[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: