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.