"Sir ---- will be with you in ten minutes, Sir," said the landlord of the great inn, the Green Dragon, at S----, addressing the liberated prisoner. "He has been sent for by the judges. Dinner was ordered at six; but a message came to put it off for half-an-hour."
Chandos bowed his head, and the landlord withdrew, leaving him alone in the sitting-room of the great barrister, who, as soon as the trial was over, had sent him a note, begging him to dine with him. He took up a book. It was a volume of celebrated trials. A page was turned down at that of Mr. Cowper, afterwards Lord Cowper, for murder; and although we have seen the very sparing use made of it by the counsel, every page was marked with thick marginal notes in pencil, evidently freshly written. Chandos had not much time allowed him to read; for a minute or two after he had opened the work he heard the voice of his little solicitor, inquiring with quick reiteration, "Where is he? where is Mr. Winslow? What number did you say?" and in another moment he was in the room.
"My dear Sir," said the solicitor, shaking him warmly by the hand, "I congratulate you a thousand times upon the result of the trial. It was a most splendid defence--magnificent--unequalled,--our learned friend out-did himself. Did you mark how he jumped over all the difficulties? how lightly he trod upon the dangerous ground? Really it was a treat to hear him--the whole bar rings with it. It is really worth undergoing a trial for such a defence."
"It is at least some compensation for the pain of one, to find that I have such a friend," replied Chandos. "I am waiting for him now with a heart full of gratitude."
"He may be a little while first," said the solicitor, with a very cunning look, "he's about that little awkward affair; but it can make no difference now--verdict given. In the meantime, I have just come to say a word or two upon business, my dear Sir. You were considerate enough to give me a power of attorney, and also to execute a deed in case of the worst, which, when you have a moment's leisure, must all be rearranged, as the best, and not the worst has happened. But in the meantime I have taken the most prompt measures to secure the furniture, books, statues, pictures, and other chattels, left you under your late worthy father's will. Now perhaps, as the fees and other expenses are heavy--perhaps you would--as I understand you are going to London directly--give me some little security in the shape of a lien upon said property for the amount of costs. I have got a small document here merely a few words, which will answer all the purposes, if you will look it over."
"Certainly," answered Chandos Winslow, taking the paper out of his hand. "But you will understand, my good Sir, that I intend to pay these costs from other resources; and therefore you must assure me that you will not use this paper, which, I see, gives you power to sell, unless I fail in discharging your account within a reasonable time."
"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly," cried the lawyer, "it is merely as a security--nothing more, I can assure you--all shall be taken care of, and held sacred as the great seal."
"An inventory of all these effects," continued Chandos, "has been already made by a friend of mine; and as it seems fair enough that you should have some means of paying yourself, I will sign the paper upon the understanding I have mentioned."
"Ah--oh--yes; here are pen and ink," said the solicitor: and the paper was signed.
"I thank you most sincerely, my dear Sir," said Chandos Winslow, "for the interest you have taken, and the skill you have displayed in this sad affair. But let me inquire what you meant just now? You spoke as if my friend, Sir ----, was absent on business of mine, and as if I knew what that business is. Will you have the goodness to explain?"
"Oh, it is about that fellow who is so unfortunately like you," said the lawyer, "the man whom Mr. Fleming and his servant must have mistaken for you. He came to the door of the court just at the end, and wanted to force his way in--did you not hear all the hubbub? But Dickins, the tipstaff, is a capital fellow; and as soon as he had got authority, he took him into custody, and walked him off. If he had got in, he would have spoiled the whole defence, and played the devil."
Chandos Winslow sunk down into his chair in horror and mortification. "And is it possible," he exclaimed, "that the life of an innocent man can depend upon a mere mistake of one person for another, and that in an English court of justice too?"
"Quite possible, my dear Sir," replied the little lawyer, "when the party accused will not explain suspicious circumstances. I am perfectly confident of your innocence--always have been--all those who are well acquainted with you are the same; and it seems that our leader knows it from the facts that you have stated to him. Indeed, it was that carried him through; for if he had not been perfectly sure, I do not think even he could have made such a defence. But I can tell you, Mr. Winslow, that if that worthy had got into court when he tried, you'd have had a verdict of 'guilty' against you; unless, indeed, Sir ---- had some back card to play: which I think he had--always did think he had--and that kept my courage up. Perhaps the real story would have popped out, if the alibi had failed. However, there is no use thinking of these things now. We've got a verdict: all's safe; and not all the judges in England can overset it."
"But there is something more to an honest man than merely getting a verdict," said Chandos, gravely. "When it is known how the verdict has been obtained, what will men think of me? How can I be satisfied with such an acquittal, obtained by a gross and extraordinary error."
"Oh! in courts of justice, my dear Sir, it is very customary to combat error by error. You were likely to be hanged by one fallacious train of evidence: we have saved you by another. Error for error, that's all--rather odd, but very satisfactory."
"By no means satisfactory to me," replied Chandos Winslow.
The little lawyer grinned as if a merry reply was rising to his lips; for to win the cause was all he cared for; and the means seemed to him of very little consequence. But his answer was cut short by the entrance of the great barrister, who shook the late prisoner warmly by the hand, without, however, venturing to congratulate him upon the result of the trial. The little solicitor took his leave; and as soon as he was gone Sir ---- turned kindly to his friend, and, taking him by the hand, he said, "I understand all that you feel, my dear Winslow; but put your mind at ease. No one will doubt your innocence, although we were obliged to take advantage of a good man's mistake to gain a verdict from the jury."
