same floor, that had a verandah in front of the French windows which opened upon it. The prospect from this window was chilly enough now, certainly; for the distant plantation on which it looked was bare of foliage, and the meadows which intervened were brown with wintry frosts where they were not white with the contains of the last snowfall; and the tastily laid-out flower garden beneath the window, with which John had taken such pains—for he was fond of flowers—was, like everything else, under the ban of winter. But it was the nicest, "sweetest, darlingest room in the house in spring and summer and autumn," said Sarah; and this one was to be Helen's room—so Sarah had decreed.

John Tincroft had kept to his word. Whatever he had done with the previous chapters of his unfinished work, whether consigned to the Red Sea or elsewhere, he had not written a line since the day when we last fell in with him. He had something better to do, he said; for he had fully determined, then and there, that Walter Wilson and his daughter, on their arrival in England, were to make Tincroft House their home as long as they liked to stay there. For that they would both arrive, he professed to be sure.

"There's nothing like a long sea-voyage," he had said to his wife, "for setting people to rights when their health gets out, of sorts. Your cousin won't die on his way home, bless you," said he, perhaps with more confidence than he really felt; but he was determined to believe in his own prognostications too. "We'll get him down here, and you shall see how soon we shall set him up again."

"You don't know that he will come down here at all, John, if he does get to England alive," said Sarah, meekly. It should be said that this dialogue took place the very day on which Walter's letter was received, when the pair were seated together after their pieless dinner.

"Ah, but he must," said John; "why, where else is he to go? And where is that dear little Helen to go? They have no other friends in England, you see—at their first landing, at least, they won't have; though we must try and make friends between them and Walter's father and mother and all the rest. But this will be a work of time. And when your cousin and his darling girl get out of the ship, they will have nowhere else to go. And that is why I say we must go to London, or wherever else it may be, and see Walter at once, so that he may know he has got a home; and not have to wait, and run the risk of getting ill again in some strange hotel."

"And, besides, Sarah—think. He writes about his small property out there—small, you observe, he distinctly writes 'small'—and of having sold it; and having enough to live upon when he gets to England, and to leave to his Helen when he dies—which, it is to be hoped, he won't do for many a long day. But I will be bound to say that it is little enough he has saved. And my private opinion is that it is not much he will have to live upon when he gets back. For there's the long voyage, and that swallows up a great deal of money. So it will never do to let your cousin sink for want of help. I wonder whether he has kept to his old profession of land-surveying. But that isn't the question now. The first thing is to make him and his Helen comfortable, and get him well again. There will be time enough then to think how we can set him on his legs once more."

This was a long speech for John to make; but he made it. And what is more than can be said of some long speeches—whether delivered at Westminster or elsewhere—the speaker believed in every word he uttered. We know better, of course. We know that Walter Wilson was a rich man. And John's friend, Tom Grigson, had also been told the same thing. But John Tincroft knew nothing about this; for, as I have said, he rarely heard news of any kind; and he had never happened to hear of Sarah's cousin, save that he was married; and he had not seen Grigson for a good many months.

So, in his former fashion (and not an uncommon one with others besides John Tincroft) of arguing upon false premises, he arrived at once at the conclusion that his old rival was coming home in forma pauperis, or something like it; and he was quite ready, you see, to "heap coals of fire upon his head," in the true New Testament fashion; and, for the matter of that, in the Old Testament fashion also.

Sarah answered this long speech of John's by saying that she was ready to do anything he thought right to be done; and that if he did not care to remember her cousin's former perverseness, it wasn't for her to put him in mind of it. And then she cried again a little, but her tears were not bitter ones; and she went over again the lesson she had so recently learnt by heart—

"Oh, John, I love you; I love you; I do love you, and only you."

And then, when these raptures were calmed down a little, they began to plan what they should do for Walter's comfort, and for poor motherless Helen's also. And that was how "the sweetest, darlingest room" in the whole house was fixed upon for Helen's room.

And the very next day—cold as it was—Sarah and John went over to Trotbury in the passenger van which passed through the village every morning, to make a call at the paperhanger's, to select a new paper for the walls. Of course John knew nothing about this sort of thing, so he left Sarah to choose, and was quite prepared to approve her taste, wherever it might lead her. And it led her to admire a most wonderful pattern, composed of trellis-work on a light ground, interwoven with climbing, twisting foliage, bearing the most impossible flowers and luscious fruits, with birds of paradise and many other either imaginable or unimaginable specimens of the animal creation nestling in, or soaring above, or disporting below the branches.

After this being settled to their mutual satisfaction, the pair proceeded to the upholsterer's and selected what furniture they had previously decided on as needful for the rooms especially set apart for the expected guests. Then they returned home, tired with their unwonted exertions, but satisfied with their day's exploit.

And then, as I have said, the month following had been occupied by them and Jane and the house-boy, with the aid of painters and paperhangers and a charwoman or two, in so furbishing up the old house (in those especial apartments, at any rate) that a report was spread abroad that a member of Parliament, at the very least, was expected to pay a long visit to Tincroft House, if not to take it off John's hands entirely.

Under all these circumstances, it is no wonder that Tincroft had to discontinue his researches into Chinese Cosmogony, or whatever else had previously bewildered his brain; nor that Sarah had, for the time, been roused into such unwonted activity of mind and body that the lines of languor and dissatisfaction which had for so long a time been half-spoiling her pretty face, were fast disappearing, so that every now and then John caught himself in a confused contemplation of that same yet altered face, in amazement, and thinking, in an odd kind of way, of the old days at High Beech so many years ago, when, without intending it, he ventured so near the maelstrom.

Of course, in all this preposterous activity, with its still inure preposterous origin and design, John was doing what you and I, reader, supposing we are extremely worldly-wise and knowing, should never have thought of doing; and we are at liberty, of course, to smile at John's simplicity, in suffering his good-nature to outrun his discretion. But then John was simple have we not said so a score of times? But then again, oh reader, there is a simplicity that is worth more than your worldly wisdom and mine put together—an uncalculating simplicity, a Christian simplicity, a wonder-working simplicity. And John's simplicity was of this nature.

It worked wonders. It always had worked wonders. It had worked wonders in the genuine respect for him which it had created and sustained in the thoughts and feelings of those who were always ashamed after having been betrayed occasionally into making an innocent joke at his expense. It had worked wonders in men with whom he had dealings—hard-headed men and not over-scrupulous perhaps, who would have prided themselves in getting the upper-hand and taking advantage of clever fellows with all their wits about them, but who would have felt many extra twinges of conscience had they at any time taken advantage, and made a gain, of John's simplicity.

It had wrought wonders with the poor children of the village, uncouth and home-neglected as they were, whom he taught from Sunday to Sunday in a large class in the Sunday school, and who looked upon him as alike a mine of erudition (though they wouldn't have used those express words) and a model of human kindness and forbearance. For though I have said little about John Tincroft from a theological and "professingly Christian" point of view, it must be once for all understood that it is not because I have nothing to say, but that this has not been quite the place in which to make a parade of it; it is not, out of place, however, to say that he was "a teacher of babes" in the school of Christ.

His simplicity had worked wonders, too, in the rough, garden-robbing neighbourhood in the midst of which he dwelt, inasmuch as though no steel-trap and spring-gun warnings were set up on his premises, the apples in his orchard generally hung secure till they were plucked by his own hands, while those of the law and fury breathing country squire and J.P. on the rising ground a quarter of a mile off, though surrounded by a high brick wall, regularly received more than one annual (or seasonal) nocturnal visit. On one occasion, truly, John's exposed orchard was robbed; but such an outcry of shame followed upon it from the whole country-side round that the daring yet easily enough executed deed was never repeated:

"For all agreed the rogues were mad,

To rob so good a man."

Above all things, John's simplicity had worked wonders in winning the respect and esteem of the woman he had so many years before married to rescue from reproach and poverty, that he might protect and provide for her. Of course it was very simple to do this, when he might have made a much better match if he had only waited till he came into his property. Everybody who knew anything about it had said this over and over again. Richard Grigson had said this, and so had Tom Grigson; so also had Mr. Rubric, and also Mr. Roundhand. But all these loved him for it. But Sarah had not yet loved him for it. How could she love (with woman's love) a man whom she had begun by despising and laughing at, and ridiculing and making jokes about? All in a silly, flirting, coquettish sort of way, to be sure; but still she had done it. I ask, how could she love such a one, though, in desperation, she had taken him for her husband?

Well, his simplicity had not wrought this wonder yet; but it had done more, it had made her regard him with veneration.

"Because he is so good, you know," she had said to herself, over and over again, any time within those twenty years which had passed and gone; while, at the same time, she might have been—and no doubt was—vexed with him for being so learned, such a clever fool, in fact; and with herself for being such an unclever one.

But, in the month which had now passed away since that letter came to Tincroft House, a new light had broken in upon Sarah's feeble mind. How kind John was, and how forgiving! What could be the meaning of it? To think of how he had read all that letter, which she did not dare read herself when she found out who it was from; and, instead of being in a great angry rage, as most of the men would have been—so Sarah thought and believed and argued—and of visiting it home upon the weaker vessel, how he had not had a word to say that was not good and kind to her, and about Walter!

And then to think that such preparations were being made to receive her cousin! I don't know whether Sarah most longed for or dreaded the meeting with Walter. If it was the first feeling, it was not because there was one particle of guilty love in her composition. Nothing of the old ideal of her cousin Walter as her lover remained in her mind. It had not lasted long—it was not the sort of affection to last long under any circumstances, perhaps.

But seeing that they had parted, never to meet again, as they thought, and in anger with each other, and seeing that Walter had gone his way, and married a wife (not Sarah) so many years ago, and that she (Sarah) had also gone her way, and married a husband (not Walter) so many years ago, there was not any danger of harm arising, in thought or word, from their meeting. Besides, was not Walter so ill as to be doubtful whether he should live to reach England at all? All this passed, though I have no doubt in a confused sort of way, through Sarah's mind as she thought of what was to be. No doubt she would like to see Walter again, and to be friends with him.

Wasn't he her cousin before he had ever thought of being her husband, or it had been put into her little head to be his wife? And now that her resentment of his treatment of her had long since faded away, carrying with it her dreams of what might have been, but was never to be, her cousinly regard still remained. And, though she dreaded the meeting—she did not exactly know why—she should like to see him again, and was glad it would be in her power to comfort him, in her small way of comfort-giving, in his sorrow, and to nurse him in his sickness.

But it was when she thought of the young Helen that Sarah's feelings expanded to such an extent as to overflow her full heart. There was no danger in indulging these womanly out-goings of affection and sympathy for the motherless girl.

"I will be her mother, and make up to her as well as I can for what she has lost, poor dear," said she to herself.

And then she began to wonder what Helen's mother had been like, and to make an imaginary character of her, full of beauty and love and all manner of perfections. And the young Helen was to be a copy of her mother. There was a mysterious, and yet, in some ways of looking at it, a natural instinct in all this, perhaps. That which is mysterious I do not, of course, pretend to explain; but it was natural, surely, for Sarah to wish for an object on which to expend a store of love within, which had hitherto lain dormant because there had been no demand for it.

Helen was not many years younger now than her (Sarah's) little bud of mortality would have been had it pleased God to spare it to her. And, in her foolish thoughts, it was as if that little bud was coming back to her at last, in another form, and expanded into a lovely flower.

And then, from these vagaries of imagination, Sarah's more sober thoughts came back again to legitimate home; and, day after day, as she looked at her husband's patient countenance, and heard his quiet, uncomplaining words, and reflected how good he had been to her all those past years, and given her so much more, to say the least of it, than she had given him, she seemed to herself to be waking up from some distressing if not hideous dream, till she could not contain her self-reproach on the one hand, and her thankfulness on the other.

And one evening, when they were by themselves in John's gloomy-looking study, whither they had repaired after a hard day's work in putting the finishing strokes to their preparations, poor Sarah fairly gave way, and, throwing her arms around John's neck, and hiding her face on his breast, she sobbed out her penitent confession of shortcomings and her new-found love.

"I do love you now, John, dear, dearest husband. I have never loved you as I ought to have done, till now. But I love you now, dear, good, good John!"

Yes, it had come at last. John had never given up hoping for it; and now, after so long a time, it had come to him. His wife loved him.

Happy John Tincroft!

CHAPTER XXIV.

"COALS OF FIRE."

BY dint of persevering inquiries made through the agency of his once guardian, Mr. Rackstraw, John had ascertained at what time the Sea Bird was likely to arrive in port. It wanted but a few days of this date when the final touches were put to the preparation of Tincroft House. And then John announced to Sarah that the time was come for them to take their journey to London.

"It will not matter, my dear, if we should have to wait a week before the ship gets in," said he; "but it won't do to be a day too late!"

So places were taken in the Trotbury coach—for the London and Trotbury and Smashum line was not open then—and two days afterwards they were on the road. That same evening they had ensconced themselves in a private boarding-house in the City, having first of all made arrangements for extra rooms for the expected homeward-bound ones.

They had not to wait many days. The winds and waves were propitious; and as they sat at breakfast on the fourth morning after their departure from home, news came that the ship—having coming up from Gravesend on the previous day—was then in the—docks. No time was to be lost, therefore. But hurried as were their movements that morning, we must precede the Tincrofts some short space of time, and take our station on the quarter-deck of the Sea Bird.

There, pacing to and fro, with slow and feeble steps, and clad in rough but warm sea-going garments, was a tall man, of well-built and once powerful frame, viewing with a kind of languid interest the busy scene around him. He was pale, what part of his face was not concealed by the thick dark beard he wore; and he looked pensive, not to say sorrowful.

By this sick man's side, and waiting on him as it seemed with anxious watchfulness, was a tall, slight young woman, whom it was natural to suppose was his daughter. A flush of health intensified the brunette hue of her cheeks and forehead, and added to the general loveliness of her countenance as it beamed forth under the warm and closely-fitting bonnet which partly concealed her dark brown hair. But the great charm of her countenance at that time was expressed in the loving, trusting, earnest, half-sad and half-hopeful gaze she fixed on her companion.

"This is London, Helen; what do you think of it?" said the invalid, gravely.

"I don't like it, father," the girl returned, with a shudder. "But it is not all like this—ships and water, piers and warehouses—I suppose?"

"No, there are streets and churches, and public buildings—but it all amounts to much the same thing, houses and men here and there and everywhere."

The man said this wearily, as though he had seen too much of civilisation at some former time.

"But we shall not live in London, father?"

"For a time we must, perhaps. But I don't know yet what we shall do. The first thing will be to get ashore as soon as we can; and then, in a day or two, I will write to—to the gentleman I was telling you of; and if he will let us go and see him for a few days till we can find a home, well and good."

"And then you are to get well again, you know, father, and strong, and we will be happy—so happy again."

There was a great crushing and bustling on the main-deck. But I shall not stay to describe it, save only that great numbers of people were now coming on board. They were of all sorts; and among them, stepping on board from the gangway, was a bewildered-looking, well-dressed couple, whose fate seemed to be to get in everybody's way, while their immediate object was to get out of it.

"I never was so pushed about in all my life, John," said the lady. "And do you think we shall find them in this crowd?"

"We will try, Sarah," said the gentleman. "If there were anybody I could ask now, we should be all right, but I don't see—"

"Look, look, John!" cried Sarah in an excited, agitated tone. "Isn't that Walter up there? Him with the beard, I mean, and that beautiful girl! But, oh, how bad he seems!"

John looked as he was directed; and then the Tincrofts, squeezing their way, presently made good their footing on the quarter-deck. In another half minute, or less, Sarah's trembling hand was laid on the bearded man's arm.

"Walter!"

Yes, it was Walter Wilson, of course. And the recognition was mutual. It needed only to turn his eyes upon the half-frightened woman—indeed, it needed only to hear that one word, uttered by her voice, to tell the returned emigrant who it was that stood beside him.

"Sarah, dear Cousin Sarah, I did not think of this. It is very kind of you to come here to welcome me back; but I did not think of it; I couldn't have expected it."

And then, with tears in both pairs of eyes, there was a cousinly embrace.

"It was John that did it, Cousin Walter; he would have me come. He is so good; and I love him; and so will you, Cousin Walter, when you know him."

All this amid tears and sobs and hand-pressings; and then, because it was safer, perhaps, to prevent an entire breakdown by talking without exactly knowing what she said, Sarah went on:

"And you are to come to live with us, Walter, and that's John's doings; and Helen, your dear, beautiful Helen—oh, I shall love her, and—"

There is no need to write down more. The talking was, at that time, almost all done by Sarah, for Walter was struggling with too many conflicting emotions, besides being too weak and ill, to say much. Presently he turned to Tincroft, and led him to the side of the ship, leaning on his arm, while Sarah made friends with the wondering Helen.

"Mr. Tincroft," said Walter, hoarsely and feebly, "you remember when and where we saw one another before, and how we parted?"

"It is so long ago," replied John, cheerily, "that it is never worth while to try to tax the memory. All, or the best, we have to do now, is to get you down to Tincroft House, and try to make you well soon; and then will be time enough to talk about what is past and gone."

"I shall never be well again, Mr. Tincroft," rejoined the other. "It is not for long that I shall—however, I will accept your invitation and go back with you for a little while. But I must remind you of what passed when we parted. 'You will some day be sorry,' you said, Mr. Tincroft. I am sorry. I cruelly misunderstood and misinterpreted you. Forgive me!"

A good deal more passed in this strange meeting than I can write down. It is enough to say that it was late in the day when they were all four, with sundry portions of luggage, driven up to the door of John's boarding-house, where we must leave them to talk over the plans which had been mapped out, and to say as much or as little about the past as it pleased them.

Walter Wilson was deplorably ill. After a day or two in London, taking the rest rendered absolutely necessary by a state of exhaustion into which he sank on reaching the temporary lodgings provided for him—which exhaustion was probably increased by the sudden excitement caused by his meeting with John Tincroft and his cousin; and after another day or two partly spent in conferences with his lawyer—he travelled by short stages to John's home. His daughter and Tincroft were his travelling companions, Sarah having gene on before to make all needful preparations.

Tincroft House was ready to receive the visitors, therefore; and the sick man was at once installed in his state apartments, while the wondering and half-frightened little Australian bird, called Helen, had taken possession of her beautified bower.

All these arrangements were quietly submitted to, rather than actively acquiesced in and assisted, by Wilson, who was in fact, too ill to make difficulties, if he had any to make, and who was glad enough to rest his shattered frame. As to Helen, she was with her father; and if her accommodations had been far less inviting, they would have been good enough, and only too good for her, she said. Nevertheless, she was impressed with their magnificence.

"If you had only seen my poor little room in our old log-house, as I remember it at first," said she to Sarah.

By the way, Sarah's simple-heartedness had already found its way to the girl's feelings.

"She isn't like my mother, not at all," Helen said to herself; "but then, nobody could be, or ever was, like dear mother—" and here her tears began to flow; "but Mrs. Tincroft is so good to me, and does everything she can think of for poor father, that I can't help liking her."

It was quite true that Walter Wilson had received, and was receiving, all the attention from both John and Sarah that could have been shown had he been a very dear brother. His apartments were studiously and carefully kept at an equable temperature; his table was supplied with all such delicacies as would be likely to tempt a sick man's appetite, or to create it. The best medical advice in Trotbury had been invoked on his behalf, and the doctor visited him every day.

Helen was with her father the greater part of the day, reading to him if he could bear it, and silently waiting on him when his nerves were unstrung, and his distressing paroxysms of weakness came on.

The establishment at Tincroft House was enlarged now by the addition of another female domestic; and more frequent calls were made at its gates by that benevolent race who delight to supply, and even to anticipate and forestall, the animal requirements of their fellows. No doubt, the wants were even now moderate enough; but, excepting when Grigson or two, or a small flock of the species, as the case might be, had alighted on the premises for a few days—

"There had never been such goings on at Tincroft House—" as the village grocer said to the village butcher—"any time within the last twenty years."

"And that's ever since the place has been inhabited in the memory of man," responded the purveyor of beef and mutton.

There never had been such good times at Tincroft House, in John's memory, at least, as were now inaugurated. It had come at last. He had striven for it, and patiently waited for it; and it had come. And he never felt more secure in the affection and entire confidence of his Sarah than when he saw her tenderly watching over the sick man, once her lover.

And so time passed on. A long dreary winter was succeeded by the premonitions of spring. Crocuses and snowdrops and hepaticas pushed themselves out of the ground, in the flower garden beneath the young Helen's window; and, with the returning milder weather, the more distressing symptoms of Wilson's disorder somewhat abated. Not that it was believed he would recover, or even, for any length of time, rally. That he was slowly dying, he himself knew, and all around him knew it; but still his strength for a time increased. He had even ventured occasionally, when the midday sun shone out, to walk—well wrapped up—on the dry gravel paths of the flower garden, leaning his feeble frame on John's arm.

On one of these occasions the invalid halted in his slow progress, and turned to his supporter.

"In all the time I have been here, and living at your cost—I and my Helen—we have never spoken a word about money matters," said he, breathing hard.

"Really," replied John, "I don't know what there is to say, Walter." (For John had learned to call his guest by his familiar name.) "All I can say is that you are heartily welcome to the small accommodation we have been able provide for you. I only wish it had been larger."

"That is all very well, and I am sure you mean what you say, Mr. Tincroft; but we ought to be coming to an understanding. I don't want to be living at free cost. I can afford to pay for what we eat and drink, I hope."

"I have no doubt of it, my friend; but we will not discuss that question now," rejoined John; "there will be time enough for that another day. But there is something I have been thinking about. May I mention it?"

"If it is not very unpleasant," said Wilson, with a faint laugh.

"I hope it will not be, I and sure it should not be," said John; and then, after a little while, he went on:

"Do you know, Walter, what has been my greatest drawback—what I most of all regret in my life's history, looking back upon it as I do now?"

Wilson did not know—could not guess, as he looked inquiringly into his host's countenance.

