"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.