"It is bitterly mortifying to me," answered Chandos Winslow; "to feel that I have been acquitted solely by an error."
"What could be done?" answered the barrister. "You prohibited me from using the only legitimate means of defence; and, although the demolition of a great part of the evidence against you by my young friend B----'s cross-examination, taken with the fact of another person having been coming from the grounds at the very time of the murder, might have raised a doubt in the minds of the jury, and you might have obtained a verdict in your favour after long hesitation; yet the suspicion which would then have attached to you, would have been very strong, and very general. As it is, no doubt will rest with any one, but the two or three who may have seen your friend Lockwood, and remarked the extraordinary likeness between you."
"And yet that, my dear friend," replied Chandos, "will be enough to embitter the whole of the rest of my life."
"Do not suffer it to do so," answered his friend; "for the judge who tried the case is quite convinced of your innocence: and I must now tell you, though it may spoil your dinner, that suspicion has lighted on the right person."
"How so?" answered Chandos, starting up. "I trust you have not mentioned any of the facts."
"They are all still under the seal of confession," replied the barrister, with a smile; "but the circumstances are these. A person by the name of Lockwood, who, it seems, is your half-brother, was taken into custody for creating a disturbance at the door of the court. He mentioned some circumstances to the constables, which were reported to the judge, who saw him in his room after the rising of the court. The great likeness instantly struck his lordship. He made inquiries which brought out the whole story of Lockwood's visit to Mr. Fleming. I was immediately sent for, and had to submit to a veiled and courteous reproach for the course I had thought fit to pursue. For a moment Lucifer had nearly prevailed to make me treat his lordship somewhat cavalierly; for the trial was over, and he had nothing to say to it; but thinking better of the matter, I showed him that it was impossible for me to refuse evidence in your favour voluntarily tendered; and, at the same time, I gave him my word of honour, that I would not have pursued the course I did pursue, unless I had the most positive certainty of your innocence, although circumstances which I was not permitted to mention, prevented me from proving the real facts before the jury. His lordship is very keen and quick in his combinations: he had Lockwood in again while I was there, and asked him two or three questions, which elicited the following facts: that your brother and Mr. Roberts were by no means upon good terms, and that several sharp discussions had taken place between them;--that Mr. Roberts had discovered, among some papers at Winslow Abbey, a memorandum in your father's handwriting, to the effect that a will of a much more recent date than the one proved had been given into your brother's hands some time before Sir Harry's death; that Roberts knew the particulars of that will, which were very favourable to yourself; and that he had gone over from Winslow Abbey to Northferry House, in order to communicate the facts to you. This, of course, was sufficient to show that you could have no earthly motive for taking the poor man's life; but when Lockwood went on to state, that Sir William at the very time of the murder was at Northferry House, his lordship immediately connected that fact with the hasty return of some one from the grounds through the green-house, and some strange circumstances which have got abroad regarding your brother's marriage with Miss Tracy--with Miss Emily Tracy, I mean," he added, seeing Chandos Winslow's face change as he spoke.
"My brother's marriage with Miss Tracy!" exclaimed the latter; "I never heard of it."
"Oh, yes," continued the barrister, "they were married--or half married; for I believe the lady fainted in the midst of the ceremony; and a letter having been suddenly given to your brother, he left his bride in the church and went abroad. All these circumstances made out a case of suspicion in the judge's mind against Sir William, which he strove cunningly enough to confirm by putting some dexterous questions to me. I was as silent as the dead; and after some further conversation he dismissed your friend Lockwood with a reprimand. Nevertheless, I feel sure his lordship will hold some communication with the magistrates on the subject; but do not believe they will be able to prove anything against your brother without your evidence."
"Which they will never have," replied Chandos Winslow.
"But which they ought to have," replied the barrister, shaking his head; "and now my good friend, I must run away, to cleanse my face and hands from the filth of courts. I have invited two or three of the bar to meet you. After dinner, at half-past nine, and at a quarter-past ten, I have two consultations. At eleven I am off for London; and if you will take a place in my carriage, I will give you a little advice by the way; for, from Lockwood's information, I think you would have a good case for stopping the sale of Winslow Abbey."
"I must go over to Northferry first," replied Chandos; "but I will see you when I come to town. I am afraid, however, it is too late to stop the sale."
"Oh dear, no," replied his friend; "the only thing that is too late is my toilet; for I hear the voice of our learned antagonist, inquiring for my rooms;" and, running through the neighbouring door, he made his escape just as Sergeant ---- was announced.
It was with no very pleasant feelings, it must be confessed, that Chandos Winslow found himself tête-à-tête with a man who had moved heaven and earth to hang him, not more than four or five hours before. But whatever notion he had previously formed of the worthy sergeant's demeanour in private life, from the part he had borne in the trial, it was very speedily dissipated after he entered unwigged and ungowned. The sergeant shook him heartily by the hand, congratulated him with a very joyous laugh, upon the result of the trial, and talked of the whole affair in which a fellow-creature's life had been at stake, as if it had been a mere game at cards, where Sir ---- had held most trumps, and won the rubber. Never was there a more jovial companion; and when they sat down to dinner, after several other barristers had arrived, the sergeant laughed and talked and cracked his jokes, and drank his champagne, till one of the uninitiated might have thought a consultation with him, after the meal, an expedient somewhat dangerous.