"I never knew my parents," said John, speaking slowly. "My mother died when I was an infant; my father, when I was a mere child. I was thus thrown upon the tender mercies of strangers; and that made me—but I won't speak about that. What I mean is—I have been thinking, Wilson, that you have a father and mother—brothers and sister too, all living in England."

"I suppose I have," said the other, rather haughtily, as it seemed to John, who went on, nevertheless.

"You have never written to them since you came back from Australia, I think?" John continued.

"No, nor for a long time before, if the truth were known."

"I am afraid you are not quite good friends with them?" said John.

"Possibly," said Walter, curtly; "I was not over and above pleased with what they did between us two and another, years ago," he added.

"But that is past and gone. And, after all, though it was a mistake on their part, it may have turned out for the best, you know," said John, in his simplicity, which, after all, was better than some men's cunning. "If such and such events hadn't happened, others would have come to pass which would have brought their share of trouble, I daresay. And, as it was, you have enjoyed much happiness and some prosperity in life, although not in the way you first thought of."

"And am come back to die," said the other, sadly.

"And death is the portal of life—the entrance into it, if we could but see it so," rejoined Tincroft. "But I was speaking of your parents and your old home. Don't you think you ought to let bygones be bygones, and make it up with them?"

"Do you think so, Mr. Tincroft?"

"I do think so," said John. "I am quite sure that it will be one of the happiest days of your life when you can feel that you have forgiven, from your heart, the trespasses which men have trespassed against you."

"Ah! And how do you know that?" demanded Wilson, quickly.

"By having tried it, Walter," said John, meekly.

The conversation, broken and disjointed as it was, and imperfectly as it has been reported, did not terminate here; but it took another turn. But as this bore upon matters which do not immediately concern our history, it may be omitted here. It is enough to say that, a few days afterwards, Wilson renewed the former subject.

"I have been thinking over what you said, and I think I ought not to keep up my bad feelings. I mean to write home and offer to be friends."

"I am glad you do think and mean so," said John, dubiously.

"Of course, I shall expect some acknowledgment," added Wilson.

"I was afraid of that. If I were you, I wouldn't make that a condition."

"Wouldn't you, though, really?"

"No. Only think a little, Walter."

"I have thought. And all I can make of it is that they used me badly—father, mother, Elizabeth, and all. And you came in for your share of it, Mr. Tincroft, and Cousin Sarah, she did too. And it seems to me that it is only right that they should make some sort of acknowledgment, as I said a minute ago."

"I would not insist upon it, Walter," said John, and he repeated, in the same tone as before, the same words, "Only think a little."

"I have very little power of thought left," said Walter, with a heavy sigh. "You must help me. What would you have me think?" he asked.

"Think of what our dear Lord said," replied John, gently and lovingly, "when He taught us to pray, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.'"

It was in the early twilight of evening when, as the two sat together, these words were spoken, and before either spoke again the twilight had deepened into darkness.

CHAPTER XXV.

HIGH AND LOW BEECH.

THE families at High and Low Beech continued to prosper, after a fashion; that is to say, they worked hard, lived frugally for the most part, and made some money.

Matthew Wilson was an old man now. He was not young when we first made his acquaintance, and add twenty years or more to fifty and a little over, and we arrive at the threescore and ten, or going on for fourscore, in which not much remains of the human life.

Not that Matthew thought much of this. He was strong and hearty, he said. His teeth were sound, some of them at any rate; and he could stump about his farm as well, pretty near, as he had done any time in the last ten years. He was not made of such stuff as the young people of modern days; he was born before nerves came in fashion; he hadn't given in to bad habits like some—not he. He didn't go to public-houses as his brother Mark had done; and he didn't go about with a dirty pipe in his mouth all day long, as some others did that he could name, but he wouldn't. And about that nasty tobacco, it was his opinion that it was taking all the manliness out of people nowadays. Look at horses, they never smoked; the same with cows and sheep; and even hogs, though they did sometimes run about with straws in their mouths—but that was only when rough weather was coming—they didn't set a light to the ends and smoke them. They were a deal too knowing for that.

All this, or something very much like it, and a great deal more of the same sort, Matthew Wilson was in the habit of gravely going over with any old crony whom he could get to listen to him. And lacking this, he could propound it at his own fireside on a winter's evening, his wife and his daughter being now his principal listeners there.

For his sons had, years before, all flitted from under the parental roof-tree. George, the next oldest to Walter, was, as our readers may remember, married some twenty years before, and had settled on poor Mark's late holding at High Beech. There he still remained, with a large family growing up around him; but holding no intercourse (or very little, and that not of the pleasantest complexion) with his father and other members of his family. The truth is, George was charged, with how much or how little truth it does not concern us to know, with having, in some family dealings, been too sharp by half.

Now, Matthew liked sharpness well enough in general, and was always sufficiently disposed to sneer at and run down any one who, in his opinion, was deficient in that admirable qualification for getting on in the world, according to his view. But it is one thing to admire sharpness when practised on Number Two, and quite another thing to approve of it when it is brought home to Number One. And so, having been outwitted, as he imagined, by his son George, Matthew Wilson was too much in the habit of pouring out vials of wrath when the occupant of High Beech was mentioned.

"Brother Mark was bad enough," said the old farmer; "and I lost a good five hundred by him; but I don't know if George isn't the worse of the two—and he, my own boy."

Now, I am not at all sure that Matthew had any real ground of complaint against his "own boy." At the best of times, perhaps, the old farmer had been an avaricious man; and it is notorious that the vice of avarice grows as age advances. No doubt it is true that as we brought nothing with us into the world, so it is certain we can carry nothing out of it. But there is as little doubt that we (not you and I, reader, who don't love money at all, but I at this present moment identify myself with those who do) like to retain our hold of what we have got as long as we can, and to increase it if it lies in our power. So, I daresay, Matthew Wilson was altogether under a mistake concerning George's too great sharpness. Nevertheless, George lay under the stigma.

As to Alfred and James, they had stuck to the farming, as they had always said they would do; and had managed by this time to have farms of their own—wives and children also, no doubt. But as our history has not hitherto concerned itself about these scions of the Wilson stock, we may take short notice of them here.

The mother of these young men plodded on by her husband's side on the down-hill of life, not altogether without her troubles and vexations. Among these minor miseries of human existence was the completest conviction, amounting to certainty, that servant girls were good-for-nothing, that education had ruined them out and out, that all the learning people of that sort needed to be taught, if it didn't come by nature, was to know how to wash, and brew, and bake, and scour and scrub, and milk cows, and churn, and so forth from morning to night. If they wanted anything else by way of recreation, hadn't they got their clothes to mend and their stockings to darn? If they wanted any teaching of another sort, they could go to church on Sundays, when their mistresses could spare them, and get it there. As to their sitting down, Sundays or work-a-days, with a book in their hands, as they were let to do in some houses (not in hers, she was thankful to say), she hadn't patience with it. But she knew what would come of it: mistresses would soon be maids, and maids mistresses. She only hoped the world would last out her time.

I should explain that this somewhat violent philippic was called forth on one particular occasion, when a Sunday school was started in the village by the successor of our venerable friend Mr. Rubric. For this worthy gentleman (who was aged when we first made his acquaintance) had departed this life some three or four years before the time in our history at which we have arrived. Another had entered on the scene of his labours, a younger man, and with a good many whims (I am using Mrs. Matthews expression, "a good many whims") in his brain, among which was the very old one that "for the soul to be without knowledge is not good."

Now, Mr. Rubric had held the same opinion, and had taught the people sound doctrine in his weekly ministration and his frequent visitations; and also in his careful supervision of the village national school, but he had not ventured so far as to "set up a Sunday school." (Mrs. Matthew's phrase again, not mine.) And this was going so far in advance of that good lady's ideas that she could not, at first, restrain her indignation. Mr. Newcome was, no doubt, a good man in his way—he could not be otherwise, seeing he was in the Church—and he preached good sermons, no doubt, if folks could only understand them. But, for all that, give her back her dear old Mr. Rubric. Ah! There were no parsons like the old ones that were dying out, stock and branch. She didn't know whether the railroads that there was such a talk about had anything to do with it. She should not wonder if they had; and if they had, it was no more than was to be expected; and it was all the worse for them. They had enough to answer for—taking away people's lives, as they were said to do—without having that!

Another sign of the degeneracy of the times, according to Mrs. Matthew, was that the cows didn't yield so much milk by half as they used to do; and that the milk, little as it was, did not produce so much cream; and that the cream didn't make such butter as when she was young. Moreover, the best sorts of potatoes were dying out, and the potato disease was coming in, which was a sign the world was in, or approaching unto, its last stage of decrepitude (not Mrs. Matthew's expression); and all she could hope was that it would last her time.

Now, all these fancies were harmless enough, though rather tiresome, perhaps, in their re-re-reiteration. And if Mrs. Matthews had remembered a certain piece of advice given in an old book about not saying that the former days were better than the present, she might have modified her views. But she did not remember this, and as it probably afforded the good old lady some satisfaction to dwell upon these imaginary grievances, I do not know that you and I, friend, need find fault with her.

We shall be old some day, if we live long enough; and then, perhaps, other story-tellers, now in their cradles, will be saying the same things of us.

Mrs. Matthew's troubles already mentioned were, after all, theoretical, and I am inclined to think she did not half believe in them herself. There was another nearer home which I shall only hint at, rather than dwell upon. Her daughter Elizabeth had become, more and more, a thorn in her side. Not that there was any positive unkindness of heart between the two, but there was much heart-burning at times. For one thing, the old farmer's wife had sometimes great difficulty in upholding her supreme authority at Low Beech, in all domestic affairs. And if it is true that two kings cannot sit upon the same throne, it is equally certain that a household does not get on at all times very amicably where there are two mistresses.

And so there were times when near approaches were made to disruption, for Elizabeth, as we have seen, was warm-tempered, and she declared, again and again, that she would go out to service, that she would, rather than be so put upon at home, and be looked upon as nothing and nobody. And though these passages of arms, or rather of tongue, ended in each party cooling down for the time, the burning discontent remained, ready to break out again on sufficient or insufficient occasion.

The truth, perhaps, is that the daughter's temper had not improved with her years, which my readers may reckon up with some approach to accuracy; and with the decrease of the hope which is said to have a place in every gentle bosom. Since the disappointment of that hope, of which I have told, no other admiring swain had ventured the offer of an arm in a country walk, or had breathed a sigh at the shrine of Elizabeth's beauty. Ah, well-a-day! And so the world goes round and round, and "that which hath been, is now; and that which is to be, hath already been."

There was one subject which, as I have already told, always produced discord at Low Beech Farm, when touched upon. And there was another so closely bordering upon it, that it had been almost dropped in conversation. This was the question, "What had become of Walter?" Eventually, it came to be generally concluded that Walter was dead, or something would have been heard of him. To this conclusion the old folks at Low Beech had settled down; and though the supposititious death of the first-born was felt by them as a kind of trouble, it was nevertheless borne with degree of composure which perhaps did not very much surprise those who were most intimately acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Wilson—or would not have done had they remembered that where the love of money is the supreme affection, all other natural feelings are inevitably deadened.

Of course it was very wrong in Walter not to write home in all the years of his growing prosperity in Australia. But he is not the first man, nor will he be the last, who, having, under either real or fancied grievances, hastily cut the tie which bound him to the family circle, has felt it a matter of selfish pride, or some other bad feeling, to widen the breach thus made by haughty and obstinate silence.

This, Walter had done; and now, in his sorrowful bereavement and personal affliction, he felt a strange reluctance to renew his intercourse with them.

"I daresay they think me to be dead, as I soon shall be," said he to Tincroft on the day after the conversation we have recorded in the last chapter; "and I don't know why I should disturb their thoughts."

But John wouldn't suffer the subject to drop. "You promised me you would write to them," said he, persuasively. "And I would, if I were you."

And though nothing came of it that day, nor the next, nor for many nexts, the perpetual dropping of Tincroft's soft words and hard arguments at length wore into the hard stone of his friend's unwillingness.

"I tell you what I have been thinking, Mr. Tincroft," said he, one day, as they were together. "I feel stronger now than I did, and instead of writing, I'll go and see father and the rest while I'm able; that will be better than writing."

"Perhaps it will," said John. "I am inclined to think that it only needs for you all to be brought together again to wipe out anything of the past unpleasant to think about. And writing might stir up these remembrances."

"But you must go with me, Mr. Tincroft."

"Yes, if you wish it," said John, hesitatingly. "But would it not be better if you and your daughter were to see them first of all alone? I would travel with you, of course, if you wish it."

"I shall not take Helen with me," said Wilson. "They mightn't take to her, or she mightn't take to them. No! If you will go and help me through with it, well and good. If not, it must drop."

"Oh, it mustn't drop," said John, cheerily.

It might be a week or more after this conversation that as the small family at Low Beech Farm were seated at their midday meal, in the large stone-floored kitchen, a single gentle, not to say timid, knock was heard at the outer door of the adjoining hall or passage.

"Go and see who it is, Martha," said the old farmer to the servant-of-all-work, who sat at the same table with her master and mistresses, and drank her portion from the same general pewter pot which served for all dinner purposes: "one of those travelling tinkers, I guess; I saw old Ripley about yesterday. They're none too honest, I think, and their room is better than their company."

While thus discharging himself of his grumble, Martha had opened the door, and before she had recovered her surprise, the two strangers whom she had admitted walked slowly by her, and softly entered the kitchen.

They were a singular and yet not ill-assorted pair. One of them was a gentleman—rather lean-visaged and pale in complexion, partially bald, and what hair he had, inclining to grey. There was a kindly, half-pitying, half-inquiring glance in his dark grey eyes—that is to say, if the eyes expressed what was then uppermost in his mind. He was well-dressed, though plainly, in black.

The other stranger, who, like him, had entered bare-headed, was leaning heavily on his friend's arm, for he was very feeble. His face was masked in a dark beard, which, however, did not altogether conceal the strong muscular working of his lips as he, more than once, vainly attempted to utter the word which would not come. His dress was warm, though of a rougher texture than that of his companion.

For one moment, the old farmer and his wife and daughter sat suddenly transfixed, as it seemed, with astonishment at the intrusion; and then a gleam of intelligence lighted up Matthew's countenance.

"Mr. Tincroft, if I am not mistaken?" said he, without any great emotion.

It needed only this to convey quick intelligence to the mother's bewildered thoughts. The transition from Tincroft to Sarah and from Sarah to Walter was natural enough, no doubt.

"And 'tis Walter come back again!" she cried, shrilly, as she hastily rose, to be saved from falling only by the intervention of Elizabeth's stout arm.

"'Tis Walter, sure enough!" said the old farmer.

And there was a grasping of hands and a general embracing, for the over-surprised and startled mother soon returned to her normal condition.

"And where in the world have you been all these years, Walter?" demanded Matthew, when the confusion had a little subsided.

"And why haven't you written home all this time, my boy?" said Mrs. Matthew, plaintively.

"And how ill you look, Walter," said softened Elizabeth; "and you are ill, too, aren't you?"

"I'll tell you all about it, father, mother, sister," said Walter, feebly, "if you will give me a moment to rest in."

"And a chair," thought John, placing one in position. And then he added, inwardly, "I think I am not wanted here any longer. Walter will settle down more comfortably without my help. And though these family transports are very touching to all concerned, they are carried on better, I daresay, in the absence of outsiders."

And so, with commendable consideration, Tincroft quietly withdrew himself from the kitchen at Low Beech. We shall imitate his example, and accompany him on his way to the Manor House, where he felt sure of a hospitable welcome from Mr. Richard Grigson, in the character of an uninvited guest.

For he and Walter, without giving notice of their intention, had travelled straight from Tincroft House to London by the Trotbury coach; and thence on and on by the old Tally-ho, not yet discarded, though the railway era had commenced, till they reached the little town where, so many years ago, John had alighted from the same public conveyance to make his first entrance on enchanted ground.

In the best inn's best room they had rested awhile and refreshed themselves after the fatigues of the journey, and then had taken a post-chaise to convey them to their destination. This last mentioned time-honoured vehicle was now deposited in the stable-yard of the White Hart, formerly so well-known to, and acquainted with, poor Mark Wilson; while its pair of hacks were munching corn in the stable, and the yellow jacketed, many-buttoned, and jack-booted postillion was partaking of creature comforts in the taproom, and awaiting further orders.

For John had had forethought enough to retain for Walter and himself a way of retreat, supposing the doors both of Low Beech and the Manor House should be respectively closed against them.

"I have no doubt Mr. Richard will make me welcome, though, for an hour or two, at all events," thought John, as he stole away; "and then I'll come back and see what else is to be done."

Revolving these thoughts in his mind, John walked on, not sorry, perhaps, to find himself alone amid the scenes which, so many years before, were pregnant with such important consequences to himself, and not to himself alone. He could think of these things calmly now—more calmly, and thankfully too, perhaps, than he could have thought them over, say a year ago.

For, after all, his infatuation and folly of that back-dated period had been so overruled as to have turned out—well, to say the least of it—better than might have been expected, and much better than he had deserved.

He himself had not been unhappy in his married life—in any part of it, except when, now and then, it had occurred to him that poor Sarah would have done better in many another position than that of mistress of Tincroft House. But now this feeling was removed. It had taken a long time to do; but he had hoped on and hoped ever, and he had won his wife's love at last; not her respect and reverence, for these he had always had, but her right down, real hearty affection. He was as sure of this now as he was of his own existence. And with this new-found affection had come such a brightening up of the whole moral atmosphere surrounding his married life that he could afford to smile at the folly of his young days at High Beech Farm and thereanent. And oh, how thankful he felt—how increasingly thankful—for his determination then, that though he had played the fool, he would not act the knave!

He could think calmly, and quietly too, of those past scenes of his history, even so far as his friend (friend now, but once self-constituted rival) Walter Wilson was concerned. For he had had more than one long and confidential conference with Walter respecting those past passages in their several histories which had led to such important results.

And the full persuasion on the minds of both, was that Walter had been happier in his whole life than he might have been, had the course of his first love run ever so smoothly. He had, at any rate, prospered in the world, though to what extent John was ignorant; he had lived the kind of life that best suited him; and he had been happy in a marriage union which had also and above all, as John hoped, introduced him to a higher and more enduring happiness than anything on earth can impart. True, he had suffered bereavement, but this was a contingency from which no condition in life is exempt; and he had come home in ill-health, perhaps to die; but John did not think this event was near at hand, because he was determined not to believe it.

"Doctors are as often wrong as right," quoth he to himself, "and there is life and health and comfort in store for Walter Wilson yet. He has picked up famously since he has been in England, and we shall bring him round again, no fear, God helping us," said he, joyfully.

And so John Tincroft went on weaving his fancies so industriously that he lost himself in his reveries, till, without knowing it, he instinctively entered the precincts of the Manor House, and was approaching its hospitable doors.

Then, all at once, a loud joyous shout of surprise rang in his ears; and before he had quite recovered his senses, he found himself clapped on the shoulder, hugged by the arm, and otherwise pleasantly assaulted, not by Richard Grigson but by his old friend Tom; while close by there stood young Tom also, with whom John had made some acquaintance on one of those flying visits to Tincroft House of which I have spoken in a previous chapter.

"Why, Tom, my dear friend, who would have thought of finding you here?" gasped John, when a hand-shaking all round had been performed.

"Well, there's nothing wonderful in that, is there?" said the senior Tom, laughing. "Nothing strange in my liking to see the old place now and then, eh? Dick and I have not quarrelled, have we?"

"No, no, of course not. But for all that, it is an unexpected pleasure to meet you when I should have thought you were two hundred miles away, on the banks of the Thames."

"Where you never came to find me at home," put in Tom.

"And don't you think it is quite as unexpected a pleasure to me—and Dick too—to meet you here, when we might have thought you to be three hundred miles away? You see, the odds were against your being here, after all," added Tom Grigson. "But how I came here is easily explained. I got hipped and fagged with business, and young Tom here wanted a run, he thought, and so we have been quartering ourselves on Dick for a week or two, leaving Kate and the girls to keep house while we are away."

"But room enough for you, and half-a-dozen more like you, if they could be found, John," added Richard Grigson, once more clapping Tincroft on the shoulder. "And you are come to stay with me, of course—a month at least. But why didn't you bring Mrs. Tincroft with you? And where's your luggage? But never mind; we'll talk all about that when we get indoors; and Tom, young rascal, you run in and tell Mrs. Harris—(my old housekeeper is dead, but I have got another, pretty nearly as old, and almost as good as she was when you knew her, Tincroft)—" this by way of parenthesis—"tell her, Tom, to get lunch out at once; for here's a poor half-starved loon come to eat us out of house and home."

And so exit young Tom.

"And now that young fellow is gone," continued Mr. Richard, in another tone, "tell us all about it, dear friend—that is, if speaking will relieve you. What is the matter? For I am afraid there is something on your mind; you look so serious."

"Do I?" said John, smiling. "Then my looks are false witnesses, if you mean by something on my mind, something unpleasant. For the truth is, my errand here is rather pleasant than otherwise."

And then he went on to tell, what I have already told, about Walter's return to England, and of his having been persuaded by him (John) and Walter's cousin to pay a visit of reconciliation to his old home.

"And I have just left him at Low Beech," continued Tincroft. "I thought it best to leave them when the ground was cleared. And, to tell the truth, I thought perhaps you would take me in for a night or two, Mr. Richard."

"A night or two! Ay, a month or two, if that's all. But you tell us strange news. And you have kept it all to yourself, all this while."

"I should have written," said John, "but Walter didn't want it known that he had come back till he had made up his mind what to do. So I couldn't very well write without making a secret of it, which I didn't care to do."

"Ah well, that's all right. And now the first thing that you have to do is to go in and make yourself comfortable. And the next will be to send down to the White Hart and get your luggage up here—"

"There's only a carpet-bag of mine, and another of Walter Wilson's," said John.

