"And I congratulate you too with a 'Hip, hip, hurrah!'" shouted Tom Grigson, who had come in with the lawyer. "And won't Dick be pleased? I tell you what, we must have another picnic for this, only it must be in the Tincroft grounds this time."
"It shall be as you please, Tom," said John, faintly, and with a bewildered air, for the news had come upon him suddenly and unexpectedly. He had never less believed in the breaking of the cloud under which he had lain all his life, notwithstanding all his lawyer had said, than at the very moment when, looking up, he saw that the cloud was gone.
On the whole, however, John Tincroft conducted himself with tolerable composure as soon as he clearly understood his altered circumstances.
"I am glad of it for Sarah's sake," he said. "Poor dear Sarah! She will rally now, I hope. It will be pleasant for her to live in the country again."
And so, after a while, they went to live in the country, John Tincroft and his Sarah, and Sarah's mother. And they had, instead of a picnic, what they called a "house-warming," at which were present Mr. Richard Grigson and his brother Tom, Mr. Rubric, Mr. Rackstraw, Mr. Roundhand, and his confidential clerk Mr. Foster, with sundry others. It took time to bring this about, however, for the old dilapidated house first had to be made habitable, and its grounds presentable to strangers. And after all, as the lawyer had predicted, Tincroft's means of keeping up appearances and entertaining visitors were limited within narrow bounds.
Great expectations were excited around Tincroft House, and in the not far-off town of Trotbury, when it was known that a real Tincroft—the Tincroft—was coming to enjoy his own again. Tradesmen of all degrees, from the showy upholsterer of Trotbury to the indispensable butcher, baker, and grocer of the immediate village, looked forward to an accession of custom, and left their cards at the door. The cards were graciously received; but little came of it. A family of three, living in a few rooms in a large mansion, the rest being shut up, was not likely to make the fortunes of many tradespeople. So they drew off disgusted, as their way too often is.
In truth it was a quiet recluse kind of life that John began to lead in his new home. He cultivated no friendships, and was soon dropped by the few wealthier neighbours who at first made some advances towards his acquaintance. In a short space of time, therefore, Tincroft House seemed to have returned almost to its former condition.
Nevertheless, this way of life suited John Tincroft perhaps better than any other would have done. He could study if and when he pleased. He could put pen to paper without caring much about the "declined with thanks" which had formerly damped his ardour; for if the editors would not print his lucubrations, he could read them in manuscript to his young wife, though poor Sarah was no wiser when he had done than she had been before; and this served his purpose. And, finally, he could cultivate his own cabbages and gather his own apples, and that privilege, he did not count as nothing.
At times, too, he received visitors. Now that he had obtained the estate, such as it was, his London relative, Mr. Rackstraw, found it pleasant enough to run down into the country for a few days in the autumn, under pretence Of shooting, when he took up free quarters at Tincroft House, and talked somewhat boastfully of the hand he had had in John's fortunes; or would have had if the dear fellow had gone out to India, as he had planned. John made him welcome enough; he would not have known how to do otherwise.