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?"