"Well, we will get them up here; and then if the prodigal son has not received a proper sort of welcome at home, we'll have him up here too."

And so walking on as they talked in this fashion, John Tincroft and his two old friends entered the house. And after this, all was done as had been thus hastily sketched—the post-chaise was sent back empty; the luggage was removed, first to the Manor House, and then, later in the day, Walter's portion of it was sent to the farm, John having ascertained, by ocular and oral demonstration, that Walter had been received with kindness, and that he had made up his mind to stay, for a few days at least, at his old home.

John truly declared, in further conversation with his friends at the Manor House, that he was not at all aware of the extent of Walter's possessions; for, in all their intercourse, the returned emigrant had avoided entering upon that question, except by saying that he had enough to enable him to pay his way, he hoped, and to leave a little something behind for his daughter when he was gone. Our friend was rather surprised, therefore, when Tom Grigson repeated to him what he had heard the year before, of Walter Wilson.

"I am afraid your informant was drawing the longbow a little," said John; "for there's no appearance of that state of affairs about my wife's cousin. Of course, being a farmer out there, as he was, he had his land and stock, and all that sort of thing. But from what he tells me, land and stock don't fetch much money in that part of the world when it comes to be sold. And it was nothing but a rough sort of log-house they lived in up to the time of their coming away."

"I daresay you are right," said Tom. "Those fellows who come home for a spree, or for business, as Brooks did, are apt to crack up one another. And it doesn't matter to us whether Wilson is rich or poor, does it?"

"Not a bit," said John; "only if he has got enough to start himself in some sort of way, when he gets well enough to attend to business, it will be a good thing. And if not, why, I must lend him a helping hand."

"You had better take care what you are about, though," said Richard Grigson. "I have nothing to say about Walter Wilson, for I know nothing about him more than I knew twenty years ago, and he was a fine, straightforward enough young follow then, only more than a little pigheaded. But about the Wilsons generally—well, they know how to get their pennyworth for their penny. I am speaking of Walter's father and brothers, mind; not of Walter himself."

Now this conversation, and the further insight into character that it gives, will, perhaps, partly account for certain anxiety which evinced itself in Matthew Wilson a day or two afterwards, when he made it his business to call upon our friend Tincroft at the Manor House.

In those two or three days, John, with commendable delicacy, had abstained from intruding himself upon the family at Low Beech, excepting so far as to be assured that his friend Walter was comfortably domiciled in his old home, and had all the attentions paid him that were rendered necessary by his state of health, or rather of unhealth. He knew, too, that there had been meetings between Walter and his brothers, both at their own homes and at a family gathering at Low Beech, to which even the offending George had been admitted, where, if not the fatted calf, several plump fowls were duly sacrificed in honour of the reunion. All this John knew, but he was not exactly prepared for the visit he received one day, when the following colloquy, or something like it, took place.

"You keep yourself pretty much to yourself, Mr. Tincroft," said the farmer, when he had ensconced himself in the old arm-chair in Mr. Richard's library, of which John had naturally taken possession for the time being, and in which he had free range.

"Oh, I knew Walter was in good hands," said John. "He has his mother and sister to look after him; and he must have a great deal to talk about with you all; and—and, in short—I didn't wish to intrude."

"No intrusion at all, Mr. Tincroft; it wouldn't have been any intrusion. Aren't we a sort of relations? It's your wife's—Sarah's—uncle I am, you know."

"True," replied John; "and if I thought it would have been any pleasure or gratification, I would have called oftener. But I didn't know, you see; and under the circumstances, you understand, I felt convinced you would prefer having Walter's company alone."

"Ah well, I have nothing to say against that, nor against having Walter's company. But we are relations, you know; and wife and I have been saying that we think it odd that you should fight shy of us."

"I am sorry, I am sure, Mr. Wilson, that you should think so of me. I only thought it would be more agreeable to you—"

"Yes, yes, no doubt. But I was going on to say that we should have been uncommon pleased if Sarah—that's Mrs. Tincroft, you know—had kept up knowledge of us, as one may say. She has never been near the old place since she left it, twenty years ago. There's no offence, sir, in minding you of it, I hope."

"O dear, none at all," said John, one of whose harmless peculiarities it was never to take offence if he could avoid it. "But there were circumstances, you know, sir, which would, perhaps, have made it a little awkward to my dear wife—" John said this with unction, and repeated it—"to my dear wife, in revisiting the scenes of her younger days."

"Possibly," said the old farmer; "but we ought to forget and forgive, you know, sir. And, for my part, I have long ago forgiven that five hundred pounds that brother Mark robbed me of, as one may say; for I never got a penny of it back. But I didn't come to speak about that, Mr. Tincroft, I most wanted to say to you, we are relations and friends, aren't we? And when I say friends, 'tis friends I mean," added Matthew, with a knowing nod.

"Truly I hope so, sir," said John, wondering whereunto all this preamble was to tend.

"And now," continued Farmer Matthew, in a lower tone, and looking round to make sure that the door was fast closed against hypothetical listeners, "I reckon Walter has told you all, hasn't he?"

"All what, Mr. Wilson?"

"All about himself, and whether he has come home empty-handed, or full. You understand."

"Excuse me, sir," said John, rather reservedly; "I should think that your son is more likely to have taken you than me into his confidence."

"Ah, but he hasn't," returned Matthew; "I tried to get it out of him, too. But when I happened to say to him 'I reckon you have come home with your pocket pretty well lined?' he drew in his horns, and said he supposed he had got enough to last him as long as he lived. So I thought, maybe, you could tell me a little about it."

John did not reply, and the old man went on.

"You see, 'tis likely that Walter won't last long; he may and he mayn't. But say, suppose he shouldn't—and he looks mortal bad at times—there's his girl that he has brought over with him. Now, she's kith and kin to me and my dame—there's no denying it. And say that there's something to come to her afterwards, why, I reckon I am the proper one to look after it. You see that, Mr. Tincroft?"

"Yes, I see, I see," said John, shutting his eyes notwithstanding, which he sometimes did when he had a hard problem to solve.

"And as I thought, and so did my dame, that mayhap you could give us a little insight into it."

"Look you, Mr. Wilson," responded John, who had by this time opened his eyes again, the problem being solved; "your son and my friend Walter may be as rich as Crœsus, for anything I know to the contrary."

"Crœsus? Oh, you mean old Creasy of Rick Hall; I didn't think you knew him. Well, to be sure, people said he was rich; but when he died they found out their mistake, just as I always said they would," said old Matthew.

"Well," continued John, despairingly, "your son may be as rich as old Creasy was thought to be, or as poor as Lazarus; but all I can say is, I know very little about his circumstances. And it strikes me—does it not you, Mr. Wilson?—that Walter is the proper person to speak to on the subject."

Manifestly Matthew did not think so. At any rate, he went on: "I am a plain man, Mr. Tincroft, and have worked hard all my life—so has my dame—to get together what little there is to keep us going, and against a rainy day, maybe. We have got other boys, too, besides Walter, though one of them has not behaved as he ought to have done; he did me out of High Beech, George did—or his wife did, by putting him up to it, as my mistress says; but, any way, it was done by him. And then there's Elizabeth, and she not married, and not likely to be. You understand what I mean, Mr. Tincroft?"

John didn't understand; and he hinted as much.

"Why, aren't they all on my hands, more or less, Mr. Tincroft?" said the old farmer. "And what I mean is, that if Walter is come home well-to-do, well and good; but if he isn't, it doesn't stand to reason that I should have the keeping of him and his girl, and he not fit to do a day's turn, and perhaps not likely to be."

"And you wish me—let us understand one another, Mr. Wilson—you wish me to furnish you with information which your son withholds?" John said this with a quickened pulse, and a slight colour on his cheek, I daresay; but otherwise, he kept his temper, and spoke quietly and calmly.

"It would be only friendly in you to speak the word, if you can," said old Matthew.

"Then I am very glad that I cannot. But there are a few words I should like to say, Mr. Wilson; and then we had better close our conference, on this subject at least. You are anxious, and naturally so, I daresay, to avoid having fresh and unexpected expenses cast upon you."

"Being getting old, you see, Mr. Tincroft; and having enough to do, so to speak, in holding my own," said the farmer, insinuatingly.

"Yes, exactly so. Well, then, let me tell you in confidence, if you prefer it, or otherwise, as you please, that I am ready and willing to take all care and responsibility off your hands. Your son has done me the honour and pleasure of making my house his home. It will be his home as long as he pleases, and I hope until he gets well again. When he does, it will be time enough to know what his prospects are and what will be best for him to do; and as far as I can, I shall help him, if he needs help."

"That's very good of you to say so, Mr. Tincroft," interposed the old farmer, brightening up.

"Until then," continued John, without heeding the interruption, "I will promise on my wife's part as well as my own, that he shall have all possible care bestowed upon him. But if it should be otherwise ordained, and what you seem to anticipate should come to pass, I promise you that your orphan grand-daughter shall have a home, as long as she needs one. I say this to set your mind at rest, Mr. Wilson; and now we will drop the subject, if you please."

"But no offence, I hope, Mr. Tincroft?"

"No offence at all, sir," said John, shaking hands with Matthew, as he escorted him to the door.

CHAPTER XXVI.

SARAH'S CONFESSION.

JOHN had other and more satisfactory passages at this time at the Manor House than that jotted down in the foregoing chapter. And he had time for a good many conversations, private and confidential, or otherwise, as the case might be, seeing that his visit was prolonged day after day while waiting Walter's pleasure to return.

The truth is, old Matthew Wilson had gone away from his conference with Tincroft very considerably puzzled. Like all crafty and designing people, he suspected everybody with whom he had to do of being crafty and designing; and that John was disinterested in his kindness to Walter never entered his thoughts.

"He knows more than he chooses to tell," the close-fisted, money-loving man argued. "He has found out that Walter has got money, and he means to have as much of it as he can get; and 'tis my duty to take care that he doesn't get it. At all events, if it is worth his while to keep Walter and his girl at free quarters, it would be worth my while."

Saying this to himself at first, and afterwards to his dame, increased kindness was, for a little while, shown to the invalid, who, in the first flush of the above evanescent conclusions, was so strongly urged to prolong his stay at Low Beech, that he consented, the more readily, perhaps, that the air of his native place seemed to infuse a little fresh strength into him.

John, all this while, was pleasantly enough occupied at the Manor House, contenting himself with occasionally looking in at the farm, to keep up the friendly intercourse which had been asked for. Tom and he were often together now; and in the fulness of his heart-gladness, John spoke of the new-found joy of his home.

"I always knew I was better off than I ever deserved to be, Tom; but I didn't know till of late what a treasure I had always had in my possession." It was in this way John put it. "You know, my dear fellow," said he, "I was never like other young men—you, for instance. I had never known anything of the pleasures of home and domestic life, so no wonder I went blundering on. At least, that's the only excuse I can make for myself. And then, you see, without intending it, what mischief I got into! And I can't help feeling every day, that if I had been made to smart ever so much for my folly, it would have been no more than deserved. And instead of that, Tom, only think what a blessing I have had all along, and without knowing, too—that is, without knowing its full value. If it hadn't been for my stupidity, I should have found it out years and years ago, I am sure. But if it hadn't been for dear Sarah herself, I shouldn't have known it even now."

"And think!" exclaimed John, as his admiring and amused former college chum listened with praiseworthy gravity, thinking within himself that some people's simplicity is greatly to be set above all the maxims of worldly wit and wisdom ever enunciated. "Think, dear Tom, what a happiness it is to me now to see that everything has turned out for the best, not to me only; I hope I am not quite so selfish as to think only of myself, but to others as well; and how things have been so brought about as that Walter and Sarah and I are such friends."

"It puts me in mind," John went on enthusiastically, "of one of the hymns in good old Mrs. Barry's hymn-book, 'Dr. Rippon's Selection,' you remember, that you sometimes laugh at me about."

"Do I, John? I am very sorry I ever did; but I never will laugh at you again," said Tom, who was moved by John's earnestness, so as almost to reverence him for his humble piety.

"Oh, that's nothing, Tom. I never minded your laughing, dear friend. I do many things that are fit only to be laughed at, I know. But that hymn, I often think of it, Tom. It begins—"

"Through all the various shifting scene

Of life's mistaken ill or good,

Thy hand, O God, conducts unseen

The beautiful vicissitude."

"And then there's another—"

"Thy ways, O Lord, with wise design,

Are framed upon Thy throne above,

And every dark and bending line.

Meets in the centre of Thy love."

"So beautiful because so true," added John.

"You seem to have got them by heart, dear John," said Tom.

"Yes," said John, quietly, "a good many of the hymns I have. The fact is, I have got good old Mrs. Barry's hymn-book. She left it me as a legacy when she died, about six years ago. She thought of me as poor little Josiah Tincroft's only child, the last of the Tincrofts, she said, and told her son (the college scout, you remember) to send it to me, with her love, which he did."

In her father's absence, the young Helen was passing away the time pleasantly enough at Tincroft House; the only drawback she experienced was her anxiety on account of his health, and this was partly modified and allayed by the encouraging hopes that had been held out to her by her very kind host and hostess.

There were times, indeed, when the memory of her recent loss cast an additional shade over her young life at this time; but it was not an entirely dark shade; for dearly as she had loved, and still loved her mother, the cloud had a silver lining—there was hope, nay, even certainty and glory behind it. Her darling, departed mother was "not lost," no, not lost, only "gone before."

"I don't know how those who have no hope sorrow when they mourn for the dead," said Helen one day to her friend Mrs. Tincroft. "But I know what a blessed thing it is to feel sure that those who 'sleep in Jesus' are safe and happy; and we have only to be followers of them to meet with them again—in another and better world, dear."

The two ladies were in Helen's pretty room when the serious and confidential talk occurred of which this formed a part. The room was quite fit to be called a lady's bower now; for by Sarah's undiminished attentions, with an occasional unloosing of John's purse-strings, all manner of pretty feminine ornaments—useful and useless—had found their way into it. As I have said, it was a pleasant room, with a southern aspect, and by day the sun shone into it cheerily, sufficiently screened by the Venetian verandah without, while the pretty flower garden below had begun to put on a very lovely aspect, with promise of other and more gorgeous hues as the summer advanced.

I do not know what led Sarah and Helen to the strain of conversation just noted. It might be the revival of vegetation after the winter sleep of nature; or perhaps Helen's reminiscences had wandered back to the far-off land where her mother lay buried. But I know that her simple observation was to be like the little mustard seed, "the smallest of all seeds," which when cast into the ground grows, and "when it is grown is the greatest among herbs."

And I may remark that Sarah and Helen, notwithstanding the difference in their ages, were extremely well suited to each other in pleasant companionship. At first, strange as it may seem, the woman of forty had felt as though she must stand a little in awe of the girl of fifteen; but she soon discovered that this fear was groundless.

In this respect Helen's unacquaintance with what are called the accomplishments of modern education was an advantage to her; for she could not, even accidentally and unintentionally, place herself, or seem to be placed, in this respect, on higher ground than her hostess.

And then her charming simplicity, combined with natural good breeding, was perfectly enrapturing to Mrs. Tincroft, who, I am afraid, had not met with much of either of these desirable commodities in the few female acquaintances she had ever known or made.

On the other hand, Helen was equally pleased with Sarah. It is no reflection on the present condition Of society in Australian towns to say that a good many years ago there was little in the female portion of it, any more than in the male, to give an idea of high polish. Perhaps what was missing in this kind of varnish was gained in sincerity. But of this, I am not at all sure; and let this be as it may, the young Helen had had so little experience of anything above the rough and homely manners of life in the bush, that she was unconscious of the little defects in her hostess which I have rather hinted at than described. All this would have gone for but little, however, if the overflowings of Sarah's kindly maternal, or otherwise better, instincts had not positively overwhelmed the motherless girl with a sense of grateful obligation. No wonder, therefore, that the two were, almost from the first, mutually pleased with each other, and that, before long, strong affection sprang up between them.

What added to this hidden sympathy between the matron and the maiden was the fact that both of them were nice quiet listeners. For instance, Mrs. Tincroft could sit for hours—if Helen had chosen to have all the talk to herself for so long—hearing of the child-woman's life in the bush, and of the strange adventures connected with bush life in general.

And especially poor dear Sarah was never tired of being told, again and again, of that passage of arms (traditionally as far as the narratress was concerned) in which her father came to the rescue of her mother, and which led, to their after acquaintance. It was with thrilling interest—(if such a hackneyed expression may be used here, but in this case, it being an appropriate expression, it may, I hope, be used)—it was with thrilling interest, then, that Sarah listened, with all her ears, as we sometimes say, to the account given by Helen of her mother's bravery and presence of mind.

"I never could have done such a thing as that—never," said she, half laughing and half crying, when she first heard the story. "To think of firing off a pistol—and at a man, too! Oh, tell it me again, dear."

So, as I have said, Sarah heard the story over and over again, much as I have told it, and about poor Styles; and then her own father came in for a full share of eulogy, of course. And here again Sarah's feelings almost overpowered her, as she cried out—

"I am prouder of my cousin than ever I was—dear Walter! And I am so glad—so glad—oh, so glad that he found such a dear precious wife as your mother was to him, darling Helen. And, oh, if you could but know how I do love you!"

And then came mutual embracings, and a little tear-shedding, before they could settle down quietly again.

I have briefly described what happened at one particular time. But the same feelings were stirred, and almost to the same excess, whenever the story was retold. And I think it requires a subtler psychologist than the present writer to analyse the state of Sarah's mind at those times.

Helen's talk was often of her mother, of course. And here her heart went with all she said when she described her home piety, her loving disposition, her gentle manners, and the general happiness she diffused around her. It might be on one of these occasions that the weeping child gave utterance to her faith and hope in the Gospel, and spoke of the comfort she derived from it.

And so the time passed away pleasantly, as I have said, during the absence of the master of Tincroft House and his friend Walter—the more so that the two ladies received letters, by every other day's post, from the absentees, giving tolerably good accounts of themselves. They were not alarmed, nor greatly concerned, therefore, when the proposed few days of absence were extended to considerably more than a month.

Of course, in all this time, Helen's bower did not monopolise all the attention of either herself or her hostess. The commonplaces of everyday life had to receive their share of attention, and, to the extreme delight of Sarah, she found an able coadjutor (or trix) in the young Helen. Wonderful was the maiden's skill in concocting rich soups and stews, though (to Jane's horror) she laughingly regretted that the best possible foundation for these dishes, namely, a kangaroo's tail, could not be obtained in England for love or money, she supposed.

And then the two loving companions took many a quiet walk into the country around Tincroft House, which was now putting on its early summer beauty. To Helen this was all new; for nothing can be much more distinctly different than the appearances of nature in the two hemispheres. And the enthusiastic delight of the young Australian in her first acquaintance with English country scenery was so contagious, that I question if Sarah had ever before understood or appreciated how much beauty can be discovered in a blade of grass, a wayside flower, or a budding twig of hazel.

On one of these pleasant excursions, in an outburst of confidence, Sarah broke the ice of reserve under which was concealed one of the few secrets which she had kept back from Helen. It cost her some confusion of face, perhaps, if not of mind, to make the confession, which, indeed, sprang out of an innocent question put by Helen.

"Did you and my father know much of one another before he left England?" the simple-hearted girl asked, as she and Mrs. Tincroft sat under the fresh green foliage of a widespreading beech tree, which, like themselves, was rejoicing in the midday sunshine.

"Yes, my dear; we were cousins, you know, then, just as we are now. And we lived near one another, as I have told you. Didn't he ever say anything about—about old times—and me, to your mother, do you think?"

"Not that I ever heard of, dear; only about your being his cousin. But he didn't often talk about England, I think; for I remember my mother telling me, not very long ago—for it was just before my little baby brother was born—that she knew very little about father's relations."

"Ah, I daresay he was so happy then, dear Helen, that he did not care to remember that he hadn't always been happy. And, dear me! I can't think how it ever turned out that he could ever have thought of coming back, and of living in the same house and home with his naughty cousin."

"What do you mean, dear? You are not sorry we came back, and are living with you and Mr. Tincroft, are you?" asked Helen, in some consternation.

"Oh no, no; I am so glad, so very glad. It is so good of him, and of you too, my dear. I never was so happy in all my life as I am now," said Sarah.

And then there was a renewal of embracing, and more kisses, and a few tears, all of which, though very pleasant to the young girl, at least as far as the embraces and kisses went, slightly puzzled her; and the tears—what did they mean? And what did her dear friend mean by calling herself her father's "naughty cousin"?

"I made your father very unhappy once," continued Sarah, presently, in a whisper, when they had settled themselves down again quietly on the grassy bank under the beech tree. "It was I that drove him away from his home, I am afraid, dear Helen."

"Dear! Dear! So good and kind as you are! How could you?"

"I am afraid I used him badly, my dear, without intending; but I was young and thoughtless, and liked to have my games, as silly children do. You know, or you don't know, but I may tell you now, we were engaged to be married, my cousin Walter and I, and should have been, no doubt, only I was so foolish as to make-believe that I was pleased to have another—another lover coming after me. I did not think what I was doing, and I didn't mean anything wrong, dear; and perhaps that's why it all turned out for the best, as it did."

"For my cousin went away, after treating me as I deserved, and we learned to forget one another, and then I got married to that other whom I had made game of, and who was too good for such a silly thing as I was, and he is my dear John Tincroft now, and I love him so much; he is so good, and I never knew how much he deserved to be loved, till it came to me by degrees; and I do love him, my dear."

"And then, you know, dear, when my cousin went abroad, and got over his unhappiness because of the way I had used him, he found out, I haven't any doubt, that he had had a happy escape from such a bad bargain as I should have been to him; and he got a better wife than ever I should have made him; and I don't wonder he never cared to say anything about what had gone before. All I wonder is that he could ever bear the thought or sight of me. But it must be all because of his goodness and John's."