The conversation during dinner principally turned upon snipe-shooting. There was very little law; and the "feast of reason and the flow of soul" did not afford the banquet the lawyers seemed most to delight in. Habit is very strong in its power over the body; but, I think, even stronger with the mind. The most vehement rivalries, the most mournful ceremonies, the most tragic scenes, aye, even the most fatal events lose their great interest when they become habitual. The statesman, the undertaker, the physician, the soldier can bear witness to it, as they feast after the fierce debate, the solemn funeral, the painful death-bed, or the battle-field. Nothing on earth ever makes twice the same impression. How those lawyers laughed and talked, though two trials had taken place since that of Chandos Winslow had terminated, and a woman had been condemned to death, a man had been sent to expiate one half of a criminal life by labouring during the rest in chains and exile!
Chandos felt benumbed by the heavy weight of the past, and not cheered by the light emptiness of the present; so that he was glad when dinner was over, and coffee drunk. The men of law betook themselves to earnest consultations, reinvigorated by the temporary repose; for in reality and truth, during that seeming revel, the giant minds had but been sleeping. It was rest that they took: and happy are they who are enabled to cast off the burden of heavy thought, the moment that it is no longer necessary to bear it.
Chandos took leave of his friend for the time, and ordered a chaise for Northferry; but while it was in preparation he issued forth to inquire in the town for Lockwood. His search was vain, however. He found out the place where his half-brother had dined, after being discharged from custody by the judge's order; and he learned at the prison that he had been there to inquire after him; but nothing more could he discover, and the demeanour of the people of whom he inquired was not pleasant. They neither said nor did indeed anything that was uncivil; but there was an instant look of intelligence wherever he presented himself, which said, as plainly as a look can speak, "There is the man who was tried for murder!" It was all very painful; and he returned to the inn, feeling himself a marked man for the rest of life.
It was a very painful feeling: it must ever be so; to know that his name would never be mentioned without suspicion--that wherever he appeared the tale would be told--the past spoken of. He fancied he saw the shrugged shoulder, the significant smile, the doubtful look--that he heard the poisonous insinuation, the affected tone of candour, and the half-veiled accusation. On his name there was a stain, in his reputation a vulnerable point: every enemy could strike him there--every false friend, every jealous rival could wound him, either with the bold broad charge, or the keen and bitter sneer. He had been tried for murder! It was a terrible fate; but it was irrevocable. The brand, he thought, was upon him which no Lethe can wash out.
The chaise rolled on rapidly in the darkness of the night. Chandos was fatigued--exhausted--but he slept not. Weariness of mind often produces the same effect as overfatigue of body, and refuses that rest which is needful for its cure. His thoughts, too, were very busy. What was next to be done? What was the course he was to pursue in life? A new chain was upon him, a fresh obstacle was in his way. He had stood in the felon's dock accused of the highest crime known to the law. What an impediment was that to all advancement! In what profession would it not prove a barrier almost insuperable? And Rose Tracy, what would be the effect upon her? He would not believe that it would change her; but yet, though she might still love, though that consolation might be left him, how could he expect that her father would either listen to his suit, or permit his daughter to give even hope to a man marked out by such a record as that which stood against his name? Even if he did, what chance, what prospect was there of his ever being in a position to claim her hand?
On such subjects rolled his thoughts, one following another, innumerable, like the waves of an overflowing sea, while mile after mile of the way went by. The night was dark and warm; one of those dull, sultry spring nights, when the clouds seem to wrap the whole earth in a dull, damp pall, shutting out the breath of heaven. The windows were all down, and Chandos gazed forth upon the darkness, finding something therein congenial to the heavy obscurity of his own fate, offering nothing to interrupt the gloomy current of his thoughts, yet tranquillizing them with a solemn stillness.
"Mr. Tracy I must see," he thought; "for we have business to settle: and Rose I will endeavour to see, that I may know, or at least guess at her feelings. But I will not try to bind her to anything. It would be cruel--ungenerous. No, no; my fate must be cleared of these dark clouds, before I dare ask her to walk forth under the same sky as myself."
And then he thought of leaving her--perhaps, of losing her--of never seeing that fair face, that sweet smile again--of hearing that she was united to another. And his heart was very bitter.
On, on, rolled the chaise, as quick as the post-boy could induce the horses to go. It was a long stage, a dark night, and a weary way back. He wished it was over, and his boots off. They passed through Milltown, and rattled over Longheath, then down they went into stony Langburn, and then slowly up the hill again. When they got to the top, the horses were once more put into a brisk pace, and away they went over the downs, with darkness all around them, and the road hardly distinguishable from the turf. But still the post-boy kept upon his way, knowing the ground by habit, in the night as well as in the day. At length they went rapidly down the hill near the bottom of which stands the thirteenth milestone from S----, and just as the chaise crossed the little rivulet which winds on through the valley, Chandos felt a sudden jerk, and then a depression of the vehicle. A grating sound followed, while the horses pulled on for a yard or two, and then the chaise stopped. The post-boy got down and poked his head under the carriage, swore a little, and approaching the door, told the traveller that the axle was broken.
"That is bad news, indeed," said Chandos Winslow. "How far are we from an inn?"
"About three miles, Sir," replied the man; "but if you just go back to the stone, and take the path to the right, it will save you half-a-mile. I must get the horses out, and leave the shay here; but I'll put your portmanteau on the off horse, and get it up that way."
"But can I miss the road?" asked Chandos. "It is long since I was in this part of the country."
