Four days passed after Chandos Winslow's conference with General Tracy ere he could quit London. Lawyers are not fond of moving fast. Some difficulties occurred in drawing up the notice to be served upon Sir William Winslow and Lord Overton, regarding the sale of Winslow Abbey; and the whole arrangements were not completed till late on the fourth night. Chandos consoled himself easily, however; for during those four days he twice saw Rose Tracy; and he began to comprehend better than he had ever done before, how Mark Antony had lost a world for Cleopatra's eyes. At length, however, on the fifth morning, one of those machines which the Londoners, in their monosyllabic propensity call a "cab," whirled him and his light portmanteau down to the railway terminus, and in two minutes after, Chandos was rolling away upon the rails towards his native place. The morning had been beautiful, dawning with a brightness and a lustre which do not always promise well for the risen day; and ere the train had reached the second station, the sky was covered with gray cloud, and a thin, fine rain was dewing the whole earth. Thicker and faster it came down as the traveller proceeded on his way, till at length when he got out, about sixty miles from town, to perform the rest of his journey by coach, a perfect deluge was pattering upon the roof of the shed under which he alighted. He had neither umbrella nor great coat; and he was glad to find an inside place disengaged, to carry him at least part of the way warm and dry.
His companions were an elderly woman, with a large basket, well furnished with sandwiches, and a wicker bottle full of gin-and-water; and a tall, stout man, of about forty-five or forty-six, tolerably well dressed, in a long brown great-coat, and endowed with an exceedingly yellow complexion. The lady did not seem inclined for much conversation, but consoled herself from time to time for the evils of travelling by the sources of comfort which she had provided in her bottle and basket. The male traveller was somewhat more communicative, though in a peculiarly short, dry way. He saluted Chandos on his entering the coach with a "Good morning, Sir;" which act of homeliness of course bespoke the rude countryman, in a land where every well-educated man demeans himself towards his neighbour as an enemy, till something occurs to make them friends. Chandos, on his part, was not in the slightest degree afraid of having his pocket picked, his character injured, or his mind contaminated; and therefore he answered his new companion civilly, and asked if he had come down by the train.
"Yes, Sir," replied the other; "from a fool's errand."
"How so?" asked Chandos.
"Seeking in London what I might have found in the country, and what I did not find there," rejoined the stranger; "travelling up to look for that which travelled down with me, without looking for."
"I never could find out riddles in my life," said Chandos. "How hard it rains! I did not see you on the train."
"I saw you," answered the man: "I see everything."
"Indeed!" replied Chandos Winslow, not particularly well pleased with his companion: "then you must see a great deal that does not please you."
"Not much," said the other: "I am easily pleased. Did you see a green chariot behind the train, and a gentleman in it, and a vally--an Italian vagabond?"
Chandos started, and turned round, saying, "No. Whose carriage was it?"
"The master of Elmsly was in it," said the man.
"Indeed!" said Chandos. And, after a moment's thought, he added, "You seem to know me, I think."
"Oh, yes; I know you quite well," replied the stranger. "I was in the court when you were tried for murder."
The old lady opposite gave a start, and exclaimed, "Lord a-mercy!" and Chandos's face flushed, partly in anger, partly in shame.
"A recollection of such things is not particularly pleasant to me," he replied, sharply.
"I don't see why not," answered his fellow-traveller. "You knew you were innocent, and you proved it to the jury. If it should be unpleasant to anybody, it is to those who accused you, and to the man who committed the murder, and would have let you be hanged for it."
Chandos made no answer, but fell into thought; and full half-an-hour passed without a word being spoken. At length the young gentleman inquired, "Are you of the town of S----?"
"No," answered the other; "I do not live in a town, I live in the country; but I happened to be there that day by accident, and I went into the court to see what was going on. It was wonderful hot; but yet I stayed it out, though I thought I should have been suffocated."