"And I am so glad it has come round so, and we can look upon one another as cousins again; and with you, darling, to make us all so happy! And when Walter—my cousin Walter and your father—gets better, and finds a home for himself—which I am sure he needn't think of so long as there's Tincroft House—but whatever is to come next, I hope we shall never be parted, dear. And now I think we had better be going homewards, for we mustn't forget we have got to have our dinner, you know."

To say that Helen listened to this rather tangled string of confessions with extreme wonderment is very mildly stating confusion into which she was thrown. Perhaps this confusion was betrayed by her looks; for, as they walked slowly towards the house, her companion remarked,—

"You don't understand such things now, my darling, but you will come to know more about them some day. And would you mind my giving you a little good advice now?"

Helen would be very glad of it, and would thankfully receive it, she said, looking trustfully into the matron's face.

"It isn't much that I shall say, dear," said Sarah, "so you needn't be afraid of my preachment. It is only this, Helen if you ever fancy that any person—of course I mean a gentleman, and a young one—loves you, or wants you to love him, or if you believe you do love him, in a certain sort of way, you know, so as that you think he wants you to be his wife, or you seem to feel you would like him to be your husband, don't make fun of him, dear; and don't think it clever to tease him and plague him out of his life almost. For this isn't the way to get love, or to keep it, and nobody knows what harm may be done without intending it. Love-making and marrying are serious things, dear, though young people don't always think so."

Helen promised, of course, that she would bear her friend's advice in mind whenever there should be occasion. But she none the less continued to wonder at all she had heard.

If it had been twice as strange and curious as it was, however, it would for the time have been driven out of her mind by a letter which awaited her on the dressing-table in her pretty bower, and which Austin, the postman, had delivered during her absence. It was from her father, announcing that on a certain day near at hand, he and Mr. Tincroft would be reaching home, and adding the cheering intelligence that he felt stronger and better than when he said good-bye to her so many weeks ago.

CHAPTER XXVII.

ELIZABETH'S GRIEVANCES.

IT was quite true that Walter Wilson's state of health seemed to improve during his prolonged sojourn in his native place. But it was not his home now—(where, indeed, was his home?)—and he was after a short time made to feel, in a certain sort of way, that his visit had been sufficiently extended. I daresay if he had chosen to reveal in full the state of his worldly affairs, he would have been made more welcome than he was to the hospitalities of Low Beech. But to gratify a whim of his own, or for some other reason, he kept this knowledge locked up in his own breast, except so far as he had shared it with his confidential man of business.

So, in the end, notwithstanding the hopes he had at first raised at Low Beech, it came to be considered that Walter was come home no better than he went out, or perhaps rather worse than better.

There are other vices in the world besides those that brand all those who practise them with disrepute, and eventually with infamy. Mark Wilson, as we have seen, gave himself up to the love of drink, adding drunkenness to thirst, till he brought himself to poverty, disgrace, ruin, and death. On the other hand, Matthew Wilson, sober, industrious; plodding, highly respectable, and positively fancying that God was pleased with him, and was rewarding him by increasing his property, gave himself up to the love of money, adding penny to penny and pound to pound, till he had the repute of being wealthy, and was lauded accordingly; for "men will praise thee when thou doest well to thyself."

But covetousness is no less a vice than intemperance. It is equally detestable in God's sight, and its effects on the human soul are equally debasing. Its effect on Matthew's soul was to destroy, or at least to weaken, natural affection, and to make him calculate, after a while, how much it was costing him to entertain his son; just as he knew, almost to a fraction, how much in money value was consumed, day by day, by each inmate in his house. No doubt he was glad when Walter, whom he had thought long dead, unexpectedly made his appearance; and, for a time, his detestable (I beg pardon, his most respectable) vice of avarice (for he was avaricious as well as covetous) was held in abeyance.

But when a full month had elapsed, and the returned son gave no sign of opulence, Matthew's ruling passion regained its sway. Here was Walter come back, most likely poor, in ill-health, and with a daughter for somebody to support. It was all very well for Mr. Tincroft to say what he had said about nobody needing to be troubled on that score, but who was to make Mr. Tincroft keep to his word when it came to the pinch?

The same feelings influenced other members of the family to a degree. Even the poor mother had been so accustomed to scrape together pence that, though Walter was her son, she felt uneasy when she thought of the possibility of having him to keep, nobody knew how long. And the brothers—well, they were pleased enough, no doubt—at least, they said they were—to see Walter again; and they made him welcome, after their fashion, at their several homes. But they knew what money was made of, and what it was made for, as well as most people; at least, they thought they did, and it would have done no good to try to convince them that they were altogether mistaken. And by this time they had come to the conclusion, each in his own mind, that Walter would be after wanting "some of the old man's money to take a farm with, or to set up in business with," and then there would be so much the less for them to share by-and-by. So their welcome at last became less cordial and more perforce.

The only one who did not share in these forebodings was the daughter and sister. Elizabeth had always been fond of her brother Walter; even when she, so many years ago, had so heartily and strenuously set herself to make mischief between him and their cousin Sarah, she honestly believed she was doing it for his good, and was attempting, in the only way she knew how, to undo the mischief which she at first had a hand in, when she believed her uncle Mark to have money, which Sarah would eventually inherit.

We have seen how, afterwards, she came to be sorry for the part she had taken in separating the lovers. And now, when she looked at Walter's wan countenance, and watched his tottering steps, love and sorrow welled up from her full heart in a mingled current, the more that she believed, with the rest, in her brother's comparative poverty, and traced it all, or much of it, to herself, in having driven him away from England, where he was getting on so well.

Hitherto Elizabeth had not had much opportunity of conversing with Walter, for at Low Beech every one had his or her share of hard work to perform, which filled up every hour of the day, leaving little time for what would have been called idling.

One fine afternoon however—and it happened to be the same day as that on which Sarah and Helen, three hundred miles away, had their chat under the beech tree—Walter announced his intention of walking up to High Beech Farm, to take leave of his brother George's wife, and he asked Elizabeth to bear him company, and assist him with her stronger arm.

After some little demur, leave of absence was granted by Mrs. Matthew, and the brother and sister set out together. For some time they walked on in silence; but presently Walter spoke.

"You don't seem very happy, Elizabeth. I have been trying to get a chat with you alone all the time I have been here, and haven't been able; but I have watched and noticed you. There's something on your mind, I think."

"Why, Walter, what should there be?" said Elizabeth, with assumed lightness of speech. And then she added, more quickly, and with evident feeling, "It does not make one any the happier, Walter, to see you in such a poor way."

"Then I had better not have come to the old place to see you at all, if that makes you sorrowful," said the invalid brother.

"Oh, I don't say so, Walter. Of course, it was a very pleasant surprise when you came in so unexpectedly; but when that feeling went off, it gave way, perhaps, to another sort of feeling, when we saw you looking so bad, and showing such signs of weakness and illness."

"Do you think so? I have rather fancied, now, that father and mother, and the rest of them, except yourself, don't seem to mind it much."

"There are different ways of showing such things," Elizabeth remarked. And then she added, "But very likely I have felt more than the others have done. You and I were always good friends, Walter, till—" and here she stopped short.

"Yes, always good friends, Elizabeth. They were happy times when you and I used to play together in the old barn, and go out gathering primroses and violets in spring, and blackberries in autumn, all alone by ourselves," said Walter, with a sigh.

"They were too happy to last, Walter; but, you know, I never took to either of the others as I did to you, even when we were all children. They were mostly ready to quarrel with me if I didn't let them have their way, and they were younger than me. But it was different with you; you were older than me, and you always took my part, and we shared what we either of us had; and if it hadn't been for—oh dear, oh dear!" And here the sister could not restrain herself, but broke into loud, sorrowful lamentations.

"Don't distress yourself, Elizabeth dear. We always were good friends, as you say, and so we are now. And it being so, let us talk to one another as we used to do when we went hand in hand over the fields together, telling our little secrets and troubles."

"Oh, Walter, but we are man and woman now!"

"But brother and sister too; nothing can alter that. And I want you to tell me if there isn't something here at your home—" (Walter could not bring himself to say our home, or my old home)—"something at your home that makes you unhappy?"

"Well, come to that, there are a good many things not altogether agreeable," Elizabeth answered, more composedly, and yet with apparent bitterness of feeling; "it is not pleasant to be treated as a child, as I many times am, and at forty years old, too, if a day, as you know, Walter."

"Yes, of course you are," said the brother; "but I should have thought you had known how to hold your own too, and would not have allowed any one to put upon you, or treat you as a child, as you say. I think I have noticed a good deal of spirit in you at times, Elizabeth."

"Yes, likely enough in some things. There are some things that none of them, not even father, cares to say to me, nor even to talk about when I am by; and he knows the reason why. But when it comes to work—about the house, I mean—and how it is to be done, and who is to do it, I am just nobody to be considered," said the sister. "There isn't a servant girl in the place slaves as I do, Walter; and that you must have seen."

Walter had seen that his sister worked very hard, was up early in the morning, was the last to go to bed, and seemed to have her hands full of household matters all day long. He said this.

"Well, then, isn't that enough to make one go wild with vexation? But that isn't the worst. You heard what mother said to me only yesterday at dinner-time? The servant girl there to hear it too?"

"Well, it was something I did not quite understand, about some Smith or other; but I saw it made you very angry, so that you left the room."

"Yes, I should think so, to be insulted in that way! It was a shame, and that is how they go on with me, as if it was my fault not being married. But it all serves me right, it does!" And then poor Elizabeth made known to her brother the great grievance of her life, adding—

"And ever since then, whenever I have wanted to buy anything for myself, and have had to get the money out of them, I am sure to be told of it. And father is as bad as another about it every bit, for he is getting more stingy than ever, and it is as much as I can do to get a decent Sunday dress or bonnet; as you must have seen how old mine are," continued Elizabeth, ready to cry with vexation.

"Don't distress yourself about that, Elizabeth," said Walter, soothingly; "perhaps that trouble can be remedied easier than you think for. I haven't said much about it, but I happen to have a little money more than I want, and before I go—But, my dear, I am feeling very faint."

He said this with difficulty and panting. "I think the walk has been too much for my strength; I must rest somewhere."

It was evident to Elizabeth, now that she turned her eyes on him, that her brother was fearfully exhausted. The walk from Low Beech to High Beech was not a long one, but it was all up hill, and the afternoon sun beat upon them hotly. Plainly, Walter had overtaxed his strength. Fortunately, as it seemed, they were near George's farm now, and there they could rest. Still nearer to them was the garden gate—that gate which opened into the filbert alley, with the holly arbour at the end of it, which Walter had such good cause for remembering, and which he had not yet cared to revisit.

"Let us go into the summer-house before we go indoors," said Walter, painfully; "it will be cool there, and we can have our talk out all by ourselves when I am rested a bit."

And so the garden gate was passed through, and the brother and sister walked silently up the alley, and Elizabeth took off her shawl and wrapped it carefully round Walter, so that he should not get chilled, she said.

And Walter with unwonted tenderness, took his sister's hand, roughened by hard work, and put it to his lips, and a tear fell upon it in the short moment that he held it there. All this Elizabeth afterwards remembered.

There are times when hard, practical men and women, who, if they have feelings, think it a weakness to make display of them, seem to lose their boasted self-command and become as little children. It was so with Elizabeth Wilson, as she sat in the holly arbour with her hand still clasped in her brother's. It may be that the sight of his pale face, rendered more ghastly by the dark beard which concealed the lower part of it, and of his shrunken limbs, and the touch of the weak, bony, nerveless hand which held hers in its cold clasp, had something to do with the change which came over her. Or perhaps the kind, gentle, brotherly tone Walter had adopted towards her in their previous conversation softened her. But whatever might be the cause, her rugged temper broke down, and tears which she at most times would have scorned to see on another woman's face, and which rarely moistened her own, at any rate when there were any to see them, began to run down her cheeks without any attempt on her part to check or to hide them. Presently she spoke.

"Oh, Walter, if we could always have been children!" she sobbed.

"It wouldn't have been good for us, I fancy," said the brother, quietly.

"I know it couldn't have been, except we had died before we could be grown-up; and then we should have been children always and for ever, I suppose?"

"We can be children now, in one sense," said Walter. "The Bible tells us that except we be converted and become as little children, we cannot see the kingdom of heaven. I should like to think of us both as being children in that way."

"Oh, Walter, I wish you could teach me that way, and help me on in it, for I am very, very miserable sometimes; and I know I am not fit for anything good."

"My dear Elizabeth, I suppose we are none of us fit for anything good till we are made so by a power above our own; but we can ask for that power, you know."

"Yes, that is what we are told always, every Sunday at least, in church; but somehow—But I don't want to be talking about myself, and don't mean to," she added, suddenly breaking off, and, as it seemed, angry with herself for showing any emotion. "Only I was saying that if we had always been children together, I shouldn't have been such a mischief-maker as I was afterwards; and you might have stopped in England, and got rich, and been well at this present time, and—there! How stupid that is, for if we had never grown-up, you wouldn't have been able to get money, I expect; and I don't know what I am saying, only I mean that everything would have been so different from what it is; you know it would, Walter."

Elizabeth said all this so rapidly and earnestly, though confusedly, that it seemed as though she were battling with some inward foe whom she was determined to beat down by force of words, if not of argument. She spoke so earnestly that her brother, weak and suffering as he was, could not help smiling.

"I daresay many things would have been different, Elizabeth, if certain other things had not happened, or had not been spoken," said he; "but perhaps they wouldn't have been better, after all."

"I wish you could make that plain to me, Walter."

"Which I am not able to do, because I don't know how matters might have turned out. But if I were you, or if I might advise you, I would not trouble myself about such uncertainties."

Elizabeth, however, did trouble herself. She had the trouble on her mind, she said, and she must get it off somehow, if she could. And then she went on to make her humble confession of the way in which she had traduced her cousin, and the motives which actuated her.

"I thought it would be a good thing for you, Walter, to have done with Sarah for ever; and I didn't care, at that time, what became of her. It was very wicked, I know, and I have been properly punished for it in more ways than one. I did it without intending it, at the time; I mean, I didn't intend to do so much mischief; but if I had known how things would have turned out, I wouldn't have touched it with my little finger, even—I wouldn't. And now I want you to tell me that you forgive me, Walter," she added, laying her hand on his, and looking earnestly and imploringly into his face.

"If there is anything to forgive, I do forgive you with all my heart," said Walter; "and if it will be any comfort to you to believe that all has turned out for the best, I should like you to know it."

And then he went on to tell something of his domestic life in Australia, and of the blessing it had been to him to have a teacher and guide in the woman whom he had had the happiness to call his wife.

"And I am very glad to know that my cousin has so pleasant a home, and so worthy a man for a husband, and is so happy as I have seen her. You see, Elizabeth, if things had gone on in the way that was thought of at one time, the great likelihood is that, after a few years, Sarah and I should have got tired of one another; and, whether we had or not, I wasn't fit or able to teach her anything, or to help her on in anything good; and she, poor thing, wouldn't have known how to set about teaching me. And so we might have gone muddling on till now, nobody knows how. And I haven't a doubt that everything has turned out for the best, and if not in your way exactly, why, it was in a better way, if you would only look at it in that light."

There was a long silence after this, for Walter was wearied, and, closing his eyes, he sank into a deep slumber, as it seemed to his sister, who, after readjusting the shawl so as to more effectually protect his frail form from cold, quietly awaited his awakening.

Yet not idly. Elizabeth was one of those women whose hands are taught never to be idle, and who always contrive to have a pocket full (or two pockets full, for that matter) of material and implements for any unexpected half-hour of vacancy or leisure. On this occasion, therefore, she had recourse to this never-failing reserve fund of feminine industry. If she had been a man, and it had been in the present degenerate days of tobacco-smoking, she, or he rather, would probably have taken out a cigar-case or a tobacco-pouch, with their needful accompaniments: but being what and who she was, Elizabeth Wilson was soon busy at some kind of needlework.

And while thus engaged, her thoughts wandered back into the far-off time of which she had been speaking. And especially she remembered one occasion on which that self-same holly arbour had witnessed a scene which she never thought of now without deep remorse.

She had not often since then revisited that arbour, and now the whole scene was reacted in her imagination. There sat John Tincroft, almost in the identical place now occupied by her brother; and here, where she herself was resting, had been seated her cousin Sarah, busy with her needle, when she broke in upon the two, so cruelly afterwards to traduce them!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE LAST OF THE HOLLY ARBOUR.

TOM GRIGSON was still staying at his brother's—yet not altogether there, for he and the younger Tom, his first-born, pretty equally divided their time between the Manor House and the Mumbles, where the elder Elliston continued to sway the sceptre—an old man now, but as sharp-witted and fond of having his own way as ever he had been.

It was the more to be wondered at that the active man of business, such as we have seen John's old friend had become, should have taken so long a holiday, seeing that there was neither hunting nor shooting to be indulged in at this particular time. To be sure, he had the pleasure of Tincroft's company; and his presence, in like manner, reconciled John to his prolonged absence from home.

But there was another reason—one closely connected with the future family arrangements of Mr. Tom Grigson—which made divers consultations at headquarters thought to be necessary—the headquarters in this case being Mumbleton on the one hand, and the Manor House on the other.

On the same day as that on which, so far-away, his Sarah and the young Helen were holding their confabulation under the beech tree, and on which, also, so much nearer to him, the brother and sister were talking together on their way to and in the holly arbour at High Beech, John Tincroft was invited by his friend Tom to take a drive with him over to the Mumbles. On this occasion John did not decline the invitation as he did a former one, some twenty years before. Accordingly the dog-cart was got out, and the gentlemen took their seats.

"I want a bit of a talk with you, John, and I want your advice as well," said Tom, when the vehicle was in motion.

But in order to prepare for this "bit of talk," some few words of explanation are necessary.

We have seen in a former part of our history, how Tom Grigson's soul revolted from the contamination of trade, which, no doubt, he would have called low, mean, degrading, demoralising, and a dozen other "ings," if he could have readily laid his tongue to them; and which strong aversion nothing but his love for the fair Kate could have induced him to overcome. We have also seen how, after a time, this aversion gradually changed to something like affection; that, at any rate, the golden result of his enforced connection with trade a good deal more than modified his opinions. More than modified! Why, there was not a man within the sound of Bow Bells who could discourse more warmly and eloquently on the dignity of trade and commerce, and of the great advantages they conferred on a country.

"Talk of our being a nation of shopkeepers," said he; "granted, so we are, and it is the shopkeepers that can beat all the world!"

There was no sham about this, either. Tom Grigson believed in himself, and always had done. And here he had the advantage of some shams and humbugs who are to be met with, even in high places sometimes, and of whom you and I, reader, may happen to know or see somewhat occasionally, who do not believe in themselves, and in whom nobody believes. Tom was more like some who are to be met with in this changeable world, who undergo a sort of natural and gradual transformation in the course of their lives.

As, for instance, one who, from being a red-hot Radical in his teens, has subsided in his riper years into a steady-going Conservative, not to say a determined Tory. And so the case might be reversed, or the principle applied to other instances in polemics, or even in habits of everyday life. Conviction sometimes, sometimes experience, necessarily partial in its operation, and oftentimes interest, are the several, or the combined, powers made instrumental in this change of thought.

It was so, at least, with Tom Grigson. He had begun with a silly, ignorant prejudice against trade and tradesmen, and any thing or person connected with these abominations, as he would have termed them. He ended with a prejudice equally absurd against almost all other classes of the community. All honour to Tom; he was, as I have said, sincere. If he had been a farmer, he would have stood up as sincerely for the farming interest; if a lawyer or an artist, he would have exalted the profession he belonged to the skies; if a— But I must rein in my Pegasus.

Much as Tom reined in his, just as he and John got into the road turning out of Richard Grigson's lawn, and high bred and fed Peg (Richard Grigson's blood mare) first of all shied at a heap of stones by the roadside, and would then fairly have bolted with the dog-cart and its passengers, but for the judicious action of the curb for restraint, and of the whip for punishment. This little episode over, and Peg subsiding into a more sober pace, Tom began:

"I want to talk to you about my boy; you have seen something of him during the last month. What do you think of him?"

"Think? He is a fine young fellow," said John, thoughtfully.

"Oh, fine! Ah yes; that is to say, he stands five feet eight in his stockings already, and will mount up to six feet, I daresay, before he has done growing. Fine! Well, he is something like me in figure and face, they say, with his mother's dark eyes and arched eyebrows superadded; so he must be fine, I suppose." Tom said this half-jokingly, but rather proudly also, no doubt; and then he added—

"But I wasn't thinking of this; it isn't what I meant. What about his mental fit-out? You have had some talk with him, you know."

"He is very modest," said John, "which is a sign of grace. But for all, he doesn't say much, he is a lad of first-rate abilities—easy to see that; and he has made good use of his opportunities. He has had a good education, you know."

"Ought to have had; cost money enough, I know that. Well?"

"Well, what more do you wish me to say?" asked puzzled John.

"Anything and everything."

"He is rather quiet," returned John, thus urged on; "he is altogether a nice, amiable lad. I like him very much. I think you ought to be proud of him, Tom; and I have no doubt you are."

"Oh, proud! Well, as to that, everybody's own geese are swans, you know, John; and that's why I want your opinion, he not being a goose of your incubation, you know. But I have got something more to say. Do you know Tom has given me a good deal of anxiety lately?"

"Has he? I am sorry for that. I wasn't at all aware of any difference between him and you."

"No, there is no difference—in one way of looking at it, at least, but there is in another."

"Dear me!" quoth John, quite concerned. "Why, you seem always to get on so well together. I am sure your Tom has a very strong affection, as well as a high respect for you. A difference! I should never have guessed it, nor yet that he was giving you any trouble in any way, Tom." John said this very earnestly, and sorrowfully too.