"Lord bless you, Sir; you can't miss it, no how," rejoined the man; "it is as straight as a line. You just go by the old, tumble-down mill, and then half-a-mile further you come to the church, and then--"
"I know, I know," answered the young gentleman; "I recollect it now;" and he walked away, turning back for a moment to tell the driver to order him a fresh chaise for Northferry, if he arrived first at the inn.
The little path on which he had been directed rose gently from the place where the milestone stood, to surmount the shoulder of the high range of hills over which they had been passing for the last two miles; and it was plainly marked out by the white, chalky staff of which it was composed, from the dark hue of the short turf upon the downs. After Chandos had gone on for about the distance of a mile, there seemed to be a glimmering amongst the clouds to the east, and the objects around became more distinct. The moon was rising. Quarter of a mile further, he caught sight of a mill, which he now remembered well; for it had often served him as a sort of landmark in his youth, and was connected with memories both very pleasant and very painful. It lay upon his right hand as he went, and he knew that, from the high point on which it had been placed, to catch all the winds, Elmsly, one of his father's seats, was just seven miles distant by the hill paths, and Winslow Abbey, just eleven on the other side; though the distance between them by the roads was twenty-four.
He had not seen that mill, however, for many years; for unpleasant associations had attached themselves to it of late, and overbalanced the pleasant recollections of youth. As he now gazed on it, walking on, the sight, as it stood out from the sky, which was of a pale gray, with the moon's light amongst the clouds, did not cheer him; and the long, thin arms of the rotting sails called back to his mind the description which Lockwood had given of it.
From the point where the mill was passed by the path, the latter descended towards the little town where Chandos expected to get horses; but ere it reached that bourne, the road he was following had a labyrinth of lanes and hedges to go through. Before it came to that more cultivated part, however, it ran some way along at the bottom of the bare hills amongst some green pasture-ground with the downs on the right and the hedgerows on the left. Just in the midst on this track stood a little detached church, called St. Mildred's, with a tall conical spire, somewhat dilapidated, and a little churchyard, within a ruined stone-wall. Though the faint moon through the veil of cloud did not afford much light below the edge of the hill, yet the spot where the church stood was marked out by its spire rising over everything else around, and by the numerous black yew-trees in its garden of graves. Chandos saw it some time before he reached it, and the sight of it too was sad to him. Yet when he was opposite the rude gate; with its cross-beam over-head, he stopped to gaze at the old church and its dark funeral trees; and that sensation which sometimes comes salutary over us, of the nothingness of human joys and sorrows, stole upon him as he asked himself, where were the hands that raised the building--where those who planted the trees--where the many generations that had passed since the one arose, the others sprang up. As he paused--it was but an instant--he thought he heard a low moan, as of some one in distress. It was repeated, and came from the churchyard; and, opening the gate, he went in. The moans led him on nearly to the back of the church, which stood detached, with no other building near; but presently they ceased, and he looked around over the waves of graves, and their little head-stones, without seeing any one. He felt certain that the sounds had proceeded from a spot not far distant; and, raising his voice, he asked, "Is any one there? Does any one want help?"
There was no answer; and, after stopping for a moment, Chandos walked a step or two further; and then, looking a little to the left, he thought he saw something like a human form stretched out upon one of the little grassy mounds. He approached quietly, and looked down upon it, perceiving that he had not deceived himself. It was the form of a woman, lying with her face downwards upon a grave evidently not newly made. She was living, for her breath came thick, and laden with sobs; and Chandos asked in a kindly tone, "What is the matter, my good woman? Can I do anything to assist you?"
At the sound of his voice, the woman started up, exclaiming, "You!--You here? Oh, fiend!"--But then she suddenly stopped, gazed at his tall figure in the dim light, and then added, "Ah! is it you, Sir? I did not know you: I thought it was another." And she sat herself down upon the adjoining grave, and covered her eyes with her hands.
"Surely I know your voice," said Chandos. "Are you not the gipsey woman, Sally Stanley, the little boy's mother?"
"You know my voice better than I know yours, it seems," replied the woman; "for yours deceived me."
"But what are you doing here, my poor woman?" inquired Chandos. "You seem in great distress, on some account. Come, leave this place; it can do no good to you, or any one, to remain weeping over a grave at midnight."
"Every year of my life, at this day, and this hour, Chandos Winslow," replied the woman, "I come here to weep and pray over those I murdered."
"Murdered!" exclaimed her companion. "But it is nonsense, my good woman; your brain is wandering."
"I know it is," answered Sally Stanley; "I need no one to tell me that. It does wander often, and sometimes long; but on this night it wanders always. I said 'murdered,' did I not? Well, I said true. I did murder him; but not as your brother murdered Roberts, the steward, with one blow, that ended at once all pain and resistance--slowly, slowly, I murdered him--by grief, and shame, and care, and despair; aye, and want too had its share at last."
"Good God! then who are you?" demanded Chandos Winslow.
"Ask me no questions," answered the woman. "Ever since those days a fire comes into my brain, from time to time, that nothing will put out till it burns out of itself; and I see more than other people, know more--I see the dead, alive; and I behold the unborn deeds before they are committed; and the hand of God is upon me. Ever on this night--the night when the old man died of sorrow, I am at the worst; for then it is that my heart is given up to the hell of its own making, and I come here to cool my brain and my bosom upon the green grass of his grave. Disturb me not; but go, and leave me. I can have no help of man."