Another long pause succeeded; the man seemed determined to hunt down a subject the most disagreeable for Chandos to pursue; and therefore the young gentleman refrained from all further conversation till the coach stopped to change horses, near a spot where a road branched off towards Winslow Abbey. There Chandos alighted, and ordered his portmanteau to be carried up to a bed-room in the neat little road-side inn. The old lady and the stout, yellow-faced traveller, proceeded on their way together; and Chandos ordered some refreshment, preparatory to a long walk which he contemplated.
While the mutton-chop was in preparation, and he was taking out some necessary articles from his portmanteau, the thick veil of clouds which covered the sky became of a paler grey, and then, towards the westward, where a wide open country extended before the windows of the inn, the edge of the vapour drew up like a curtain, showing the yellow gleam of evening between the woods and hedgerows in the distance. Before the young traveller's light meal was concluded, the rain had ceased entirely, and no trace of clouds remained upon the heaven, except some white feathery streaks of rising vapour, chequering the fresh deep blue.
Telling the people of the inn that he might not return till the following morning, Chandos walked on, taking the narrow lane which led along the side of the hill towards Winslow Abbey, then at the distance of about seven miles. The sun was within half an hour of its setting; but the sweet, long twilight of the late spring evenings was to be depended upon for many minutes after the star of day was down, and Chandos did not wish to reach the cottage of Lockwood before it was dark. He walked therefore calmly and somewhat slowly, now mounting, now descending, amongst the trees and copses of the hill side, as the road pursued its varying course. Sometimes the view was shut out by trees, and nothing was seen but the green branches and the round silvery trunks of the old beeches, with the rays of the setting sun stealing in amongst them, and tipping the moss and underwood with gold; but more frequently he caught sight of the wide extended plains to the west, lying in definite lines of purple and grey, with the varied scenery of the hill-slope forming the foreground, the trees of the old wood tossed here and there amongst the yellow, broken banks, and every now and then part of the outline of a cottage or small country-house contrasting its straight forms with the wavey lines of the landscape, and bringing in images of social life amongst the wildness of uncultivated nature.
The sun was more than half down; but a bright spot of gold upon the edge of the horizon, with one line of dark cloud drawn across it, still poured forth a flood of splendour, when a little turn of the road brought Chandos nearly in front of a human habitation. It was a simple little cottage, of two stories high, with a row of green paling before it, a little garden in front, and two doors, one in the centre, and the other at the side leading probably to the kitchen. It was built upon the extreme verge of the steep bank, so that there seemed no exit behind; and the road spread out wide before, under a cliffy piece of the hill, which seemed to have been scooped out by man's hands, probably for sand or gravel. It was a sequestered little nook; and, in the green evening light, as it streamed through the trees, looked as peaceful an abode as a weary heart could well desire.
The pleasant tranquillity of the scene had apparently attracted another person, besides the inhabitants of the cottage, to make a temporary sojourn there; for, underneath the high bank just opposite, was a stream of silver-gray smoke rising up against the cliff, and curling in amongst the trees which topped it; and below was seen the dilapidated tin-kettle from which it proceeded, with an old man blowing hard into the hole where once a spout had been. A number of pots and pans lay around, and a wallet was cast upon the ground hard by. The old man whistled a wild air in time as he blew, and his face was turned rather towards the house than his work, so that Chandos had a full view of his features. It required not two looks to bring to his recollection the travelling tinker, who had conducted him to the gipsey encampment on his first visit to Northferry.
Walking up to him with a smile, the young gentleman asked if he remembered him; and the old man, laughing, winked his eye, answering, in his peculiar cracked voice, "Aye, do I, master gardener. Do you want food, and drink, and information to-day, as you did the last time we met?"
"Food and drink I can dispense with to-day," replied Chandos; "but a little information would not be amiss. Can you tell me, my good friend, where I can find Sally Stanley."
"I can find her myself," answered the tinker; "that is to say, I could find her if I could quit this; but I mustn't."