"'Tis nothing much in one way of looking at it, but in another it is a good deal; and the truth is, I want to hear what you have to say about it. Perhaps you can help me out of the difficulty, John."

"Not likely that I can, Tom; but what is it, my dear friend?"

"Well, the case is this. Tom has had a good education, and made good use of it, you say. So far good. But what is to come next? His school days are over now, and lads must do something after they have left school, you know—lads that have got to make their way in the world, at any rate."

"No doubt that's true," said John; "but your Tom is not likely to give you trouble in that way, I hope. He isn't idle, is he?"

"No, not a bit of it," replied the father. "But here's the point. I want to make a business man of him, and Tom doesn't want, or hasn't wanted, to be made a business man of."

"Oh," said John; "but he doesn't rebel, does he?"

"No; rebellion is no word for my Tom. The boy never rebelled in his life. But somehow he has got hold of some queer notions that I never knew of till a few weeks ago. He had always thought, he said, that I meant to send him to Oxford."

"And did you not? I fancy I remember your saying something of that sort once when you and he were down at my place, and we were talking over our old Oxford days."

"Yes, very likely some nonsense or other of that sort was spoken, and that shows how foolish it is to say much before our boys and girls. The fact is, I hadn't made up my mind then about what I should do. But it seems that the boy was fired with the idea of going to college, and has been working hard—I will say that for him—to prepare himself for it. And now, poor lad, he is woefully disappointed that I don't like the thought of his throwing himself away, as I call it."

"Are you sure it would be throwing himself away?" asked Tincroft, naturally enough.

"Something like it, when you come to compare it with what lies before him in the other direction."

"You hadn't always such a high opinion of trade, Tom," said Tincroft, gently.

"No, I hadn't; but that was when I didn't know anything about it. I tell you what, John, a parcel of ignoramuses get their heads stuffed with Latin and Greek—"

"As you and I did once, Tom."

"Yes, as you and I did; and then they fancy that if a man can't spout Homer and Virgil, and the rest of the glorious old classics, as they call them, he is good-for-nothing. And they pretend to look down on men three times better than themselves, and ten times of more use in the world, because they are not up—or fancy they are not up—to the old heathenish morality, and disguised immorality, that is to be found in—"

"Hush, hush, Tom!"

"Ah yes, you say 'hush, hush,' but you know 'tis true; and I haven't patience with their pedantic vanity and pride of heart. However, that is not to the present purpose. The question is about young Tom."

"Is he set upon having his own way?" John interrogated:

"'A clerk condemned his father's soul to cross,

Who penned a stanza when he should engross'"?

"Or summing up accounts in daybook and ledger, initiating himself in the sublime mysteries of single and double entry?"

"No, that isn't it. Instead of this, the lad (and you don't know how I love him, John) won't hear of going against my plans. And so, when I was trying to make myself willing to send him to Oxford, he turns round and insists on the counting-house, though I know it will half break his heart—not because he is going into trading business, I don't mean that, but because his mind has so long been fixed on other, I won't say higher, pursuits. Now, what am I to do?"

"I think," said John, sagely, "when it comes to such an amiable discussion as that between father and son, it won't be long in adjusting itself without an arbitrator. But as you ask my advice (not that anything I can say will be worth much, but as you do), I should recommend his trying the counting-house for a year or two. Anyhow, he is too young for college yet, and he can keep up his school learning during that time, in case you and he should see fit to alter your plans then."

"I never thought of such a compromise as that," said Grigson, "and I thank you for suggesting it. It will do famously."

Then, as having disburdened himself of some great trouble, he touched up the mare he was driving into a more lively pace, and in a few minutes they were at their destination.

John Tincroft knew no more of the Mumbles, nor of the dwellers thereat, than his friend had at various times told him. He was prepared, however, to find a tolerably grand house, to which his own modest home could bear no comparison, and a somewhat peremptory but hospitable old gentleman as its master. He was not mistaken in either of these anticipations, and, in addition to old Mr. Elliston, John was introduced by Grigson to his sister-in-law, who, in single blessedness, still presided over her father's household. Besides these, there were visitors at the Mumbles, of whom John had not been told, though it seemed as though his friend Tom half expected to meet them. These were the wife and daughter of Grigson's partner, Elliston—the first a rather fine lady of a certain or uncertain age, the second a young person probably about eighteen years old, just released from boarding school life apparently—"slight in figure, pallid in countenance, plain in features, and affected in manner," thought John, when he had been ten minutes in her company.

Our friend was hospitably welcomed by the host; but that some one else had been expected with Tom, either instead of, or in addition to, himself, was evident from one of the earliest questions put to his friend after the first salutations and introductions.

"Where is your son, Mr. Grigson? How is it he is not with you?"

"He will come over to-morrow, sir. He begged to be excused to-day. He is going out with his uncle, I believe. Indeed, we were not quite sure—" and Tom glanced at the lady visitors opposite.

"Umph!" seemed to rise in the host's throat, but he stifled it in its birth. "Let me have five minutes with you, Grigson," he substituted instead, and the two disappeared.

Thus left alone with the ladies, John Tincroft exerted himself, so far as his awkwardness would permit, to entertain them. Whether or not he succeeded, he was not sorry when, after the lapse of a quarter of an hour, his friend reappeared, and proposed returning. In a few minutes, therefore, after payment of adieux in the customary form, the dog-cart was remounted, and our two friends were on the way back to the Manor House.

Tom was unusually taciturn, John thought, until they had left the precincts of the Mumbles; then he broke silence.

"You saw that young lady, my niece, Blanche Elliston, of course?"

Yes, John had seen her.

"I won't ask you what you think of her, because first impressions are sometimes very erroneous, and I don't care to hear Blanche disparaged. She is my Tom's intended."

"I beg pardon—your Tom's what?" returned John, quickly. And he may be pardoned if he thought he had heard imperfectly and incorrectly.

"Tom's intended," repeated Grigson.

"Intended wife, do you mean, Tom?" John asked so earnestly, and with such a look of gaunt surprise, that his friend broke out into a laugh; but he suddenly checked himself with—

"I don't know why I should laugh, for it is no laughing matter. Yes, Blanche Elliston is young Tom's intended wife."

"Young Tom's wife! Why, he is only a mere boy yet!" exclaimed Tincroft.

"True, John; but he will be a man some day, it is to be hoped."

"Time enough then to be choosing a wife," John had on his tongue's end to say, but a look checked him, and all he said was, "Well, but I don't understand it a bit, Tom. I always was dull of comprehension, you know, so you must bear with me, and explain a little more fully."

"To be sure I will," said Grigson.

And then he went on to explain that the arrangement had been made between the parents on either side at the instance of the grandfather, and when the boy and girl were mere children, that they should yoke together when they became man and woman.

"You see," continued Tom Grigson, "there's a good deal of property involved, and the business firm to be kept up, and it isn't wanted to go out of the family."

"And your brother Richard—Tom's uncle—what does he say to this bargain? Is he a party to it?" asked John.

"No, he won't have anything to do with it, he says, being an old bachelor himself."

"And what do your Tom and his cousin think of this convenient arrangement?" John wanted to know.

"Oh, they are agreeable enough. The girl is willing to have Tom for a husband, she says; and strange if she were not, for he is the right sort of fellow to make a good husband, and good enough looking, into the bargain. As to young Tom, he is agreeable, he says, if he must marry, though he doesn't see any occasion for it; but if he must, Blanche Elliston will do as well as any other. That's what he says. The worst of it is, his cousin is a couple of years older than he; but that can't be helped; and perhaps she hasn't the sweetest temper in the world. But we all have something to put up with, you know, John."

"Please don't say any more about it, Tom," said Tincroft, quietly. "You know your own business best, dear friend, and how to bring up a family. How, indeed, should I know anything at all about it?" pondered John, with a sigh.

Perhaps Grigson was not unwilling to let the subject drop, for he turned the conversation. But during the rest of the drive home, John was uncommonly silent, and on reaching the gate of the Manor House, he alighted.

"The dinner-bell won't ring yet for an hour," said he; "I have to make arrangements with Walter Wilson about our coming journey. So I'll take a stroll to Low Beech before turning in."

Considerably disturbed in his mind, our friend walked slowly from the Manor House gates, and proceeded on his way to Low Beech. To tell the truth, his heart was heavy with what he had heard; and if he had put his thoughts into words, it would have been in something like the following soliloquy:

"I could never have thought it of Tom! What can have possessed him to barter away his own flesh and blood like that? It can't be the money. I'll never believe that he is turned covetous and money-loving. I think it must be because he is ambitious and proud. He always was proud, was Tom Grigson, and I used rather to admire him for it. He was proud of his family and his ancestry then, and now he has turned the other way, and is proud of his connection with trade, and is ambitious of being among the first and foremost of London's citizens, of credit and renown, as John Gilpin—I beg pardon, William Cowper—has it."

"That's all very well, I mean if it pleases him, but he need not be—Poor young Tom! So he is to go a-wooing, and to have a wife, whether he likes it or no, is he? No, I never could have thought it of Tom Grigson—the Tom I knew twenty years ago. And I don't think he seems over-satisfied with it himself."

"'Tis bad enough," we may suppose John going on, "bad enough to do mischief to our neighbours without intending it; but to be brewing a bitter brewst for one's own flesh and blood, with one's eyes open, is worse still, I think."

And so, grumbling to himself, as he would have said, John Tincroft presently arrived at Low Beech Farm, to find that Walter Wilson had walked out with his sister—intending to go to High Beech, to take leave of George's wife, Mm. Matthew thought. And they had been a mortal while gone, she added, grumblingly, thinking no doubt that Elizabeth's time was being grievously wasted.

"I'll go on thither," said John; "perhaps I may meet them on their return."

But he didn't meet them, and so he quietly and ruminatingly took the path which led from the Low to the High, and which so many, many years ago he had traversed to and fro, dreaming of things possible and impossible.

At length he arrived at High Beech Farm; but here again he was at fault. Neither Walter nor Elizabeth had been seen there that day. Invited to enter and rest in the parlour, John shied (remembering the knobby chairs, perhaps) and pleaded haste, also anxiety to find his friend Walter.

"Perhaps they have slipped into the garden," said Mrs. George, indifferently, for she and Elizabeth were not very dear friends; and as to Walter, whom she had never known till of late, there was no particular reason why she should love him.

"I'll go and look in the garden," said John; and he went—passing through the wicket-gate, and slowly walking up the filbert alley, with a comical kind of feeling, remembering the last time he was there, as recorded in these present memoirs.

"They may be in the arbour," said John to himself, as looking round, he saw nothing of his friend and his friend's sister.

"I won't disturb them," he added, considerately; "but I may as well let them know that I am here."

So saying, he walked on, and with a previous considerate premonitory little cough, presented himself at the entrance of the arbour.

"Good afternoon, Miss Wilson," said he, as he discovered the objects of his search, seated as we have described. "I do not come to disturb you; but I wanted a few words with Walter, and not finding him at Low Beech—"

"Hush!" said Elizabeth, looking up from the needlework on which her attention had been occupied. "Walter is asleep," she whispered; "and I shouldn't like him to be woke up. He has had such a nice, long, quiet sleep, without his cough disturbing him as it does of nights. And it will be so good for him."

While Elizabeth was speaking, Tincroft's attention was principally directed towards the sleeper on the opposite side of the arbour, who was quietly resting, with his eyes closed, and one arm loosely hanging down by his side, while his sister's shawl, folded round him, somewhat shaded the lower half of his countenance.

"I wrapped him up in my shawl," continued Elizabeth, in the same guarded tones, "for fear he should get chilled."

"Yes, I see, I see," said John, still scrutinising the sleeper. Then he entered the arbour, and gently glided to his side.

"You won't wake him, please," said Elizabeth, softly.

"No, no, I won't wake him," responded John; but, nevertheless, he ventured to take the nerveless hand in his own. It was deadly cold, he thought, as he loosened it, and it dropped helplessly into its former position. Then he laid his hand on the sleeper's temple, and looked more closely into his face, before he turned to the anxiously watching and now alarmed sister, who gasped—

"Oh, Mr. Tincroft, what is it?"

"Your brother is in a dead faint," he said; "you had better call for help."

And then he busied himself, in his ordinary awkward way, no doubt, in loosening his poor friend's neck-gear, gently placing a loving arm around him for support, while Elizabeth sprang forward with a hysterical cry of:

"Walter, Walter! Brother Walter! Dear brother!"

We shift the scene to a bedchamber in High Beech farmhouse. Walter Wilson had been conveyed thither, and tenderly laid down by rough-handed, but kindly-hearted farm labourers, when he had recovered consciousness sufficiently to admit of removal from the holly arbour. It had been his cousin Sarah's bedroom of old, and was little altered from what it then was. The apartment had been yielded, not very willingly, by Mrs. George Wilson, on the representation that her husband's brother could not, in his present state, be removed to his father's house at Low Beech.

At his side were John Tincroft and Elizabeth Wilson, lovingly tending him, and obeying the directions of a neighbouring surgeon who had been hastily summoned.

When all that skill could suggest had been done, John drew the doctor aside.

"Is the case serious?" he asked.

"He will live forty-eight hours—perhaps twice forty-eight, possibly a week; but he will never rise from that bed except by a miracle," was the reply.

There was no returning to the Manor House to dine that day; and a message was sent by John Tincroft to that effect, stating the reason why.

But later in the evening, he made his appearance there hurriedly. In a few words he explained his haste and his errand. Walter had passionately besought him to send for Helen, that he might see and embrace her once more before he died; for he knew now that death was rapidly approaching. To use the figurative and expressive language of Scripture, "the silver cord was loosed," and "the golden bowl" was "broken." Walter knew that he was dying.

Tincroft was charged with another message also. Walter must see his London lawyer, he said, and John must send him down, to take his dying client's instructions, whatever they might be.

"I must go at once," said John, in great agitation, "if you, Mr. Grigson, will be kind enough to let your groom drive me to the town."

"I will do anything you ask me. Or rather, I will drive you over myself. But what will you do when you get there? You will be too late for the night coach."

"But not for the rail from X—. I have laid my plans, and mean to post on to X—, take the first train to London, and then, after seeing the lawyer, post down to Trotbury."

It was in the early days of railways. As already stated, the London and Trotbury line had not been opened; but two others had, one westward and the other northward. Which of these was to be patronised on this occasion is no matter. It is as well to say, however, that our friend, like a good many other slow-going, prudent personages of that day, had steadily set his face against this new mode of travelling, declaring it a tempting of Providence, and an overturning of all preconceived and preordained modes of locomotion, to make boiling water do the work of horses, and at such an increased pace, too! No wonder, then, that, grave as was the occasion, a smile of surprise and incredulity flitted for a moment across the face of his host.

"You travel by steam, John!"

"Ah, I thought you would say so. But poor dear Helen! I think I would travel in a balloon if it would bring her all the sooner to her father's bedside."

There was nothing more to be said after this; and when, under compulsion, John had partaken of some refreshment, and hastily packed up a small valise, the chaise was brought to the door, and the squire and his guest drove rapidly away.

We need not accompany Tincroft on his anxious journey. It is enough to say that he performed it in what would then have been considered an almost incredibly short space of time, and alarmed the members of his household by a sudden and unexpected inbreak upon them during the small hours of a summer morning.

How he discharged his mournful errand, telling it first to his wife; how Sarah, after a copious flood of tears, composed herself and broken the sorrowful news to the young Helen; how a few hasty preparations were made; and how Sarah, at Helen's mute entreaty and John's express desire, decided on accompanying the sorrow-stricken girl on the journey, need no more words to tell.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS."

IT was no false alarm. Walter Wilson was dying.

Day and night, almost without any intervals of rest, the penitent Elizabeth watched by the bedside of her brother.

Mrs. Matthew did not make many objections to this. Of course she had been hastily summoned to High Beech when it was found that Walter could not be conveyed home, and she had obeyed the call. She was concerned, too, when told that her son could not possibly rally beyond the few hours, or days at most, predicted by his medical attendant. She was not without natural affection, though this divine gift had been dulled and dimmed by many sordid cares, as we have seen. Still, when her first exclamations of grief had been uttered, she withdrew again into her ordinary self. She wasn't used to nursing, she said; and she didn't like to see anybody die. She didn't think she could stand it. Besides, she was getting old and feeble, and must have her proper night's rest, or where would the house-work go to?

As to getting a regular nurse for Walter, she went on, she didn't know what to say, she was sure. Regular nurses cost a deal of money, and they wanted a deal to eat and drink too, and that of the best. And where was that to come from? All she knew was that she hadn't seen the colour of Walter's money since he had come down upon them; and it was her opinion, as well as Matthew's, that he had come home from Australia pretty near as poor as a church mouse; and at their years (hers and Matthew's) it wasn't to be expected that they could maintain a grown-up son, and pay for his being nursed as well; to say nothing about burying him when he was dead, supposing he should die, as the doctor said.

So, if Elizabeth liked to tend him as he lay there, perhaps it was the best thing to do; and she (Mrs. Matthew) must get through the house-work as best she could without her; and that was hard lines enough. All this, and much more, the old lady enunciated in a sorrowful tone of injured innocence, or something like it.

Matthew Wilson was even less moved by the report of his eldest son's condition. But there is no need to dwell upon this painful side of human nature. It is enough to say again, that where grasping covetousness and close-fisted penuriousness get possession of a human soul, all natural affections become in time so blunted as to leave the unhappy entertainer like one "past feeling, twice dead, and plucked up by the roots." ¹

¹ The narrator writes cautiously and guardedly here, and the picture he has sketched is but a faint copy of more than one original.

If the parents of the dying man were thus indifferent to the claims of natural affection, it is no great wonder that Mrs. George Wilson fretted exceedingly at the trouble to which she had unexpectedly been put by the perverseness of her husband's brother, in having brought himself to death's door in the place and manner described. Why should she be having the worry of a dying man in her house? she wanted to know. One way and another she had plenty of plague on her hands without that additional grievance. She said this, in other words, to Elizabeth, who made no reply, but with strong restraint turned to her brother's side to receive comfort from his dying words.

For Walter had regained consciousness, as we have seen; and, in the intervals of such distressing paroxysms of weakness and painful labouring for breath as were almost equally distressing to witness and to bear, he was able to point his sister to the only true hope and resting-place of the weary and heavy-laden.

During the two or three or more days which intervened between the departure of John Tincroft and his return, the only alleviation, from the outer world, of Elizabeth's trouble, and almost the only help she obtained in her anxious watching, was in the sympathy of Tom Grigson.

It was not much that this active man of business knew of, and it was not much, if the truth be known, that he cared for Walter Wilson; but he cared a good deal for his friend John Tincroft, and he manifested his love for John by caring for John's friends.

And if I were disposed to write a sermon on the diffusiveness of charity, I might find an illustration here—showing how the influence extends from heart to heart, till it embraces a whole circle of rightly-constituted minds in one bond of brotherhood. But I am not a preacher, and shall only advert to the results of this sympathetic, mysterious linking together of one human being with another. It came to pass, then, that Tom Grigson found himself, day after day, attracted to High Beech, and to the bedside of Walter Wilson, bringing with him such creature comforts as the ample resources of the Manor House could furnish, both for the necessities of the patient and the strengthening sustenance of the nurse.

The third day from the departure of John Tincroft brought down the London lawyer to the bedside of his client, and to the consultation that followed were admitted the squire from the Manor House and his brother. What passed in that solemn conclave was a profound secret to all around, but it terminated in Mr. Fawley (the lawyer, and an old friend of ours in a former history ¹) being invited to stay at the Manor House, instead of trusting to the uncertain hospitalities of the White Hart, which invitation was frankly accepted.

¹ See "George Burley's Experiences of Life."

The news that a gentleman from London had been to see Walter Wilson, and that he was staying at the Manor House, was duly conveyed to Low Beech Farm; but the intelligence excited only the suspicion of old Matthew, who was partially acquainted with the worst side of human nature, and knew what was what, as he said.

"Somebody that Walter owes money to, I'll be bound," said he; "and he'll be coming to me to get it out of me if he can."

Under this uneasy apprehension and distrust, Matthew Wilson kept away from High Beech, where his son lay a dying.

Meanwhile, the unselfish John Tincroft and his charge were travelling as swiftly as the various modes of conveyance they adopted admitted; and on the evening of the fourth day from John's departure on his sorrowful errand, they drove up to High Beech Farm. It was some relief to learn from Mrs. George, on arriving there, that Walter still lived, and, though slowly sinking, was sensible and able to converse at intervals with those around him.

After brief preparation, the agitated and heart-stricken daughter was admitted to her father's chamber, and the door was shut upon the two. We shall not intrude, nor attempt to describe the interview that followed. There are scenes and circumstances in the history of our lives almost too sacred and solemn to be introduced, with whatever effect, into a story such as this. And the almost final parting of a dying father from, and his last words to, a loving child must be reckoned among these scenes.

We descend, then, to the parlour below—so well-known to John Tincroft in the earlier days of our history, and which has been, not over graciously, yielded by Mrs. George Wilson to her husband's kinsfolk in these days of trouble. Here were seated John and Sarah, not yet disencumbered of their travelling attire, and not having dismissed their hired chaise, which was still outside awaiting further orders. I have little doubt that, as they sat there, some odd and (notwithstanding the present grave and sorrowful occasion) rather comically bewildering remembrances stole in upon them both, causing them to look askance, first of all, at the old-fashioned worm-eaten chairs on which they rested, and then shyly and slyly at each other, whereupon Sarah blushed a little, and John, not to confuse his dear wife, made believe not to notice it, but turned away his eyes and looked out of the window instead. And, then they were recalled to a sense of the trouble that had brought them to High Beech, by hearing the voice of Elizabeth as she descended the stairs.

