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.