"Nay, poor thing!" said Chandos Winslow, "I cannot, in truth, leave you in such sorrow and in such a place, without trying to give you some consolation. You have said you come here to pray. Do you not know then, that, whatever be your offences, there is pardon and comfort for all who pray in faith and with repentance?"
"Aye; but we must all bear our punishment, nevertheless," replied the woman. "Do not try to console me, young man. If you would needs stay, (and it is better that you should, for I have wanted much to see you, and have much to say to you,) sit down on the church step there for a while, till this hour is past, and I will tell you things you want to hear. But do not try to console me. God may give me consolation at his own time. Man can never."
Chandos was eager to get to his journey's end; but yet he felt real compassion for the poor woman, and a strong reluctance to leave her there alone. He thought that if he remained for a while, and humoured her sorrow, she might be the sooner induced to quit the spot; and he determined to sit down on the church steps, as she had said, and wait the result. Such as I have said were his strongest motives for remaining; but at the same time a doubt, a suspicion of the truth, to which he would hardly give a moment's attention, crossed his mind; and then her strange words regarding his brother and the steward awakened still stronger curiosity, and made him almost believe that there had been other witnesses, besides himself, to the crime for which he had so lately been tried.
"Well, I will wait, then," he said; and, retiring from the spot, he seated himself at a distance, and gave himself up to thought. There is nought so variable as the influence of thought upon our appreciation of the passing of time. Sometimes it seems to extend the minutes into hours, the hours into months and years. Sometimes thought seems to swallow up time, and leave nought in existence but itself. The latter was more the case with Chandos Winslow than the former. The church clock struck one shortly after he sat down. It struck two before he fancied that the hand had half paced round the dial, and a minute or two after the woman was by his side.
"You have waited patiently," she said, "and I will try and repay you. I longed to see you as soon as I heard that it was all done, and you were free. I owe you much; but you owe the gipsey woman something, Chandos Winslow; for, had it not been for me, they would have found you guilty."
"Indeed!" said the young gentleman; "but how is that, Sally Stanley?"
"Did not the parson bear witness that you had been with him that night?--aye, and his servant too?" she asked. "Well, I found out that they had mistaken Lockwood for you, and had mistaken me in what I told them; and I went over to Sandbourne, and first told the good young man of what they accused you, and that he ought to go and give evidence at the trial. He was for setting out directly; but I let him know that the inquest was over, and that he could do no good till the trial, and bade him keep himself quiet till then. Lockwood would have spoiled it all," she added, in a rambling manner; "but I took care of Lockwood too, and kept him close till it was too late for him to do any harm. He had nearly done it though, they tell me. He is a harsh man, Lockwood."
"But he has a good, kind heart," replied Chandos.
"He does not mind treading on other people's hearts," she answered, leaning her head upon her hand, and seating herself upon one of the lower steps. "But whither are you going now, Sir? This is not the road to London."
"I am going to Northferry, Sally," replied Chandos. "I must see Mr. Tracy, and your poor little boy. The dear child gave his evidence nobly; but I find Mrs. Humphreys took him away out of the town as soon as the trial was over."
"Aye, he little knew whom he was giving evidence against," said the woman, in a wild way; "but they tell me he behaved well."
"You seem to have got intelligence of everything very soon," said Chandos.
"Sooner than anybody else," answered Sally Stanley; "we always do. You Englishmen may try what you like--coaches, and railroads, and telegraphs; but the gipsies will always have the news before you. There were many of our people there, and I soon had the tidings. But what do you want at Northferry? The boy is there, but he will do well enough without you; and as to Mr. Tracy, you will not find him. He is far enough away with all his. Have you not heard all that has happened?"
"No," answered Chandos; "I thought he was there. Has he gone to London?"
"They have taken him to London," answered the woman; "but I will try and tell you all about it, if my brain will let me. You know that he ruined himself with buying what are called shares; and that, to save himself from the first shock, he sold his child--his Lilly, as he used to call her--to a murderer--a murderer of old men. He thought, that by selling the best of his shares he would be able to stave off the rest of the sums he owed; and that the Northferry property would, at all events, be saved for his own daughter, as it would become her husband's--the murderer's. I told her how it would be long before. Then the other girl, I suppose, was to be provided for by the old General.--I only tell you what the people say. Well, let me see, where was I? All the shares were to be sold; but the shares could not be found; for a lawyer-man--a rogue, called Scriptolemus Bond, had run away and carried them all with him. So Mr. Tracy was arrested, you see, and taken to London; and his brother and the two girls went up the morning after."
"Good Heaven! did he really trust that man?" cried Chandos. "His looks, his words, almost his gestures spoke him a charlatan. I heard him boast he had a commission to buy shares for Mr. Tracy; but I doubted the very fact, because he said it; and never believed that he could be trusted to a large amount by a man not wanting in good sense."
"Everyman is a fool in some points, and every woman a fool in one," answered Sally Stanley. "But I have nothing to do with his folly or his wisdom.--What is it to me? However, he wanted to make his riches more; and then every man goes mad. He trusted a knave, and the knave ran off with the plunder. So Mr. Tracy is in prison, or something like it, and the knave is free."
"This is sad--this is very sad," said Chandos. "Is there no trace of this villain, who has brought a kind and generous family from affluence to beggary?"
"Oh! he will go at large like other villains," replied the woman. "The world is full of them, and they sit in high places. It is very strange that all men take so much interest, and feel so much compassion for a rich man that falls into poverty; while a world more misery may come upon a humble household without drawing a tear beyond the four walls of their own cottage."