Sarah and Elizabeth had never seen each other since the day of Sarah's marriage, more than twenty years before; and then their parting was of the coolest and most indifferent sort. And Mrs. Tincroft, on her way to her old home, from the moment of getting into the Trotbury coach, had been unceasingly pondering in her dear little mind how ever she should accomplish a meeting with her cousin. She had no enmity against Elizabeth. Why should she have? To be sure, she had received unkindness at her cousin's hands; but that was long ago, and, besides, it had all turned out for the best. What would be the good, then, of bearing in mind those old passages of arms?

To tell the truth, too, Sarah, weak-minded as no doubt she was, was intrinsically good-natured and loving; and it would have been strange if her twenty years and more of companionship with gall-less John Tincroft had not had a beneficial effect upon her. But, for all that, she wasn't quite sure whether a certain show of dignity in remembrance of past injustice and injury wouldn't be the proper thing to put on in the anticipated meeting. Of course, after this she would show herself very forgiving and very affectionate towards her former persecutor—and so on, and so on.

I have just come across a passage in my desultory reading, which may give me a lift in this part of my story. "The payments and debts and returns of affection," says the writer, "are at all times hard to reckon. Some people pay a whole treasury of love in return for a stone; others deal out their affections at interest; others, again, take everything, to the uttermost farthing, and cast it into the ditch, and go then way and leave their benefactor penniless and a beggar."

Well, these payments and debts and returns are no doubt hard to reckon. When they had been girls together, Elizabeth and Sarah had loved one another as cousins. Then had come the fatal blight, brought on by Mark Wilson's vice of intemperance and the kindred one of recklessness: and their whole treasury of love had been poisoned by unkindness on one side and angry resentment on the other. And now, how were they to meet?

John Tincroft had his doubts and anxious thoughts about this, I think; for he sat uneasily watching and waiting for the opening of the door, glancing every now and then at his little wife's perturbed and flushed countenance. And then, presently, the door handle was moved, the latch was gently lifted, and the door was slowly opened. John started from his seat, sprang hastily forward; and before the cousins had time to make up their minds what to say to one another at first starting, he had, with the gallantry of a true gentleman, as he was and ever had been, despite his awkward shyness, led the homely, hard-working, and penitent Elizabeth across the room to where his wife was now standing, like a timid, half-frightened fawn, and brought into contact the hands which had so long been strangers to each other's grasp. And then came a little startled cry; and Sarah threw her disengaged arm round Elizabeth's neck, and in another moment the cousins were in close embrace, as though they had never been separated in affection.

"How could I ever behave to you as I did?" sobbed Elizabeth.

And after this, and when they had settled down, John left the cousins by themselves, under the pretence of looking after the chaise and its driver, for he could see that he had done all that was needed.

"He is so good—so good to me, and to everybody!" cried Sarah, as the door was shut upon Elizabeth and herself: and then the payments and debts and returns of affection, which are so hard to reckon, welled up from both their softened hearts; and there was no more said, on either side, about the past unhappy alienation.

An hour later, and when dear Helen's interview with her father was over, and John and Sarah had stood for a little while by Walter's bedside, it was agreed that Helen—who would not leave her father, she said—should remain under the protection of Aunt Elizabeth, while John and Sarah went to the Manor House, where, as a matter of course, they were expected. And the power of kindness so wrought even upon the hard and not very impressible nature of Mrs. George Wilson, that she felt herself softening under it to the heart-stricken Helen, and agreed that, as long as was needed, she should share with Elizabeth the little bedchamber which for the last few days she had nominally occupied while nursing her brother.

It was not long needed. On the day week from Walter's fainting fit in the holly arbour, he gently sank into that slumber from which there is no awakening. One hand, damp with the dews of death, was laid on the head of his kneeling, weeping daughter, and the other feebly clasped those of his first love and her husband.

And then, as twilight deepened, a solemn silence fell upon all assembled there. Walter was dead.

Later that evening, the last offices to the poor mortal and corruptible body having been performed, came the village carpenter; and all that night, till early morning, in the stillness of the village, was heard from the dimly-lighted-up carpenter's shop, the sharp sound of saw, and hammer, and nails on stout elm boards, which told of another claimant for a resting-place in God's Acre.

On the following evening, the laden coffin was quietly, and without much observation, conveyed from High Beech to the old farmhouse in the valley, and there, in the chamber where he had first drawn breath, was deposited, until the day to be appointed for the funeral, all that was left of the first-born of old Matthew Wilson.

Meanwhile Helen, submitting herself to the loving care and sympathy of her friend and protectress, Mrs. Tincroft, had been received at the Manor House with genuine kindness and all delicate attentions by Richard Grigson and his motherly housekeeper.

CHAPTER XXX.

A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION.

THE hospitable Manor House would have held almost any number of guests upon occasion, so, although it entertained at this time Tom Grigson and his son and namesake, John Tincroft and his Sarah, Helen Wilson, and Mr. Fawley, the London lawyer, there was room enough and to spare.

There was sufficient reason, Mr. Fawley thought, to induce him to remain a few days, especially in such good quarters, waiting the event of his client's decease. He had been fully forewarned of the doctor's firmly expressed conviction that Walter could not last long, and his own observations confirmed this prediction. Accordingly, he was prepared with the will, he had drawn up in London those months previously, and with the codicil, which was but a day or two old, and which had been duly witnessed by the Grigsons. Meanwhile, he made the best of his time in mudding through the woods and groves in the surrounding neighbourhood, as well as in taking mental notes of the society into which he was thus fortuitously thrown.

While Mr. Fawley was thus engaged, Tom Grigson and his son divided their time pretty equally between the Manor House and the Mumbles, having at their disposal for these almost daily excursions Richard's fast-trotting Peg and dog-cart. Once or twice young Tom remained at his grandfather's house for the night, but he invariably found his way back on the following day—the charms and attractions of his youthful future bride not being sufficiently powerful, as it seemed, to keep the complaisant, immature, and premature lover from the greater freedom from polite restraints to be found at his uncle's.

As to John Tincroft, in the interval between the death and funeral of Helen's father, he had not much inclination for social intercourse. His Sarah and Helen necessarily secluded themselves in the recess of their ladies' chamber, being understood to be engaged, in conjunction with certain dressmakers and milliners from the next town, in the preparation of mourning attire; or otherwise, the one in giving, and the other in receiving, such solace as under the circumstances was most natural.

John, therefore, was much left to himself, excepting when in the company of his host or his old friend Tom. And strange to say (or perhaps not strange to say) John rather shunned than courted at this time any confidential intercourse with that old friend.

No, it was not strange. John had been both puzzled and shocked at what he considered the inconceivable blindness of his friend in running the risk of sacrificing the happiness of one whom he had confessed to tenderly loving, for the sake of what might be called a convenient family arrangement. Dear hermit-like John! If he had not lived so long—all his life, indeed—shut up in his own shell, so to speak, he might have known how often these convenient family arrangements are entered into in certain classes of society; how many a pair of cousins, or other relatives, are constantly being matched together, without any considerations of fitness or unfitness, likes or dislikes, qualifications or disqualifications; and all for the sake of keeping together a certain number of money-bags, or a capital trade connection; or of perpetuating in the family a desirable estate, or a title, or even (as we have known it and witnessed it) the tenancy of a farm!

But John did not know this; and no wonder, therefore, that his eyes sometimes rested, without his knowing it, with mute compassion and sorrowful interest on the young Tom, who, to tell the truth, seemed to care very little about the matter, one way or other, so long as he was not expected to remain too long at a time in the company of his cousin Blanche.

"I shall have plenty of that when we are buckled together, father," he said, one day (in John's hearing), when he was remonstrated and reasoned with for running away from his "little wife."

Dear old John! Do you wonder, reader, that with all his experience on the one hand, and his inexperience on the other, he drew doleful pictures of the after-life of that bright boy and the cousin whom he was doomed to marry?

"I can't do any good by saying anything about it to Tom," thought he to himself, "and if I could, I haven't the right to interfere; but I pity the poor boy with all my heart."

No wonder, then, that under the mood of the time, and while the shadow of death was yet upon him, John felt more embarrassment than he had ever expected to feel when thrown into his friend Tom Grigson's company.

Here for the present we must leave, not only this subject, but also the Manor House, and enter the humbler precincts of Low Beech Farm.

A habitation into which death has entered, or which, as at, Low Beech, is for the time brought into intimate connection and fellowship with the grave, seems to be cut off from the rest of the world, and to gather around it an atmosphere of oppression and gloom. The darkened windows, the noiseless footsteps and subdued tones of voice which every inhabitant adopts, as though fearful of awakening the dead, and all other signs and tokens of grief, whether simulated or real, seem to mark that house as set apart from the common and ordinary and vulgar associations of everyday existence.

And yet it is not really so. The business of life must be carried on; and the passions and habits and dispositions of the living will be found to be held very little in check even by the near presence of the dead. At Low Beech, for instance, the sordid carefulness of old Matthew and his wife had not disappeared beneath the dignity of parental sorrow. No doubt they mourned for their son after a certain fashion; that is, they would rather he had been alive and well and well-to-do, and rather also that, seeing he was doomed to die, the blow had not fallen so as to place them at an inconvenience and possible expense.

But things having happened as they had gave no reason for neglecting the business of the farm and house. So Mrs. Matthew went about her work as usual, while Elizabeth was preparing and "making up black," as the mother explained to the clergyman who called to condole with the family on their bereavement; and Matthew went looking after his men, and feeding his stock, to all appearance little moved by his proximity at home to his dead Walter.

But he was moved, nevertheless. He couldn't make it out anyhow, he muttered to his wife. He had varied his opinion, as we have seen, on the subject of Walter's pecuniosity or impecuniosity; and now, at the last, he was utterly bewildered. He shifted his views almost every quarter of an hour, at one time thinking his son must have got a nest-egg somewhere or other; and then returning to his firm conviction that if Walter had been well off and prospering in Australia, he would never have returned to his home.

I do not think that I, the chronicler, am bound to explain, or attempt to explain, the motives (if there were any) for Walter Wilson's reticence about his money matters, both to his friend Tincroft and to his relatives at Low Beech. I incline to the opinion, however, that there was no distinct reason for his silence; and that, had he lived a short time longer, a part, at least, of the old people's curiosity would have been satisfied. This, however, is but a conjecture; and it is certain that, respecting his worldly possessions, Walter Wilson "died and made no sign."

And old Matthew was troubled—so troubled that he could not rest; and on one of the days previous to the funeral, while he was pondering over it, and balancing probabilities, it came into his mind that Walter's portmanteau was in the death-chamber, together with the coffin; and also that a pocket-book which he had seen in his son's hands was probably in the coat which he had worn on the day of his seizure, and which had been brought to Low Beech on the removal of the corpse.

Strange that Matthew had never thought of this until now! What more likely than that in those receptacles lay hidden some clue to the mystery which was troubling him—or at least some scrap of information which would help to set his mind at rest. And who had a better right than he to look into his son's personal belongings now that he (Walter) was beyond any further need of them? To be sure, there was the dead man's daughter, to whom they properly belonged, perhaps. But she was only a girl, and could know nothing about the rights of proprietorship; and besides, wasn't he (Matthew) the poor child's natural guardian—always supposing there should be anything to keep guard over? And then came his old suspicion of John Tincroft having kept back some knowledge about Walter's affairs of which he was custodian. Else why was he so willing to take charge of Helen, as he had promised to do?

Matthew was out on his farm when these thoughts came into his head; but he soon retraced his steps homewards; and stealing in at the back entrance to the farm, unobserved as he believed, he crept up the stairs while his wife and daughter and maid-servant were engaged below, and softly entered the room which contained the coffin of his dead son. As noiselessly as he could, he closed the door, and would have locked himself in, probably, but that the key had long been lost.

The portmanteau was on the floor, locked; and the garments of the dead hung on pegs near the bed's head. To search the pockets for the key of the portmanteau, and also for the pocket-book, was, no doubt, the old farmer's first impulse. These were found; and then, kneeling down on the floor for greater convenience in the meanness he contemplated, he applied the key.

There was nothing in the portmanteau to reward his search until, carefully removing, one by one, the changes of raiment which it contained, he came at last to two small parchment-bound and brass-clasped books, with Walter Wilson's name written on the covers. Trembling with excitement, the old man loosed the clasp of one of these books, and turned over one or two leaves.

Marvellous! There were entries there which made old Matthew turn giddy. Entries of investments in the funds, in stock of various kinds, in railway shares (it was in the early days of railroads, be it remembered)—investments to the amount of thousands of pounds, bearing interest (as the keen-eyed old man saw at a glance) that would reach up to six or seven hundred pounds a year, if not considerably more!

With a hasty movement, Matthew closed this book, reclasped it, and opened the other. It was a bank-book—some London bank—in which a respectable sum had been placed to the credit side of the account, with only one or two small items on the opposite page, indicating that these sums only had been drawn out since the account was opened.

Almost beside himself with excitement, the avaricious old man carefully replaced these precious volumes, and refilled the portmanteau before he ventured to turn to the pocket-book which lay on the floor within his reach. This was soon accomplished, however, and the book was opened. It had many divisions in it, forming separate cases, and there were folded papers in several of these receptacles. But Matthew, after his former discoveries, cared little for these in comparison with the contents of one of these pockets, which attracted his glistening eyes.

"Bank notes! One, two, three. Ten! Twenty! Fifty!" gasped the covetous old man, as he unfolded and held them up to the light. "Who would have thought of this, now!"

Who shall tell the force of the temptation that whirled through that sordid brain, and quickened the sluggish pulses Of that throbbing heart?—The temptation which whispered to his grasping thoughts and desires that his son, being dead, needed money no longer; that no one knew of his having that amount of portable wealth about his person, that his grand-daughter was of course well provided for, and that, at all events, he himself was the proper person to take care of this property—till it was claimed, if it ever should be; and if not claimed—well, what then?

His trembling hands had closed upon these notes, and he was about to—no, not to replace them in the pocket-book, when suddenly the chamber door was thrown open, and his daughter stood before him, flushed with fear and anger.

"For shame, father! Oh, father, father! What is it you are doing? Put them back, put them back, put them back!" she cried, in tones of terror. "And thank God for having saved you from this sin."

"Elizabeth, woman! How dare you speak to me like that? What is it you mean? What business have you to be prying into what doesn't concern you?" stammered the miserable old man, in broken sentences, as he sprang to his feet, the bank paper still in his grasp.

"Put them back! Put them back!" repeated the daughter, in yet stronger tones of desperation. "Strike me if you will, father," she cried, as she thought she detected a threatening gesture in the clenched hand. "Strike me, and kill me, if you will, and let me be laid along with poor Walter—oh, I wish I could be! I wish I could be!—But don't rob the dead and the living as well. Father, dear father," she went on, in more imploring accents; "put them back; oh, father, put them back!"

"How came you here, girl?" demanded the old man, hoarsely.

"God sent me, I think," said she; "oh, father, I heard you come in, and knew that you came up here, and I followed, and have seen it all from that little window—" and she pointed to a single pane of glass in a corner of the room near the ceiling, which dimly lighted a narrow dark staircase to the attic above—"and God has sent me to keep you from doing a great sin. Oh, father, father, put them back!"

Slowly and silently the old man cast his eyes on to the floor, stooped, picked up the pocket-book, put the notes in their former position, then passionately threw the book down again, muttering, "I shall remember this, Elizabeth. I shan't forget it, you may make sure of that," and then he shuffled out of the room.

It was a fine, soft, sunny day on the afternoon of which Walter Wilson was buried. There was but little pomp at that funeral, though there were many to follow him to his grave.

There was Helen as chief mourner, and the ceremonious undertaker said that it was the right and proper thing for her, as the only child, to walk first and alone, behind the coffin, all the way from Low Beech Farm to the church—for it was a walking funeral, as was the fashion then in those parts; but Helen pleaded so earnestly and tearfully that Sarah might accompany her and support her, and so put strength into her to bear the last scene in her father's history on earth, that it was yielded.

And so Walter's old discarded lover, and his daughter by another and perhaps more highly-prized wife than Sarah would ever have been, followed him together and stood side by side at the open grave, and were the last to depart when the solemn ceremony was over.

And if the tears which ran down Sarah's cheek then, sprang, some of them, from old remembrances revived, there was no treason in them against God or man. In that world whither the words just uttered over the dead transported the thoughts of the living, "they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven."

Old Matthew and his wife followed their first-born to the grave, and in their train came Walter's sister and his brothers and their wives. And then John Tincroft and the lawyer came after. And the Grigsons were there too.

It was "a fine funeral," one of the onlookers said to another. But it was soon over, and then the family, with Tincroft and the lawyer, returned to Low Beech to transact business, for there was Walter's will to be read, as Mr. Fawley had taken care to inform them all.

Helen would fain have stayed away, but it was needful she should be there; and, still under Sarah's wing, but supported and comforted now by John Tincroft also, she entered, for almost the first time, the home of her father's childhood and youth.

The will, when it came to be read, was not very prolix. It contained an inventory of investments, and all was left in trust—after the payment of a legacy of a thousand pounds to his dear cousin Sarah Tincroft—to John Tincroft, of Tincroft House, and so forth, for the benefit of the testator's dear and only child, Helen. The property thus bequeathed amounted, at a rough calculation, to something over twenty thousand pounds. The will also constituted John Tincroft sole executor of the testator's estate and effects, and the guardian of his daughter until she should be of age. In case of her decease before she had reached twenty-one, the property was to be distributed among certain charities which were named.

No mention was made in this will of any other family connections than John and Sarah. Evidently it had been prepared at a time when the fire of resentment in Walter's mind against his family had not yet died out.

Matthew 'Wilson looked furiously across the room at John Tincroft and Sarah. He understood it all now, he thought; and before he had composed himself, the lawyer was reading the codicil which had been drawn up and signed and witnessed so lately in the sick-chamber at High Beech.

In this instrument was revoked so much of the original will as related to the disposal of the property in case of Helen's death, and a fresh disposition was made of it. It was to be divided in equal parts between the several members of the testator's family, or their survivors.

Old Matthew smiled ghastlily at this. Little hope that he should ever see any of his son's money, he probably thought.

But there was something else more interesting.

After an expression of regret that there had been so long an alienation or distance of feeling between the testator and his family, certain legacies were to be paid to them out of the estate, amounting altogether to a thousand pounds—namely two hundred pounds each to the brothers, to Old Matthew, and to the sister. In addition to this, there were some bank notes which would be found in his pocket-book—(old Matthew broke out into a visible perspiration here)—amounting to eighty pounds. This sum the testator willed to be placed without deduction into the hands of his dear sister Elizabeth, in remembrance of their old love, which had been afresh stirred up (the document went on to say) by what passed in the last walk they took together.

This was nearly all. The funeral expenses were, of course, to be paid out of the estate, and the necessary legal powers were to be placed in John Tincroft's hands to administer to the will.

There was a short silence when Mr. Fawley had finished reading; and he and his friends from the Manor House were about to depart, when Old Matthew arose. Hoarsely, he spoke.

He had never known such trickery—never. Here was his son Walter, who had come home from Australia a rich man, making believe to be a poor man. Or if he didn't make-believe that, he never said he wasn't, and didn't seem as if he had got a pound to bless himself with. And then, instead of coming to his proper home in England, as he ought to have done, and to his old father and mother, he had been putting up with his old lover and her husband, which was most improper; but, of course, Mr. Tincroft had made it answer his purpose. And though he had pretended to him that he did not know whether Walter was rich or poor, anybody could see now what a pretence that was. And he was to be executor too, and Helen's guardian, when, by rights, he, the grandfather, ought to have been. A good deal more fit, he was, though he said it, to take care of money (having been used to business all his life) than a college gentleman who had never added up a sum since he went to school, he dared to say. And he said now that it was an unnatural thing, and wicked, to be taking his poor grand-daughter from her proper sheltering-place; and he wanted to know if Mr. Tincroft meant to come between relations like that. Wasn't Helen Wilson his own flesh and blood?

And then there was the money that was left to Elizabeth over and above her share of that paltry thousand pounds—

"You shall have it all, father, if you will," said Elizabeth, "only if you won't go on talking like this," she added, her cheeks mantling with shame.

"And if your grand-daughter prefers making her home at Low Beech, she has only to say so, and her will shall be law to me," said John Tincroft.

We need not give Helen's reply. And as little need is there to tell how the sombre party soon broke up. Our next chapter will open on other scenes and circumstances.

CHAPTER XXXI.

YOUNG TOM GRIGSON.

THE record of every man's life is necessarily mixed up and interwoven with that of many other lives; and to discourse on the one with any degree of interest, not to say intelligibly and coherently, it is absolutely necessary to include some portions of those other histories. For instance, how could my readers have known anything worth knowing of John Tincroft, apart from his friend Tom Grigson?

And our introduction to Tom led us in the most natural way to the bachelor brother at the Manor House. Then we could not have followed out our friend's matrimonial adventures unless we had accompanied him to High Beech Farm, and seen how he became engulfed or influxed, so to speak, in the vortex of that great maelstrom of which I have elsewhere spoken. High Beech led us to Low Beech, just as the Manor House and its surroundings conducted us to the Mumbles.

Then, without intending it in the first instance, a needs-be gradually forced itself upon the present chronicler to lightly sketch certain other characters and scenes, so as to make, as far as lay in his power, a harmonious and congruous whole, of which, as a matter of course, John Tincroft should be the central point of interest, but without which other characters and scenes the picture would have presented an unpleasant confusion of impalpable shadows.

Above all, it has been the writer's design and study and earnest labour to give the colouring of truth to every subordinate as well as principal character in this picture of life, so that, in the end, at least one useful lesson may have been presented to each reader of this story, who, without intending it, or even expecting to be instructed, has taken up these pages to pass away an idle day or to amuse a leisure hour.

Not many more chapters remain to be written; and this immediate one must be given up to one or more of those subordinate actors to whom I have referred.

A few days after that which witnessed the funeral of Walter Wilson, and also the reading of his will, Tom Grigson and his son took their departure homewards, John Tincroft and Sarah and the young Helen accompanying them—Mr. Fawley, the lawyer, having already taken his leave of the hospitable master of the Manor House, and the woodland glades of which he had become enamoured.