"Indeed!" said Chandos, in some surprise: "why not? I suppose you will go before night; for you have not got even a tent here to cover you."
"That's nothing," answered the gipsey; "I shall be here all night, unless some one comes to relieve me, as they call it."
"Why, are you on guard, then?" asked Chandos.
"I'm on watch, and that is as good," replied the tinker, winking his eye, and looking towards the house.
"Who are you watching there, then?" demanded the young gentleman; but the old man only grinned, and made no reply for a minute or two, till Chandos repeated his question.
"Very likely!" said the tinker; "don't you think I'll tell you, master? I'm watching some one who will not come out in a hurry while I am here; and when I'm gone, there will be another, and when he's gone, another, till we starve the rat out of his hole, or at all events find out if he is in it. But you have nothing to do with that. You are not one of us, you know. You've your own trade, and that's a gardener's. Stick to that."
"I've given that up sometime, as I think you know," answered Chandos.
"Aye, may be, may be," said the old tinker; "I've heard something of it. But what is it you want to say to Sally Stanley? Do you want your new fortune told? She is the rarest hand amongst them for that. Never was such a one; for she is always right, one way or another: and our people think she has got a spirit that tells her all that is going to happen, at those times when she gets into her tantarums and goes about amongst the dead men's graves and that. I would not bide her curse for a great deal. It fell hard upon poor Harry Chambers; for you know he was sent over the water for life, just three months after. But what do you want with her?"
"Nay, that is my business," answered Chandos; "only you tell her I am down here again, and will speak to her when she likes. I have a good many things to say that she may wish to hear; and she has something to say to me."
"But where shall she look for you?" asked the tinker. "Though I dare say she knows well enough; for she knows everything."
"It is better to make sure," replied the young gentleman; "so let her know that I shall be at Lockwood's cottage to-night, and be gone by day-break. I shall then be at my place at Northferry, for a day or two, or between that and S----; and then, perhaps, over at Elmsly."
"I shan't see her to-night," said the tinker; "for she is a good way off; and Garon comes up when I am to go. After that I'll find her out.--But look, look--quietly, quietly! Don't you see a man in there, at the back of the little parlour--a man with a round face and a pair of green spectacles?"
"Yes, I do," said Chandos; "now that they have opened that window at the back to let the light in, I see a man there; but I cannot well see what he is like."
"Use your young eyes well," said the tinker; "and tell me if he has not a round, red face, and a pair of green spectacles on, and a flaxen wig, and a cravat high up about his chin--why, I can see the spectacles myself."
"So do I now," said Chandos. But the next moment the front window was shut, and all further view into the interior of the room cut off. Chandos mused. He had more than once, as a native of a well-wooded country greatly frequented by gipsies, remarked the extraordinary knowledge which that curious race of wanderers acquire of all that is passing in their neighbourhood, and had wondered how they arrived at their information. The uses which they put it to when gained was more evident; but he knew not till that night, and indeed few do know the marvellous pains which gipsies often take to find out minute and apparently insignificant facts, and the no less wonderful skill with which they combine them when obtained, and draw deductions from them, generally approaching very close to the truth. Sometimes they have an object, and sometimes none; for curiosity by habit becomes a passion with them. But in the present instance there was evidently some end in view; and Chandos, from various circumstances, felt inclined to inquire further ere he proceeded.
Following the same train of combinations which a gipsey would most likely have followed, suspicions were excited which he longed to turn into certainties; and after thinking over the matter for a time, he said, "And so, my good friend, the gentleman with the round, red face and green spectacles is hidden down here, is he?"
"I did not say he was hidden," answered the tinker, instantly upon his guard.
"You said what amounts to the same thing," replied Chandos; "for you told me he would not come out as long as you were here."
"Aye; that may be for fear of having his bones broke," said the other; "you know, we don't easily forgive them who offend us."
