John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

by George E. Sargent

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.