Tincroft and his following passed a day or two at their friend's villa on the banks of the Thames, and then returned to their home near Trotbury, where he and his Sarah devoted themselves to comforting their darling ward, and to puzzling themselves in laying plans for her unknown future. Thus occupied we must at present leave them, our business being, in the first place, with Tom Grigson the younger.

It was not, after all, an uncongenial life on which he was about to enter. It may be thought, at first sight, perhaps, that an active, enterprising lad of sixteen could find little interest in the monotonous and wearying details of a London house of business, especially if he should be the possessor of what is called a correct and classical taste, improved by education. I take leave to say, however, to those who argue thus, that they are very little acquainted with the subject on which they think themselves competent to pass a judgment.

The details of business, in London or elsewhere, are neither monotonous nor wearying to properly constituted minds; nor are they inconsonant with good taste and good education. There are men, old and young, and in every proper sense of the word true gentlemen, who belong to houses of business all the world over, and who yet have more true taste for the beautiful in nature and art, more cultivation of mind, and greater scientific and literary acquirements, than are to be found in one half of the frequenters of fashionable salons. And yet these same persons are energetic men of business, and possess talents which, if need were, would qualify them for conducting the affairs of a nation almost as easily, and quite as successfully, as those of a mercantile firm.

Such a person as this was the principal partner in the house with which Elliston and Grigson were connected; and this gentleman—who had by this time become a member of Parliament—took a strong fancy to young Tom, almost on his first entrance into the house. Under his auspices, the lad was not only pushed forward in the higher departments Of business, but was introduced to some circles in society, intercourse with which gave a zest to the everyday and more prosaic details of London life.

It is scarcely to be wondered at, therefore, that, after a short time, the young man was sufficiently satisfied with his present position to desire no change. In other words, his visions of university life gradually faded away, and nothing more was said or thought of entering him at Oxford.

To compensate—if compensation were needed—for this deprivation, which cannot be called a disappointment, Tom was indulged, at the end of his second year's experience in business life, with a long holiday ramble on the Continent, whence he returned full of enthusiastic admiration for Alpine scenery and adventures, but with more energy than ever for the common concerns and ordinary duties of his worldly calling.

Nor were the attractions of home very feeble for young Grigson. A pleasant villa, a good-tempered father, who did not draw the cords of discipline over tightly, an indulgent mother, a tolerably harmonious brood of younger brothers and sisters, a select circle of friends, occasional visitors, serviceable domestics, a horse to ride when he pleased, a sailing-boat on, if not one of the loveliest rivers in the world, yet a very passable one as rivers go, and time enough to enjoy these luxuries of existence, and not too much, so as to breed ennui. If with all these acquisitions any young fellow overflowing with bodily health and animal spirits could not be reasonably happy, that young fellow was not our young Tom.

There was only one little ingredient in this cup of happiness which now and then gave a slight flavour to it which was not altogether to young Grigson's taste.

"I wish they had left me to choose for myself," said Tom, one day, to his sister Catherine, who was only a year, or a little more, younger than himself.

They were having a quiet sail on the river one summer's evening, and were seated side by side at the stern, Tom with the sail under his management.

"But you like Blanche, don't you, Tom?"

"Oh, don't I?" Tom rejoined, lightly.

"Well, but you do, you know, Tom."

"Oh yes; Cousin Blanche is so charming, you know, Kitty, that I ought to be the happiest young fellow in the world. Everybody tells me so; and what everybody says must be true. But for all that, Kitty—" and then Kitty's brother came to a full stop.

"Well, Tom?" This after a long pause.

"Suppose we change the subject, Kitty."

"With all my heart; only we have not begun it yet, and mamma wanted me to say just a word—may I? She thinks I can do it better than she can."

"Say away, then, darling; but wait a bit: I'll just hitch this line round the bolt, and take the rudder strings, There—so; now."

It is as well to say that two years had passed away since we fell in with Tom the younger at the Manor House. He is consequently eighteen years old, or a little over, and a strange sensation sometimes creeps over him, when he reminds himself that in three years' time he is to be a married man, will-he, nil-he; and the "nil-he" is at present uppermost in his mind.

"And now," said he, settling himself soberly to hear what his sister (who at seventeen is, in some respects, older than her brother at eighteen) has to say.

"Mamma thinks you don't pay quite proper attentions to Blanche."

"Pho! Pho! Kitty. Not proper attentions! Why, don't I go to see her once a week? If that is not often enough, I don't know what would be."

"I shouldn't think so, Tom, if I were Blanche. Besides, when you do go to see her—or, rather, when you go to dinner at Uncle Elliston's—you stay so long in the dining-room that Blanche has very little of your company, she says."

"I wonder what she would have," grumbled Tom. "She'll have enough of it by-and-by, I'll be bound," he added.

"That depends. Do you know, mamma is afraid—" It was Catherine's turn to come to a full stop now.

"Well, Kitty?" This after another pause.

"Mamma is afraid that you are running a risk of losing Blanche, after all."

"You don't say so, Kitty?" cried Tom, with an odd expression of alarm, too readily put on to be quite real, his sister thought.

"Mamma says so," answered Kitty, demurely; adding, "She says she is mistaken if—if somebody else, never mind who—"

"Oh, I don't mind. Well?"

"Isn't trying to step into your shoes. That's what mamma says, Tom."

"I hope the old shoes won't pinch the feet," said Tom, laughing.

"But seriously, Tom."

"To be sure; yes, seriously, Kitty," returned the brother, composing his countenance.

"You don't want to lose Cousin Blanche, do you?"

"I have never thought much about it, Kitty. What do you think about it?"

"I think, Tom, that you will be sorry to lose her."

"Um! Well?"

"You know it was all settled so long ago."

"That's true enough," said Tom.

"And then when you marry you are to come into a partnership."

"Nobody ever married without coming into that," said Tom.

"Tom, you are incorrigible. A partnership in the house, I mean. You know what I mean."

"Yes, I know what you mean, darling Kitty; and it will all come right, don't be afraid; and tell mamma not to worry herself about it. I am agreeable. Only I wish it hadn't been all planned out so nicely. If only they had left it for me to choose for myself," he added, returning to his starting-point.

"And if they had, you would have chosen Blanche, don't you think?"

"Possibly. Blanche is a charming girl, of course. Oh, Kitty, Kitty! Why didn't they leave me and Cousin Blanche to set about it in the good old fashion? As it is, I feel as if Blanche had been my wife and I her husband ever since we were babies; and that I am an old married man."

"An old married man of eighteen!" and Kitty laughed merrily.

"Just so," said Tom, grimly. "I wonder whether anybody took the trouble to plan in this way for father and mother before they were really married."

"Their case was different," argued the sister; "but what does that signify? You say you are fond of Blanche, don't you?"

"Why, of course. What a young infidel you are, Kitty."

"Then you should be a good boy, and take care she doesn't slip through your fingers. That's what mamma says."

"Tell mamma, then, that I will behave better in future. Heigh-ho! And now let us talk about something else. Aren't you sorry you have left school for good?"

"No, I don't think I am. There's only one thing makes me sorry. Helen Wilson is to stay at Miss G—'s another half, and she is my dearest friend. Poor dear Helen! You have heard me speak of her, Tom?"

"I should think so. Where were my ears else?"

"And you remember her, don't you?"

"Yes; of course. I remember her—down at Uncle Dick's when I was there, and came home with us—she and dear old Tincroft and Mrs. T. Yes, I remember her."

"I like her so much," continued Kitty; "and I wanted to bring her home with me these holidays, but Mr. Tincroft wouldn't hear of it. He couldn't spare her, he said. Ill-natured, wasn't it?"

And then from this topic of conversation, the brother and sister passed on to another, till it was time to finish their cruise.

Tom did "behave better in future." That is to say, he begun from this time to pay greater attentions to the young lady, who, without any choice on his part, or hers either, was marked out to be his future wife; that is to say, he went twice a week instead of once to her father's house at Camberwell, and devoted more time when he was there to her special society.

And, not to flatter Blanche, she was not unworthy of these attentions. She had made good use of her time since, two years before, our friend Tincroft had passed, in his own mind, so unfavourable a judgment respecting her. The rather pert and conceited and affected schoolgirl had changed into an attractive and well-behaved young woman; while her pale face and unformed figure had ripened, if not into a perfect Hebe, yet into a sufficiently blooming and graceful piece of humanity. Whether or not it was wise in this instance—or whether it is wise in any instance—for such an alliance as has been spoken of to be contracted by other parties as sponsors for those most deeply interested, remains to be proved.

The wisdom of this arrangement, however, seemed manifest to one, at any rate, of these contracting parties, when a certain event of importance occurred.

"Did you ever know anything like this?" Mrs. Tom Grigson wished to be told, holding up her hands in sheer astonishment, when she had made herself acquainted with the purport of a letter which her husband had handed to her across the breakfast-table.

"Yes, my dear, I have known a good many things so exactly like it as to be identically the same," responded our old friend Tom.

"What a—what a—moon-calf he must be, Tom," the lady went on.

"Rather tough to digest, Kate," returned the husband, drily.

"But they do say there's no fool like an old fool," continued Mrs. Grigson.

"My dear!" remonstrated Tom.

"To think that he should ever think of doing such a thing!" said the lady. "'Tis dreadful!" she added.

"Is it so dreadful, Kate?" asked the gentleman, looking up. "That's a new light cast on the subject," he added.

"Nonsense, Tom! You know what I mean. Of course it isn't always dreadful, nor yet dreadful in itself; but, as you say sometimes, 'circumstances alter cases.'"

"Alters, you should say, Kate, to give the proper roll to the aphorism."

"That isn't grammar, Tom."

"Never mind about grammar when you want to produce effect. And I say, circumstances alters cases. And then, again—"

"There's no accounting for opinions;

Some likes apples, some likes inions."

"And Dick likes matrimony, it seems. Why shouldn't he?"

"Wasn't he always railing against it?"

"None the less likely to fall into it, for all that, Kate. And when he had our example set before him to follow, with the benefit of our experience—"

"Nonsense, Tom! Why, we have been man and wife any time these twenty years."

"Is it so long, Kate?" Tom asked.

"Of course it is; and here's Dick pretty near old enough to be your father—"

"Which he isn't," interposed the gentleman.

"You put me out, and make me forget what I was going to say, Tom, when you interrupt me like that," remonstrated the lady. "But what I mean is that at his age your brother Richard ought to be above such folly."

"Ought not to be above such wisdom, you should say, Kate. He sees his folly, no doubt, and argues that it is never too late to mend."

"To mend, indeed! An old man like him to be marrying a girl of twenty! He ought to be ashamed of himself."

It was quite true that Mr. Richard Grigson had so far committed himself. Having lived a single life till his hair had turned grey, and all the while declaring against matrimony, he had suddenly and violently become enamoured of a young lady from London who, while visiting a friend in the country, not far from the Manor House, accidentally fell in with and was introduced to the Manor House's owner.

It was a storm of wind and rain that brought about the introduction. The young lady and the old gentleman, in whose house she was a guest were out walking one fine May day, when suddenly the sky became overcast, and a heavy dark cloud from the west began to discharge its contents. The old gentleman was two or three miles away from his own house; he was afraid of rheumatism; he had not an umbrella; and the nearest shelter was the Manor House, whose gates he and his young friend were passing as the shower came on. He was slightly acquainted with Richard Grigson, though on no familiar terms with him. But, driven by the exigencies of the case, the storm-attacked pedestrians rushed at once through the gateway, scudded across the lawn, and presented themselves at the hospitable doors of the Manor House, suppliants for shelter.

They received shelter and something more; and the next day Richard bethought himself that it would be only proper for him to ride over to the old gentleman's house to give expression to his hope that the young lady had not taken cold.

The young lady had not taken cold, thanks to Mr. Grigson; but the old gentleman had, and was confined to his chamber by its effects. And so, perforce, the elderly bachelor and the juvenile maiden had to entertain each other in the drawing-room. The entertainment lasted longer than was calculated on; for, strange to say, while they were thus engaged, another heavy shower came on; and Richard, who never till now had minded being wet to the skin, felt an unconquerable repugnance to facing the rain. Before the shower was over, he had secretly made up his mind to pay another visit—which he did, and this time it was to Miss Hardcastle.

There is no need to multiply words in describing the progress of a rapid thaw of frozen-up passions. It is enough to say that before three weeks had passed away, Mr. Richard's determination never to marry had melted away beneath the influence of Miss Hardcastle's charms. In another week, he was her accepted lover.

It was rather awkward—at least, kind-hearted Richard Grigson felt it to be so—to make known to his brother the change which had come over him, and the engagement on which he had entered.

"It will be a little hard upon brother Tom," he thought within himself, "and if not upon brother Tom, it will fall heavy upon nephew Tom (bless his young heart!) to know that the old family estate may have to keep in a straight line after all. But they are good fellows, both of them, and I am sure they won't make a quarrel of it, and I must make it as easy for young Tom as I can. And, after all, it may come to him all the same," he added, by way of salvo, or salve to his conscience.

"Besides," continued he, in his thoughts, "there's no law that I know of, in the Bible or out of it, to keep a man from marrying because he has a fair estate on the one hand, and a fair nephew on the other."

The result of this soliloquy was the letter which had so disturbed the equanimity of Mrs. Tom Grigson at the breakfast-table; and, to tell the truth, it also took Mr. Tom a little aback. But he soon recovered himself.

"Dick has as much right to please himself by taking a wife as ever I had," said he; "and I'll go down to his wedding," he added.

It could not be denied, however, that this new move (as it was called) of Dick's sent all, or a good many, previous calculations to the right-about. And our friend Tom congratulated himself more than ever on having brought up his son to business instead of sending him to Oxford.

"As it isn't at all likely our boy will come to the estate now," he said to his wife, when they were by themselves, "it is a good thing to have put him in the way of being independent without it, which he mightn't have been if we had made a scholar of him."

There was another source of congratulation also—namely, that the young fellow's match with his cousin had been made so long ago, and was progressing without any palpable hitch.

"I wish Tom was a little more in earnest about it," the father went on; "but, as he says, it will come on in time. And then, when they are married, Tom will have got a snug nest, anyhow."

Tom the elder did go down to his brother's wedding, and so did Tom the younger. Mrs. Tom Grigson was also prevailed upon to dispose of her chagrin and go also. Richard Grigson was profoundly touched by this almost unlooked-for kindness on their part.

"I always knew you were a good fellow, dear old Tom!" said Dick. "But I was half afraid you would turn rusty."

"Nonsense, Richard! The world's wide enough for us all, isn't it? And there's no one wishes you all sorts of happiness in your married life more heartily than I do. All sorts of happiness, mind," he added.

CHAPTER XXXII.

IN THE FLOWER GARDEN.

IT is high time we returned to Tincroft House, and our friends there, whom we left puzzling themselves how best to fulfil the new duties laid upon them. After many consultations, and weighing all sorts of pros and cons, it was finally decided—with the young lady's consent—that Helen's education should be carried on and completed at a boarding school. There were several reasons that led to this conclusion.

Among others, it was wisely propounded by John that, being an heiress, some accomplishments, in which Helen was acknowledged to be deficient, were necessary for her future establishment in life, whenever that event might occur. Internally, John also reflected that neither from Sarah nor himself were these accomplishments likely to be obtained. Moreover (and here he spoke out again), the best they could do for Helen by way of dissipating the grief of her recent bereavement, was to provide her with a change of scene and companionship, which, as far as he could see, could be done only by the plan proposed.

In this emergency, John's friend Grigson came to his help. His daughter Catherine was at a highly respectable boarding school in a certain town on the coast, not far from Trotbury. Tom spoke very highly of this school (which had the additional virtue of not being called an "establishment for young ladies"). And accordingly, after a brief interval devoted to due preparations, Helen Wilson was placed under the care of Miss G—.

How pleasantly the time passed there; how the young Australian very soon became a favourite with all the girls (some sixty or more) in the school; how, especially, she and Catherine Grigson became bosom friends; and how she made rapid progress towards those accomplishments in which she had been held to be deficient—there is no need to tell. Time passed quickly, and after an interval of some three years, we find Helen Wilson once more at Tincroft House, very dearly loved and cherished by the motherly Sarah and dear old shy awkward John, both of whom manifested their love in a variety of ways pleasant to behold.

For instance, Helen's bower was replenished with a bounteous store of treasures of art, literature, and science, "calculated," as the advertisements have it, "to please the eye and improve the taste." A new maid was hired for Helen's especial behoof; but as she turned out a failure, and the young lady declared herself quite capable of waiting on herself, this adjunct was afterwards dispensed with.

To bring themselves and their old-fashioned ways more into accord with the usages of modern society, moreover, John and Sarah altered their dinner-hour from two to six, greatly, it must be said, to the disgust of Mrs. Jane (now exalted to the rank of housekeeper), who was to be appeased only by the gift of a new dress and cap, which outshone those of her contented mistress.

But the most admirable of all the wonders wrought by affection when thus enlisted on the side of darling Helen, was when dear old John set about witching the world with his noble horsemanship. In our former account of Helen, we noted that among the accomplishments she had learned in her home in the bush was that of being an expert and fearless rider. And if one ungratified wish, on her return to Tincroft House, existed in her heart, it was for a wild gallop across the country.

By accident this wish became known to John; and before the world was a week older, the hitherto unused stables of Tincroft House, and the chamber above, were duly prepared for the reception of a horse fit for a lady's use, a grey pony for John's own bestriding, and a groom to keep them in proper condition. To what extent Tincroft was compelled to draw his purse-strings, and how far he was cheated in the bargain he made, no one probably knew at the time—the honest horse-dealer only excepted.

But dear John, who had never in his life bestridden even a rocking-horse! Well, well, he would have mounted a hippogriff to please Walter Wilson's child, and his Sarah's pet; and it was a sight worth seeing when, by Helen's side, who gracefully reined in her steed to accommodate herself to his more sober pace, John bumped up and down on his saddle till the knobby chairs at High Beech Farm would have been as downy pillows in comparison with it.

And so time wore on.

It has already been intimated that a strong attachment sprung up between Helen Wilson and her school-fellow Catherine Grigson. And this was continued after both young ladies had left school. Their intercourse was kept up, however, principally by writing; for, though Helen was often invited to visit her friend on the banks of the Thames, some unforeseen difficulty always started up to set the invitation aside. I think our friend Tincroft could have given a rational explanation of these unexpected hindrances if he had been disposed to do so, which he was not.

There was nothing, however, to prevent Miss Grigson paying a long-promised visit to Tincroft House one summer; and when there, there was everything to invite its prolongation. Dear Helen was so glad of her friend's company, while Mr. and Mrs. Tincroft were so kind and so hospitably inclined, that it would have been positive cruelty—so Catherine wrote home—to deprive them of the pleasure they coveted.

"And why don't you run down for a day or two?" she wrote to her brother Tom. "'Tis years and years since you were here, you know; and you haven't been out for a holiday all the summer."

"No more have I," said Tom to himself, when he read the note, and the next morning he had deposited himself on the box seat of the Trotbury coach.

"Just come to see how you are getting on in this part of the world," was his first salutation to John, as he landed himself unexpectedly at the gate of Tincroft House, on the afternoon of the same day.

John was very pleased to see the son of his old friend, and he told him so. And as to the inconvenience of accommodating an unexpected guest, quoth Mrs. Tincroft, when young Tom apologised for the abruptness of his invasion, as he called it, she hoped Tincroft House was big enough to accommodate a dozen such as Tom, if need were. And so he might set his mind at rest on that subject.

And Tom did set his mind at rest. In fact, he found his quarters so much to his liking, that he lengthened his visit from day to day, under a variety of pretences, until he had been more than a fortnight an inmate of the pleasant mansion.

"You must stay with us over next week now," said Sarah, one evening when Tom was seriously propounding the propriety of returning to business. "It is Trotbury cricket week, and we shall want a gentleman to take us on to the ground two or three of the days at least; and John doesn't like cricket at all—do you, John?"

John didn't like cricket, and he said so. He had had enough of cricket in his younger days, and what pleasure there could be in standing up before three sticks stuck into the ground to knock away a ball, with the chance of being maimed for life, he couldn't for a moment conceive. But for all that, if his dear Sarah had any pleasure in seeing what was called "the noble game" played, or if he could be of any use to the young ladies in procuring them good positions for viewing "the noble game," he was very much at their service.

So, if Tom must really return, or felt called upon by the imperative claims of business to return to London, he himself would not interpose an obstacle in the shape of Trotbury cricket week. Indeed, he wasn't quite sure that it wouldn't be as well for Tom to remember that there were claims upon him elsewhere. What, for instance, would the young lady at Camberwell think when she heard, if she should hear, of Tom's being seen on Trotbury cricket ground with another young lady? John asked, gravely.

Whereupon, Tom declared that the young lady at Camberwell might think as she pleased. He hoped he wasn't tied to any young lady's apron strings; there would be time enough for that when another knot was tied. Tom shifted rather uneasily in his chair as he said this, and, though he did feign to laugh, he looked a little redder than usual, especially when he saw that his host's gravity was not at, all moved by his gaiety.

Perhaps it was to prove how much at liberty he felt himself, that, later in the day, Tom left his host and hostess and his sister in the drawing-room, and strolled into the pretty flower garden already described, where Helen was employing herself—as he very well knew—in tending her plants. By the way, there is no feminine occupation more adapted to innocent flirtation (if such a composite term, or rather, contradiction in terms, may be used) than in this kind of gardening. The sweet, enthralling tyranny displayed by the head-gardeneress in ordering her enchanted slave, who for the nonce is made to be a hewer of wood (with his pocket-knife in preparing flower-sticks) and a drawer of water (in filling the watering-pot any number of times from the nearest pump, well, or pond), is something quite instructive to witness (for it points back to Eden, evidently), and delightful to endure.

