John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

by George E. Sargent

But there was not anybody to do it, so the experiment was not tried. Perhaps it would have failed if it had been, for John's wandering ideas were very stubborn, though they were limited to two or three separate topics.

First of all, his failure at Saddlebrook dwelt on his mind. Up to the time of that excursion into Sussex, Tincroft had thought but lightly of his chances of success in the Chancery suit. Possibly he might win, and then so much the better. But the greater probability was that he would lose, so his guardian had always averred; for what chance had he against his prosperous rival and competitor? True, he had occasionally boasted, as to Mark Wilson, for instance, of his great prospects; but this was with the natural desire, and yielding to the natural temptation, to stand at as high a figure as he could in the eyes of that besotted lump of humanity, as the guest of his friend and Mark's landlord, Grigson; and not himself believing in his own "tall talk."

The truth is, John would have abandoned the suit on his first coming of age, or would have sold his pretensions for a very inconsiderable sum of money down, if he could have thus got rid of any future demands on his purse. But he was told then that neither of these courses could be thought of, and that the suit must be carried on. Now, however, a little clearer light had broken in upon his dull comprehension. Mr. Roundhand's explanations had done something in this direction. There wanted only one link, it seemed, in the chain of evidence, and this had been almost in his grasp, but not quite. His expectations had been raised, but only to be disappointed. No doubt the lawyer had, since his return, endeavoured to raise his hope that something might be made of the Saddlebrook notes of his clerk. But Tincroft saw, or thought he saw, that this was to let him down gently. At any rate, he did not implicitly believe in Mr. Roundhand's representations.

But, notwithstanding this, since the vision of property, if not, of great wealth, had loomed with more distinctness on his mind, he could not help thinking what a very pleasant thing it would be, could these expectations be realised. The ideal of a leisurely life of ease had grown upon him more distinctly during his visit to the Manor House in—no, I shall not write the name—in that distant county.

His destination to India had never been very much to John's taste. There was too much work in it, both present and in prospect, to suit his inherent love of inertness and ease—an inclination probably inherited from his father, the literary busy idler. It was not then, as it once had been, or was supposed to have been, that a man had only to get to India and shake the pagoda tree, and then come home with a disordered liver and a fabulous fortune. John, dull as he was, knew better than this; and only for the necessity laid upon him by circumstances, he would willingly long ago have abandoned his Oriental studies and prospects.

And during his sojourn in the Manor House, John had seen so much that was inviting in a life of moneyed ease, that he had thought how cruel it was to be shut out from it. Not that he would ever have emulated or imitated Mr. Richard Grigson in his preposterous activity, with his hunting, and shooting, and cricketing, and other unnecessary occupations, which his (John's) soul abhorred. But to have a quiet home, a sufficient income, a tolerable library, gardens and greenhouses, a corresponding establishment of servants, and—to crown all—a wife!

Poor John Tincroft! Take which way he would to it, there was the ultimatum of bliss—those pretty curls, those bright and beaming eyes, those soft cheeks and pouting lips, that alabaster neck, those gentle hands!

And so, travelling from Tincroft house and estate to Saddlebrook, and from Saddlebrook to Oxford, and from Oxford to Calcutta, or elsewhere in India, and then back again in a trice to Blankshire in England, John Tincroft's vagabond imagination never halted till it rested on that ark of no promise to him, the shabby parlour of High Beech farmhouse, with its knobby-seated chair.

IL was to no purpose that John argued within himself, as he sometimes did, that all this was vain and even sinful.

"I verily believe," said he to himself on one occasion, "that I am led captive of the devil at his will," and he dashed the book he was trying to read on to the floor with such violence that little Mrs. Barry rushed from the kitchen below in alarm to ask if anything was the matter, which for the time brought John to his senses.