John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

by George E. Sargent

"Somebody that Walter owes money to, I'll be bound," said he; "and he'll be coming to me to get it out of me if he can."

Under this uneasy apprehension and distrust, Matthew Wilson kept away from High Beech, where his son lay a dying.

Meanwhile, the unselfish John Tincroft and his charge were travelling as swiftly as the various modes of conveyance they adopted admitted; and on the evening of the fourth day from John's departure on his sorrowful errand, they drove up to High Beech Farm. It was some relief to learn from Mrs. George, on arriving there, that Walter still lived, and, though slowly sinking, was sensible and able to converse at intervals with those around him.

After brief preparation, the agitated and heart-stricken daughter was admitted to her father's chamber, and the door was shut upon the two. We shall not intrude, nor attempt to describe the interview that followed. There are scenes and circumstances in the history of our lives almost too sacred and solemn to be introduced, with whatever effect, into a story such as this. And the almost final parting of a dying father from, and his last words to, a loving child must be reckoned among these scenes.

We descend, then, to the parlour below—so well-known to John Tincroft in the earlier days of our history, and which has been, not over graciously, yielded by Mrs. George Wilson to her husband's kinsfolk in these days of trouble. Here were seated John and Sarah, not yet disencumbered of their travelling attire, and not having dismissed their hired chaise, which was still outside awaiting further orders. I have little doubt that, as they sat there, some odd and (notwithstanding the present grave and sorrowful occasion) rather comically bewildering remembrances stole in upon them both, causing them to look askance, first of all, at the old-fashioned worm-eaten chairs on which they rested, and then shyly and slyly at each other, whereupon Sarah blushed a little, and John, not to confuse his dear wife, made believe not to notice it, but turned away his eyes and looked out of the window instead. And, then they were recalled to a sense of the trouble that had brought them to High Beech, by hearing the voice of Elizabeth as she descended the stairs.

Sarah and Elizabeth had never seen each other since the day of Sarah's marriage, more than twenty years before; and then their parting was of the coolest and most indifferent sort. And Mrs. Tincroft, on her way to her old home, from the moment of getting into the Trotbury coach, had been unceasingly pondering in her dear little mind how ever she should accomplish a meeting with her cousin. She had no enmity against Elizabeth. Why should she have? To be sure, she had received unkindness at her cousin's hands; but that was long ago, and, besides, it had all turned out for the best. What would be the good, then, of bearing in mind those old passages of arms?

To tell the truth, too, Sarah, weak-minded as no doubt she was, was intrinsically good-natured and loving; and it would have been strange if her twenty years and more of companionship with gall-less John Tincroft had not had a beneficial effect upon her. But, for all that, she wasn't quite sure whether a certain show of dignity in remembrance of past injustice and injury wouldn't be the proper thing to put on in the anticipated meeting. Of course, after this she would show herself very forgiving and very affectionate towards her former persecutor—and so on, and so on.

I have just come across a passage in my desultory reading, which may give me a lift in this part of my story. "The payments and debts and returns of affection," says the writer, "are at all times hard to reckon. Some people pay a whole treasury of love in return for a stone; others deal out their affections at interest; others, again, take everything, to the uttermost farthing, and cast it into the ditch, and go then way and leave their benefactor penniless and a beggar."

Well, these payments and debts and returns are no doubt hard to reckon. When they had been girls together, Elizabeth and Sarah had loved one another as cousins. Then had come the fatal blight, brought on by Mark Wilson's vice of intemperance and the kindred one of recklessness: and their whole treasury of love had been poisoned by unkindness on one side and angry resentment on the other. And now, how were they to meet?

John Tincroft had his doubts and anxious thoughts about this, I think; for he sat uneasily watching and waiting for the opening of the door, glancing every now and then at his little wife's perturbed and flushed countenance. And then, presently, the door handle was moved, the latch was gently lifted, and the door was slowly opened. John started from his seat, sprang hastily forward; and before the cousins had time to make up their minds what to say to one another at first starting, he had, with the gallantry of a true gentleman, as he was and ever had been, despite his awkward shyness, led the homely, hard-working, and penitent Elizabeth across the room to where his wife was now standing, like a timid, half-frightened fawn, and brought into contact the hands which had so long been strangers to each other's grasp. And then came a little startled cry; and Sarah threw her disengaged arm round Elizabeth's neck, and in another moment the cousins were in close embrace, as though they had never been separated in affection.