Tom at least thought so, as he found himself (his offered services accepted), making himself of some use, as she said, to the fair Helen. For by this time a kind of understanding seemed to have been tacitly entered into that Master Tom, being already on the high road to matrimony, and within sight, so to speak, of the goal, was to consider Miss Wilson as a sort of twin-sister to his own sister Catherine, and to be treated with frank unreserve accordingly, for:

"What was Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?"

I am afraid, too, that dear old John Tincroft had by this time, if the truth were known, rather spoiled darling Helen, by making her see and believe how happy it made him to be her humble servant; and perhaps she might have thought that every gentleman she fell in with was like John. But this by the way.

"There, that will do for all the watering we want to-night," said the lady, looking round with admiration on her revived flowers. "And now please help me tie up this straggler, Tom."

In another moment TOM was on one knee, for the convenience of the operation, and the young lady's slender fingers were deftly fastening the string which was to confine the flower-stalks to their supporting stick, when a hand, not Helen's, was laid on Tom's shoulder.

"Very pleasantly employed, Tom," said Tincroft, quietly; for he was the intruder.

Tom started to his feet.

"Don't hurry," said John; "but when Miss Wilson has quite done with your services, I want a word or two."

The young lady graciously gave Tom permission to retire; and the two gentlemen walked slowly down the path together without speaking until they had reached the farther end. Then John wheeled round (as also did Tom), and stood looking from the distance towards the fair gardeneress, who was now, as it seemed, occupied in gathering a nosegay.

"Tom, don't you think it would be better for you to return home to-morrow?" said Tincroft, after a rather awkward pause.

Master Tom looked his elderly friend in the face, with some surprise, as well he might, perhaps, for John Tincroft was not usually anxious to get rid of his guests.

"Do you think so, sir?" the young fellow asked.

"I'll tell you presently what I think," said John, "and also why I think it, if I do think it. You may be sure of one thing, at any rate—I shall be very sorry to lose your good company."

"Thank you, Mr. Tincroft. You are very kind," said young Tom.

"You would like to stay over next week, it being the grand cricket week?" continued John.

"Yes, I should," replied Tom, bluntly.

"No doubt, end not only because of its being the cricket week?"

Tom again looked up into his friend's face, with a quick gesture, not altogether of surprise; and then he turned rather red in the face, I think, and looked down upon the path. There was a broken twig upon it, which engrossed his attention, perhaps; for he took great pains to turn it over with his foot, so as to pass it under a kind of general examination. He didn't speak.

Until now the two gentlemen had remained, as it seemed, rooted to the spot, and the fair Helen was still employed in filling her little flower basket. This completed, she turned from the border and disappeared. Apparently this broke the spell, for Tincroft now slipped his arm within that of his young friend, and the two paced up and down the long path as they communed together.

"My dear lad," said John, when they were thus in motion, "your father and I were dear friends when we were about your age. We were almost always together when we were at Oxford. We never had a serious disagreement in our lives; I received many a kindness from him; and though we have not seen so much of each other of late years as formerly, we are as much friends as ever. Don't you believe this?"

Tom did believe this. His father always spoke in the warmest terms of affection of his old friend Tincroft, he said.

"And if I should say anything to you that seems to go a little against the grain, Tom, you won't be more offended than you can help, will you? Because you may be sure I don't mean anything really unkind to the son of so old and dear a friend as your father is."

No, Tom wouldn't be offended.

"I know," continued John, "that some persons do sometimes make great mistakes, which lead them into great impertinences and create a great deal of confusion and mischief as well. I remember a case in point, where a man who in the early part of his life had gone very far astray in vicious pursuits, became in his later years, when broken down in health, the moat uncharitable censor of the supposed failings of his friends and acquaintances that I ever had the unhappiness of knowing. And on one occasion, he fell foul of the character of a friend who, in those old times, had rescued him from disgrace and ruin; and quarrelled with this benefactor by charging with folly which had not the slightest foundation in fact. I hope, Tom, you won't think that I am one of that sort?"

No, Tom was sure that his father's old friend was not.

"And yet, as we grow older," John went on, "we sometimes see, or fancy (it may be altogether an error on our part, but we fancy) we see things more clearly than at an earlier period of our lives. And especially the blunders we ourselves have at some former time committed, make us think that we are wiser than others—wiser perhaps than we really are, and more competent to set another right when we think him to be in danger."

They went on slowly pacing the path from one end to the other before another word was spoken. Then John resumed his talk.

"The person of whom I was speaking a few moments ago, having been guilty of bad actions as well as of criminal thoughts and desires, was too ready to attribute bad motives to another, who was utterly astounded when he heard of the charge brought against him. And perhaps, dear Tom, you will be astounded too when you hear further what I wish to say. When I was a young fellow like you (your father knows all about it), I was guilty of folly; I thank God not of deliberate sin, nor perhaps of any sin at all, only as far as there is a degree of sin in most folly. Well, I was foolish. Without intending it, I did that which was the means of completely changing the entire course of many lives and histories. In the merciful arrangements of Divine Providence, those changes were, as I hope, overruled for good. But I would never forget that, whether for good or evil, the folly was the same; nor that, overruled as they may have been, they produced at the time, and for a long time afterwards, much unhappiness to all within their influence. Now, my dear lad, without intending it, you—"

"I know what you are going to say—at least, I think I do, sir," said Tom, in a sorrowful tone, "and it is all quite true. Please don't go on if it is about—about Helen—I mean, Miss Wilson."

John Tincroft smiled, but rather sadly.

"Poor Tom!" he sighed rather than uttered, and then there was silence during the next slow-paced journey down the path.

It was for young Tom now to begin again, and he was not sorry, perhaps, that the shades of evening were gathering around, so that his countenance was at least obscured.

"I have been very foolish this last week or two, but I haven't meant any harm," Tom humbly confessed. "I ought to have remembered that I am not free, and never have been," said the young fellow, gulping down with a strong effort, as it seemed, something that half choked him. "Now, do you think it, quite fair, Mr. Tincroft, to have everything—everything cut and dried for a young fellow when he first sets his foot, in the world?"

"That's a wide question, Tom."

"Well, you know what I mean. There was my going into business instead of going to Oxford, you know."

"That has turned out very well, Tom. You yourself have said you are glad you didn't have your way in that. And—I don't know—but I fancy fathers (wise fathers, of course) are better judges of what to make of their sons than the sons can be, as to what to make of themselves."

"Yes, yes; that's all right, but about who they are to marry when they grow up? Not but what I might have chosen Blanche for myself, if I had been left to make a choice; but I wasn't, you see."

"But you are engaged to your cousin, you know, Tom, and with your own consent. Isn't it so?"

"Yes; but then I hadn't seen anybody else I ever thought I should care about, or think about," groaned young Tom.

"And this leads us back to where we started from, my dear Tom," said John, kindly. "I think it will be better for you not to stay here over the cricket week, but to return to your home and your Blanche to-morrow. For she is your Blanche, you know."

"I suppose it will be best," sighed Tom, lugubriously.

"And be sure of this, Tom, that what is the right thing to do is the happiest to be done—when it is done. I have fancied how it may have been with you the last few days; and, to tell the truth, I have had a fancy of what might be any time within the last year or two. And so I have striven to keep you and Helen apart; not because I don't love you, Tom, nor because I should not, under other circumstances, have liked you to be Helen's lover, but because you could not be that without dishonour to yourself. But that was only my folly, perhaps; and, anyhow, you are not deeply wounded yet, and there's no harm done yet, either with or without intending it. In a fortnight's time you will have forgotten, or learnt to smile at a few little passages like that of this evening, which I have had my eye and thoughts upon since you have been here. And when the time comes, if you are honest and loyal to yourself, as I feel sure you will be, you will be thankful to me, I think, for having given you a momentary pain, perhaps. And now let us go in to the ladies."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

MORE PANICS THAN ONE.

YOUNG TOM followed his friend's advice, which, indeed, he could not very well help doing; but it went against the grain, as John had feared it might. And I am afraid our old friend Tincroft did not get many thanks from Tom's sister, nor from Helen, nor perhaps even from his own dear Sarah, for the summary dismissal of the faithful squire upon whose services they had calculated during the following week.

This was not of so much consequence, however; and, as John had predicted, Tom had not been home a week before he had forgotten—No, not forgotten, but had determined to root out from his heart, if possible, the seedling affection which had dared to spring up in that flower-bed of nature.

Young Tom had soon other matters to think about, and so had our old friend Grigson, his father; so also had the M.P. at the head of the city firm, as well as every other member of it. Every now and then—say once in ten years or thereabouts—there comes what is known as a crisis, or a panic, or a turning-point, in commercial affairs in "the city" and elsewhere, in which crisis or panic, huge fortunes are dispersed, the best hands are in danger of being bowled out or stumped out at the golden wicket of trade, and all credit seems for the time to come at an end.

Such a state of things came about when young Tom had nearly arrived at his twenty-first birthday; and though the great firm in which he was to be a junior partner, consequent on his fast approaching marriage with his cousin, rode out the storm, it was for a time in a more crippled state than those concerned would have cared to acknowledge. Many months, indeed, transpired before they could look around them with a comfortably complacent sense of security, and of thankfulness for their escape.

Of course, during this critical period, all thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage were set aside and deferred to a more convenient season. Nevertheless, young Tom remained faithful to his engagement, and even believed that, when the propitious time should arrive, he should be sufficiently happy with his Blanche, who, to do her justice, was not deficient in attractive charms, either of person or of mind. As to very ardent love—as love is understood by romantic young ladies and gentlemen—this had never been professed on either side; but as a marriage of convenience—well, there are worse transactions of that sort perpetrated every day than that which had been so long designed between these two cousins.

At length, however, serious preparations were being entered upon for the consummation of this great event in their history, when advice reached the young lady's father that his father, the magnate of Mumbleton, and the autocrat of the Mumbles, was suddenly taken ill, and was, as was supposed, on his dying bed. This supposition soon ripened into reality. Old Mr. Elliston, who was in the habit of boasting that he had never had a day's illness in his life of manhood, had now, at eighty years old, to submit to the great and universal decree:

"Dust thou art, and to dust shalt thou return."

He died. He didn't approve of it; but, in this grave business of life (as it has been called) he was overruled, and compelled to yield. He died.

Great changes then took place both at the Mumbles and in London. The son inherited the father's property, which, though not so large as it had been thought to be, and which had suffered in the late commercial panic, was yet a pleasant enough estate to enter upon. And the son, who had all his life been anticipating this possession, entered upon it as his right, and with a sort of feeling (it was said) that if he had had his rights, according to the strict and literal rendering of Scripture, he would have been master of the Mumbles ten years earlier.

Be this as it may, the removal of this gentleman from London to his paternal estate and mansion was not only attended with the breaking up of his establishment at Camberwell, but was also soon followed by his withdrawal from the firm in which he had so long been a partner. Probably this determination on his part was hastened by disgust at trade in general, consequent upon his recent experiences in business fluctuations. At all events, he was determined, as he said, to wipe his hands of it. Which he did; and he did not go out empty-handed either, for he withdrew not only himself, but the full share of capital to which he was entitled. Thenceforth, therefore, he entered upon the life of a country gentleman.

Other events followed. The first was the flight from the old home of the single Miss Elliston, who had so long kept her father's house on a rather scanty annuity. She had never been a very great favourite of her brother; nevertheless, he would have given her house-room, he said; but being offered, not only house-room, but a home in her brother-in-law's and her sister's pleasant villa on the banks of the Thames, she accepted the offer, and was no more known in Mumbleton.

Then there were other changes; old servants were dismissed and new ones were hired; old furniture was sold and new was bought; old and stale pictures were taken down from the walls, and fresh were hung up. In all this, the new proprietor only acted on the universal instinct by which the world moves on to the universal termination, when it, and all that it inherit, shall be dissolved, and—

"Like the baseless fabric of a vision,

Leave not a rack behind."

There were yet other events to follow. When the brief ceremonial term of mourning for the dead was ended, the doors of the family mansion at the Mumbles were opened wide for the reception of guests. There were grand doings then, I promise you, reader. But as I was not among the invited ones, I decline giving a second-hand report of them. If you want to know more, look into the county paper of that date, and gratify your natural longing.

No, I was not among the invited; and, strange to say, neither was young Tom Grigson, in whom I hope you, dear reader, take enough interest (though so recently introduced to him) to be anxious to hear what his sister has to say in the following letter:

"My DARLING HELEN,—Thank you, thank you a hundred times for your nice long letter. It is so good of you to remember me as you do, and to let me into all your little secrets. Ah, those were happy times when we were at school together, though it was school. For, as you say, Miss G— was and is a very nice good lady, though she was, and is, a schoolmistress. And then we had one another's company, which was, I will say, the best thing that could have happened to me, whatever it might have been to you; and I do wish, dear, that you would come and spend a month, or two or three months, with me here, at my home. It is the only thing I find to object to in Mr. Tincroft, that as soon as you and London are mentioned in the same breath—but there, I am not to say anything about that, and I won't disobey orders."

"Thank you very much, and dear, good Mrs. Tincroft too, for wanting to see me again at your delightful home. I need not say how happy I shall be when the time comes, whenever it does come; and perhaps now our troubles are passing away (I mean papa's business vexations, which you may have heard of), I shall not be so much wanted at home as I have been—at least, as they say I have been, for papa says I have been of use—great use, he says, which I am glad of, I am sure."

"There—I won't write another word about myself."

"And, oh! I am so glad you wouldn't have that odious—you know I never did like him—that conceited dandy M—. To think of his having the impudence to make you an offer! Dear Helen, I am sure, with all his money, and being a J.P., as he likes to make known that he is, he would have made you miserable. Such a screw as he is, and—and not at, all handsome either, though he does think so much of himself. Oh, darling, I am so glad you said 'No' to him. I feel sure you will never repent it. There's something better in store for you than that would have been, I hope."

"And what do you think, Helen dear? You would never guess, so I'll tell you. You know all about Uncle Elliston's going to live at the Mumbles, and sidling up to be so grand there; and about Aunt Jane coming to live with us. And a very nice sort of aunt she is, and we all begin to like her very much; all the more for her having received not the best of treatment, so mamma thinks, from her brother."

"But this is not what I was going to tell you. Somebody else hasn't had the best treatment either. You know that dear Tom's wedding was put off because of old Mr. Elliston's death; and now it is put off altogether! Only think of that! We thought it strange, when they went to live at the Mumbles, that Tom wasn't asked there. And when they had that great 'house-warming,' as it was called in the paper I sent you, it seemed more strange that not a word was said about Tom being wanted. But it is all explained now. He wasn't wanted; there was somebody else. And only yesterday came a letter to papa—he won't let anybody read it but mamma; but he told us what was in it. The match is to be considered broken off for good, because Uncle Elliston doesn't approve of such family arrangements. Only think of that! And he, the first to propose the 'arrangement—' so Papa says. And he thinks (uncle does) that it will be better for all parties, and happier, to give it up."

"And then comes out what it all means—it means that Blanche has had an offer from Sir Somebody Something at Somewhere Park, who has been a pretty constant visitor at the Mumbles ever since they went to live there, and she has accepted him. I reckon if Uncle Richard hadn't married as he did, Uncle Elliston would have thought twice before he had let that Sir Somebody cut out poor Tom; for he hasn't a good character at all, Aunt Jane says. But now Uncle Richard has a son, and there is no chance of the estate coming to Tom, as was once calculated on, I think, and we all think, this made all the difference with Uncle Elliston."

"Anyhow, so it is; and I am glad—that is, I am not sorry for it. At least, I hope it will all turn out for the best. But poor Tom is sadly cut up about it; and I wish—no, I won't say what I wish."

"P.S. What do you think? Oh, I am so glad! Papa and mamma have just told me that they will spare me for a good long holiday to go where and when I like. Can you suppose that I could like to go anywhere so well as to Tincroft House, to be with my darling Helen? May I say next week? Write and let me know."

Of course, Helen's reply to Catherine was—"Do come," and, of course, Catherine packed up and was soon at Tincroft House.

She had been there about a month when came the following laconic epistle to Tom Grigson the younger:

"MY DEAR Tom,—Some two or three summers ago you were rather disappointed in not having the opportunity of seeing what was to be seen at Trotbury during the celebrated cricket week. What there can be to see and delight in at that especial time is a mystery to me. But every one to his taste; and if you will honour me with your presence the week after next (being Trotbury cricket week), I shall be only too happy to give you all facilities for witnessing the sport (?) in good company. My dear Sarah says she knows you will come, and has given the housekeeper (our old Jane still holds that office) orders to have your room in readiness.—Yours affectionately,"

"JOHN TINCROFT."

It was a gloriously fine week—the Trotbury cricket week (so said the Trotbury weekly); and there was grand company on the Trotbury cricket ground every one of the days, especially on the grand day.

"All the élite of the neighbourhood for miles round" were there, according to the above mentioned weekly. And if this report was almost too comprehensive and unlimited, I myself can bear witness (for was not I, the humble chronicler of these passages in real life, there also?) that a more brilliant circle of fair ladies and gallant gentlemen, as they were seated on the green gross outside the bounds, eagerly watching the wonderful batting of the brothers G—, the tremendous bowling of the champion of the North, and the superb fielding of the two elevens in general throughout the day; or, as these same spectators walked about the privileged ground during the brief cessations of play—while their "magnificent and lovely equipages" (Trotbury weekly again) were drawn up on the broad sward behind—I say that a more brilliant circle, and so forth, can rarely be seen.

A sober holiday it was and is, and I hope ever will be, as long as it lasts; and if old Oxford and Cambridge men, who knew once how to handle a bat, but have since had their innings and winnings in a higher sphere of toil and duty, chose (as they did and do choose) for once in a year to unbend and do honour to the good old English game of cricket (if John Tincroft will pardon my saying so) with their presence, and to throw over it a halo of protection, I respect and admire them all the more. For I also am—am?—alas! No; but I have been—a cricketer.

And on that ground, on that especial day, there was not a pleasanter sight than a group of three ladies and one gentleman, who, retiring a little behind the crowd, made believe to be watching the game with wonderful interest (which they were not doing at all), and fancied they were deceiving all the world as to the true intent of their being there.

Well, to tell the truth, Tom's wound was not so deep as to be mortal. He had been very loyal (as his friend Tincroft had exhorted him to be) to his elected spouse. He had tried very hard to love her very much; and if he had not quite succeeded, I honestly believe he would eventually have accomplished the feat. At any rate, he would have made his cousin Blanche a good husband, while there was nothing that could be alleged against him inconsistent with the bearing of a faithful and true-hearted fiancé. More than this, Tom had felt greatly pained by the heartless treatment to which he had been subjected; for, in addition to the letter already spoken of, he had himself received one from Blanche, in which she pleaded parental authority for breaking off her connection with her cousin; and, after begging that he would not disturb her peace of mind by attempting to change the decision she had come to—which would be useless—she concluded with best wishes for his future happiness.

All this, I say, was very bitter to Tom—who hadn't deserved it. But he had philosophy to bear the blow with becoming fortitude; and it was when he had partly succeeded in getting the better of his mortification that he received the invitation to Tincroft House. To Tincroft House he went then, and was received with open arms by John and Sarah, to say nothing of his sister, who knew very well what she was about when, in pathetic and moving terms, she enlarged to Mrs. Tincroft—no one else being by—on the wrongs her poor brother had suffered.

"Wouldn't it do him good to have a little holiday?" said pitiful Sarah.

And thus it came to pass that, the former impediment being removed, Tom was pressed to visit Tincroft House during the Trotbury cricket week, as I have said.

And so they made up their little party, leaving John to the solitude of his own study; and if there were other things besides "the manly, noble game of cricket" talked of—as—

Ah, well! They looked very happy as I remember them, just as Sarah and Catherine came up to poor solitary me, and made me their excuse for staying behind—wanting a little chat—while Tom and Helen passed on, and did not so much as turn their faces towards your humble servant.

And you wanted a chat with me, did you? Oh, Mrs. Sarah Tincroft, Mrs. Sarah!

And all this time, who cared for who was at the wicket, or how many runs had been made by the South, or how many by the North? Not Helen, or Tom either. At length, however, there was a great clapping of hands and much hurrahing (or hooraying), for the second innings was over, and the South had beaten the North.

Young Tom went back from Tincroft House in a not very unhappy frame of mind, I think. True, there had been nothing said about love "and all that trumpery," as I heard it called once. Trumpery, indeed! Well, nothing had been said about it, whatever you choose to call it. Tom wasn't going to be precipitate; and his disappointment was too recent; and besides, never having, from his cradle upwards, been a free man, he wanted a little time for trying what freedom was like. More than all, he must know something more about Helen; and she ought to know more about him; and a great deal more to the same purpose was conned over between Tom and his sister before his return.

Nevertheless, Catherine knew, as well as you and I do, reader, what was coming. And so did dear Sarah know it; and I am very much mistaken if John did not give a guess at it without being told. At any rate, he witnessed more than one little episode in the flower garden with which he did not feel himself called upon to interfere.

And in due time it all came to pass; so that the following summer—before the return match of North versus South was played in the Trotbury week, the veracious weekly chronicle informed its readers that at the parish church in the village of —, near Trotbury, were united in the bonds of matrimony Thomas Grigson, junior, of London, to Helen, daughter of the late Walter Wilson, of Boomerang, in Australia. And then in another part of the paper appeared a long description of the wedding, announcing, among other particulars, that Mr. John Tincroft, of Tincroft House, gave away the bride, whose beauty was the theme of admiration to all beholders. Also that two equally elegant and lovely sisters of the bridegroom officiated as bridesmaids; and that the ceremony over, and the wedding breakfast concluded, the happy pair drove off to catch the mail packet, which was to convey them to the Continent, on their wedding tour.

The End

MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

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Table of Contents

JOHN TINCROFT

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

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