"Come, come; I am not to be put upon the wrong scent," replied Chandos. "Sally Stanley told me something of this before; but I did not think she would have found out his hiding-place so soon."
"Why, what does she know of it?" asked the tinker, with the most natural air in the world; "you are out in your guesses, master gardener. You can't come over an old cove like me. If you know anything of the gemman, go and ring the bell, and ask if Mr. Wilson's at home. I dare say he'll seeyou;" and the old man laid a strong emphasis on the last word.
"Is it a Mr. Wilson who lives there, then?" asked Chandos.
The gipsey nodded his head, and Chandos, saying, "It is not a bad plan," walked straight up to the little gate, and rang the bell. The gipsey put his tongue in his cheek, and winked his eye; but the next moment a maidservant came to the door of the house, and, without approaching the garden-gate, inquired, in a flippant tone, "What do you want, young man?"
"Is Mr. Wilson at home?" demanded Chandos, not at all expecting that the girl would admit the residence of such a person there. To his surprise, however, she answered, more civilly than at first, "No, Sir; he's gone to town."
"But I saw him in that room, a minute or two ago," replied the young gentleman.
"Lord, Sir, no," said the maid; "that is his father, the old gentleman who is ill with a quinsy, and don't see any one. Master has been in London this week. He'll be down o' Thursday."
Convinced that his suspicions had led him wrong, Chandos turned away, and saw the old tinker laughing heartily. It is not pleasant to be laughed at, as the sapient reader is probably aware. But laughers sometimes lose; and in this instance the half-crown which had been destined for the old man remained in Chandos's pocket: not that it was kept there by any feeling of anger on his part; but because the young gentleman was not inclined to face the merriment his disappointment had created, he turned away, and walked straight on in the direction of Winslow Abbey.
Night fell when he was at the distance of three miles from the park; and, hurrying his pace, he soon after stood before the gates of tall, hammered iron-work, erected more than two centuries before. The great gates were chained and padlocked; but the lesser one, at the side, was open, and Chandos entered the park where he had played in boyhood, with a bitter feeling at his heart, when he thought that all his efforts might not be able to prevent it passing away from his name and race for ever.
He followed the path which he had trod every Sunday during his mother's life, from the Abbey to the parish church, and back; and at the distance of about half-a-mile from the gates, he caught sight of the mansion. There was a single, solitary light in one of the windows, shining faint, like the last hope in his breast; and as he advanced it flitted along the whole range, till at length, at the further extreme, it blazed brighter, as if several candles had been suddenly lighted. At the same time, turning to the right, the young gentleman took the path which led away to the house of his half-brother. The park seemed to him even more melancholy than when last he visited it. It had a more deserted feeling to his mind. It was to be sold; and yet for all that he clung to it the more. If it had cost him his right hand, he would have kept it. As we attach ourselves the more fondly to a friend in distress, so he held more firmly by the old place he loved, because those who ought to have loved it likewise, abandoned it.
"Would that my father had left it to me!" he repeated to himself more than once. "Had it been nought but the Abbey and the Park, I would have worked the flesh from my bones to keep it up. But it is gone--gone! and the hope is vain they hold out to me. I feel it, I know it!"
With such melancholy thoughts he walked on, through the chestnut-wood, all in green leaf, across the ferny savannah, where the deer lay thick, amongst the old hawthorn trees, loading the air with aromatic balm. He approached the park wall, and saw, by the clear gray light sent before the yet invisible moon, the enclosure round the house of Lockwood, and the house itself--a dark, black mass, upon the silvery eastern sky. Yet the trees and shrubs in the garden before the windows caught another ray, and in long beamy lines the misty light poured forth from the lozenge panes of the casements. Chandos opened the little garden gate and went in; but as he approached the door, he heard voices speaking, and even laughter, very dissonant to his ear. He was in no mood for merry company: there were few people he could wish to meet, and many he would not meet; and ere he gave any indication of his presence, he walked along the path before the windows and looked in, to ascertain who were the guests within. Before him, with his back to the casement, the neat white dimity curtain of which was not drawn, appeared the tall, powerful frame of Lockwood himself, while a bowl of smoking punch stood upon the table before him, and his hand was stretched out, armed with a curious, old-fashioned ladle, which he was dipping in the fragrant compound, to supply the glass which another person opposite was holding out towards him. In the face of that other person, which was turned towards the window, Chandos instantly recognized the handsome but too delicate features of Faber. Lockwood filled the glass to the brim, and then raised his own, already full, exclaiming so loud that the words were heard without, "Here's to him, then. Health to our good brother Chandos: may God grant him his rights, and send confusion to those who would wrong him!"