"There is some truth in what you say," replied her companion, thoughtfully; "but yet, the fall from high to low is deeper than from low to lower: the contrast more painful. I should think, too, that you would much regret this misfortune to Mr. Tracy's family, as thousands of others, in a far inferior position to himself, in point of fortune, will mourn over it. Can you tell me a family who were more kind to all around them? Can you tell me a rich man whose wealth was more liberally shared with the poor and needy? Was any man suffered to want in his neighbourhood, if Mr. Tracy or his daughters could relieve him? Did any child lack education in his neighbourhood from the parents' poverty? Was he harsh even to those for whom the laws are harsh? Even your own child: did not these two young ladies, who now, perhaps, are weeping over their own and their father's ruin, show themselves kind, and tender, and generous to him?"
"I am wrong, I am wrong, Chandos Winslow," cried the woman; "but something makes me bitter this night. I am not myself, young man, I tell you. You must come and speak with me another day, and perhaps I can do something. The man you speak of is a good man, and should be saved. Let us try to save him."
"But how can that be done?" asked Chandos, sadly. "He is already ruined, it would seem."
"Oh, no; no one is ruined who has not broken a father's heart, and laid him in the grave," replied Sally Stanley: "that is ruin! that is ruin! It is ruin here--and here;" and she laid her hand upon her brow, and upon her heart. "But you will come and see me, and talk to me again, and see what can be done to save him."
"Why, what can you do in a matter like this?" asked her young companion.
"Did I not help to save your life?" she demanded, quickly. "I may do something in this too--come back and I will tell you more. I must have time to think. To-night I have no thoughts. Will you come?"
"But where shall I find you, and when?" asked Chandos. "Your abode, I fancy, is always varying; and I might seek you over the whole country without discovering you."
"Come in a fortnight to the place where we met three months ago, when you were going on a scheme that all the wise ones and the great ones would have thought madness," was the woman's reply. "You recollect the place in the lanes above Northferry: come there. I knew not at that time what drove you out of that fine house at Elmsly, and made you put on a gardener's coat, and take service like a hireling. I thought it was the Jacob and Laban story; and that you were going to serve for a fair wife; but I know more now. And a sweet, good girl she is, too. Her gay heart will be dull enough now, I dare say, poor thing; but you must go and comfort her."
"Where am I to find her? is the question," answered Chandos. "But, doubtless, I shall hear from the servants at Northferry."
"The servants!" cried the woman, with a laugh: "there are no servants there. The house is shut up. Half the servants are discharged; and the rest are gone with the old General and his nieces to London. But I will tell you where to find them. He has a house in a place they call Green-street though it is as brown as all the rest of the den. Go there, and ask for them, and you will find some of them, at least."
"Do you mean that Mr. Tracy has a house in Green-street?" asked Chandos. "Or are you still speaking of the General?"
"Of the General, to be sure," replied the woman. "It is a small, narrow house, fit for a solitary man. I was there once, and the old soldier, his servant, was kind to me, because I talked to him of Northferry, and the places round. He is not a bad man, General Tracy, as men go--better than most; and I think he will keep his word with the boy, whatever be his concern for his brother."
"You may be quite certain he will," replied her companion. "General Tracy is a man of honour, and never breaks his word."
"What! not to a woman?" demanded Sally Stanley, with a mocking laugh. "Well, go up to him, and see. Put him in mind of the boy; and tell him for me, that mice sometimes help lions, as the old fable-book says that I read at school. Then come down to me this day fortnight; and perhaps I may tell you more--I do not say that I will--I do not say that I can; but yet I have seen more unlikely things. Do you know anything of your brother?"
"Nothing," replied Chandos, "but that he has gone to the continent--whither, I know not."
"He has taken a bad heart and a heavy conscience with him," said the woman. "But you must learn where he has gone; for some day you will have to claim your own at his hands. He will not always triumph in his wickedness. A day of retribution will come."
"I trust he is not so wicked as you seem to think," answered Chandos Winslow; "and, at all events, I pray, if he have done wrong, as doubtless he has in some things, that repentance rather than retribution may reach him."
"If he has done wrong!" cried the woman, vehemently. "Chandos Winslow, do you not know that there is upon him a load of crime that may well weigh him down to perdition? I know not what you saw on that dark fifth of February; but there were those who saw you with a dead man's head upon your arm, mourning over him--there were those who saw that dead man walking alive with your own brother five minutes before; and fierce were the looks and sharp the words between them. Our people never go into your courts to bear witness for or against you; but there were words spoken and overheard that night which would have taken the charge from you and placed it where it ought to be, had those words been told again before the judge. There were words spoken which shall not be forgotten, and which may yet rise up and bear fruit that he wots not of."
Chandos Winslow laid his hand gently on her arm. "Vengeance," he said, "is a terrible passion. It is possible my brother may have injured you in times long past. I think it must be so, from much that you have said. But if so, I beseech you, seek not in anyway to injure him; for in so doing, you would but render yourself more wretched than you tell me you are. You too may have done wrong--you too may have brought unhappiness on others. Forgive, if you would be forgiven. I think I know you now; and if I do, it explains much that was doubtful regarding one for whom and for whose wrongs I have deeply grieved, believing her dead full eight years ago. My brother has, I have reason to believe, wronged me too; but if he has, I have forgiven him; and you may see that it is so when you recollect that even to save my own life I would not endanger his."
