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.

MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.