"And have you grieved for me, Chandos Winslow?" said the woman. "I knew you pitied me; but I thought not the bold, brave boy would long think of her he sought to see righted. I found sympathy and kindness with those who saved my life, and I became one of them; but I thought all the rest of the world had forgotten me. And you grieved for me! God's blessing be upon you for it; be you blest in your love, and in your fortune, and in your children; be you blessed in health of body and of heart; be your age tranquil and your death calm. But, hark! There are people calling. What can they want? It is not any of our people. They know themselves better than to make such a noise."
"It is most likely some of the people from the inn seeking me," replied Chandos. "I sent on the post-boy with orders to have a chaise ready for Northferry; and I am so late, they may think me lost, or murdered."
"Go then, go quick," cried the woman; "do not let them come hither: and forget not in a fortnight to return."
"I will remember," answered Chandos; and bidding her adieu in a kindly tone, he left the churchyard.
It was as he thought. The people of the inn had become alarmed at his long absence, and had sent out to seek him. He gave no account of his detention, however, when he met the messengers, but merely said he had stopped a while by the way.
On his arrival at the inn, he found the chaise he had ordered at the door, ready to carry him to Northferry; but a change had come over his purpose. He paused, indeed, and meditated for a moment or two, asking himself if he could depend upon the woman's information, and considering whether it might not be better to proceed as he had at first proposed. But he speedily concluded in favour of the more impetuous course; and, ordering the ticket to be changed, and the chaise to drive towards London, gave occasion for some marvel on the part of the landlord, at what the worthy host thought fit to call "the gentleman's queer ways."
There is a nice little country inn at Mantes, on the Seine. The rooms are plain and small, but neat; and those three which were at the end of the corridor, that is to say, a sitting-room and two bed-rooms, were occupied by an English gentleman and his valet de chambre. The English gentleman's name appeared in his passport as Mr. Somers; but the valet when he was dressing him in the morning, or serving him at dinner, which he did not trust to the waiters of the inn, called him "Sir William." This valet was an Italian, but he spoke English perfectly well; and nothing but his complexion and a very slight foreign accent betrayed that he was not a native of Great Britain. He was a quiet, exceedingly quiet man, with none of the vivacity of the South about him; saying very little to any one, but that little of the civilest possible character. Yet there was that in his eye which seemed to say the spirit was not quite as tranquil as the body--a sharp, quick glance when anything was said, be the subject what it might; a flush when he was blamed, which supplied the place of words. He had been brought over by Sir William (then Mr.) Winslow, from Rome, three or four years before; and had remained with him ever since. His fellow-servants loved him not; and it had been observed, that if any of them ventured to offend him, that man did not remain long in Sir William's service.
Now the people of the inn remarked two or three thing which they thought somewhat strange in their guest. He very seldom went out in the middle of the day, although the weather was by no means yet so warm as to render the early mornings and late evenings pleasant, or the high noon unpleasant. He seemed very restless, too, when he was in the house, would walk up and down the room by the hour together, or wander from his bed-room to his sitting-room and back, with unmeaning activity. Then he never read anything but a newspaper: but he was an Englishman, and that passed. He frequented no cafe either; and did not even go to see the three great ostriches when they were exhibited in the marketplace. All this seemed very strange; but the valet held his tongue, and neither landlord, nor landlady, nor head-waiter could make anything of it. They could not find out even whether he had lost his wife or not; though such was the landlady's opinion, for he was dressed in deep mourning. The head-waiter had vague notions of his having stolen silver spoons, and being uneasy in his mind.
One morning he had either passed a very good or a very bad night, for he rose before it was light; and as soon as it was, went and walked upon the bank of the river. At a little after seven he came in again, hurried up stairs, called loudly for Benini, his valet, did not find him, and went into his bed-room to conclude his toilet, which was only half finished when he went out. At the end of half-an-hour he was in his sitting-room, and found the cloth laid for breakfast. He rang, and his servant appeared.
"Have you got the letters and newspapers, Benini?" asked Sir William.
"No, Sir," replied the man.
Sir William gave him a fierce oath, and a bad name, and asked him why the devil he had not, when he knew that his master was so anxious to see the result of that cursed trial.
"Because the post never comes in till after eight, Sir William," answered the man calmly.
"Sometimes sooner, sometimes later," replied his master; "you should have gone to see when you knew I was impatient for news. Go directly, and do not let me find you grow negligent, or, by--! I will send you packing back to your beggarly country a great deal faster than you came out of it."
The gleam came up in the man's eyes; but he answered nothing, and went quietly to the post-office.
In five minutes he came back again, without either letters or newspapers. The post from Paris had not come in. Sir William ordered breakfast, and told him to go again, and wait till he could bring the packets. The man went, and was absent an hour. Either he or the post had resolved to punish Sir William's impatience. It might be either; for assuredly there is a perversity about fate in regard to letters, which makes those most desired tarry by the way, those least longed for come quick and unexpected. When he did come he brought several letters and two newspapers; but it was the latter which were first opened. The first and second pages of the voluminous sheet were passed over unread, and part of the third; but then Sir William's eye fastened upon the tall column, and with a straining gaze he went on to read the defence in the case of the crown against Chandos Winslow. Rapidly he ran the whole over, and his face lighted up with joy. His name had never been mentioned; the defence was an alibi; his brother had him not in his power. Chandos could not pretend to have witnessed anything when he had proved that he was far from the spot; and Sir William started up with joy and relief, saying aloud, "This is excellent!" Then seeing the eye of the valet coldly fixed upon him, he added, "You will be glad to hear, Benini, that my brother is acquitted. He has shown that he was at a distance when the murder was committed, by the evidence of Mr. Fleming and his servant--perfectly unimpeachable--and I have no longer the dread of having my name coupled with that of a felon, in such near relationship. I shall go back to England directly: so get ready, and order horses at eleven."
"I am very glad to hear such news, indeed, Sir William," said the Italian; "I knew Mr. Winslow was not guilty."
The words struck his master, and raised a momentary fear. "I knew Mr. Winslow was not guilty!" he repeated to himself, when the man had retired. "How could he know? Pooh! it was only his foreign way of speaking! Now, dear Emily, in a few short hours you shall be mine!" and he proceeded to read the letters he had received. The two first he merely glanced at; the third he read attentively. "Ha!" he cried; "Mr. Tracy arrested! It is lucky the mortgage is perfect. The man, Bond, run away with all the shares; and this fair, cold Emily a beggar! It matters not. By Heaven! with such charms as hers, she has wealth beyond the Indies. That swelling bosom, that proud, pouting lip, those glorious limbs, are worth a diadem. Aye! and the liquid eyes, too, were they not so cold! I will put fire into those dark orbs, give me but time! We can surely have the horses by ten."
There was no difficulty; the post had little to do in the spring of the year; the carriage was soon ready, the horses too, the town of Mantes left behind; Rouen, Dieppe, reached, and then the town of Brighton. It looked gay and cheerful, with all its lights lighted, and its population in motion, on a fine spring night, and the broad ocean rolling dark and heavy along the shore. The fly was ordered to the York, and Sir William Winslow walked into the nice rooms ready for him, thinking still of Emily Tracy. Every man's mind is a web of which one fixed and predominant idea forms the woof, while other threads cross and recross it. With him the intense and vehement passion for the fair girl whom he could hardly call his bride, was the foundation of all his thoughts, as soon as the apprehension springing from present peril of death and disgrace was removed. That passion had been quelled and kept down for a time; but, like a fire upon which a load of cold and heavy matter has been thrown, it burst forth again with more vehement flame than ever, the moment it made its way through. Remorse chequered it; vague, indefinite fears wove strange figures in the web: but still the eager passion ran through all. When he felt himself on English ground again, a certain degree of trepidation seized him; and he remained in his handsome sitting-room at the York, dull and heavy for sometime. His dinner at first would not down, and it needed several glasses of Madeira and a pint of champagne to help him through the meal. But then he grew quite gay again, and went out to take a stroll in the town. He went into a library, and took share in a raffle, and came back to set off early the next morning for London. His mood was gay and happy, though an occasional touch of gloom crossed it; but at all events it seemed to encourage his valet to ask him for his quarter's wages, which were not due for four or five days. The baronet, however, paid the money readily, and that appeared to encourage the man still further.
"I hope, Sir William," he said; "you will consider the difference between wages here and in Italy, and will make a small advance in mine."
"Why, you damned vagabond," cried his master; "I give you half as much again as most English gentlemen give their servants."
"I thought, Sir, considering the circumstances," replied the valet; "you might be pleased to allow me a little advance."
"Considering the circumstances!" cried his master. "I know not what circumstances you mean; but depend upon it you will not have a penny more from me."
The man bowed without reply; but in a minute or two he re-entered with one of his master's morning coats over his arm. The right sleeve was turned inside out, and he said, "Please, Sir William, what am I to do with this coat. There are two or three spirts of blood upon it, which it had fresh when you dressed for dinner on the fifth of February. I have got them out of the cloth, but the water has soaked them through into the lining."
Sir William Winslow's face grew as pale as death, and then flushed again, as he saw the man's cool, clear, dark eye fixed upon it. For an instant he did not reply; but then he said, "I remember, my nose bled several times in the spring. It does not matter; leave it as it is."
The man folded it up, and laid it on a chair; and the next morning, before they set off for town, his master himself began upon the subject of wages. Benini was very moderate in his views; but before the conversation was ended his wages were nearly doubled.
Sir William Winslow seated himself in his carriage, with the comfortable feeling, that the man who had such wages would be a fool to deprive himself of such a master; but he recollected that he had played the fool too--at least he thought so. "I ought to have told the whole story at once," he said to himself. "The man insulted me, and I struck him with the first thing at hand--harder than I intended; but after all it was but a scuffle. If I had had the presence of mind to state the facts at once, the inquest must have brought it inchance medley." He forgot that juries sometimes inquire into motives too, and might have asked whether the insult Mr. Roberts offered was not the telling of too dangerous a truth. With the servant silenced, however, by an annuity for secrecy, he thought the only grounds even for a suspicion buried in oblivion; but nevertheless there came across him a vague conviction, that he was for life a bondman to his own valet.
It was but the beginning of unpleasant sensations; but that was enough. Man is a strange animal; but there is an inherent love of freedom in his heart which is often the source of very high and noble actions--sometimes of actions the reverse of high and noble. The lightest chain upon the once free limb, how it galls and presses! but what is the shackle of steel upon the body, to the chain upon the mind? To find the spirit a serf, the thoughts manacled! that is to be a slave indeed. No custom can lighten the load of those fetters, no habit render them less corroding, nought can harden us to their endurance. On the contrary, every hour, every minute that we bear them, the burden grows more oppressive; and Sir William Winslow felt it, as his carriage rolled on, and he groaned in bitterness of spirit.