Chandos waited to hear no more, but approaching the door of the house, was about to ring the bell. A peal of laughter, not from Lockwood's lips, though with a far more joyous sound than he had ever before heard those of Faber utter, made the visitor pause for a moment; and then with a sudden and somewhat impatient movement, he lifted the latch, and entered unannounced.
As Chandos extended one hand to Faber and the other to Lockwood, he remarked that the cheek of the former was a good deal flushed, and his eye more bright and sparkling than usual. The bowl of strong punch on the table was nearly empty, and the deduction was evident. Lockwood's strong head and strong frame had resisted the effects of his potations; but Faber, though not at all drunk, was a good deal excited.
"Welcome, welcome back!" said Lockwood. "I was just going to write you a letter, ending after Mrs. Penelope's fashion--'Nil mihi rescribas attamen ipse veni.' You have come at the very nick of time, Chandos; for here Mr. Faber has been telling me things which prove that your father was not so unkindly negligent of you as you have supposed."
"For that, I am thankful," answered Chandos, "even if no other result take place. What is it, Faber? Let me hear."
Lockwood's eyes were fixed upon the countenance of the young man to whom Mr. Winslow spoke; and he saw the timid, hesitating look, which was its habitual expression, steal over it again. "Come, Faber, you and Chandos finish the punch between you," he said; "I have had enough."
"And so have I too," answered Faber. But he suffered Lockwood to fill his glass again, and drank it off at once. The effect was quick. He reflected, perhaps, that what he had just said he could not unsay; and at all events, the punch gave him courage to repeat it. The manner was diffuse and circumlocutory, it is true; and where there was an opportunity of putting anything in a doubtful manner, by a change in the mood of the verb, from the direct indicative to the potential, he never failed to do so; but the substance of the story was as follows.--"He had seen, read, and copied," he said, "the will, to which the memorandum found by Mr. Roberts referred. The late Sir Harry Winslow, who had ordered him to copy it, had kept the transcript; but he recollected the whole particulars. To himself, an annuity of four hundred a year had been left, chargeable upon the Winslow Abbey estate. The whole of that property, with the Abbey and all that it contained, had been left to Chandos. The Elmsly property had been assigned to his brother, as well as the whole personal property, with the exception of four thousand pounds to Lockwood, in lieu of all other claims, and a few legacies to servants."
There the young man paused; and Lockwood, after having given him a little time to proceed, if he pleased, exclaimed, "Go on, Mr. Faber; you have not half done! Remember about the burning of the will."
"I did not say he burned the will," cried Faber, turning white; "I only said he burned a good many papers just after Sir Harry's death. I saw him, as I was looking out of my window at Elmsly, which is just in the corner, near the strong-room. What they were, I do not know."
"Then he burned papers in the strong-room?" said Chandos.
"Yes, Mr. Winslow," replied Faber, "that he certainly did. Three or four, I saw him burn, with a great iron chest open before him; he held them to the candle one after the other, and then threw them down on the stone floor, and watched them till they went out. But, mind, I do not know what they were. I never said that any one of them was the will."
"Of course, you could not do so, Faber," replied Chandos; "for I know the position of the two rooms well; and you could not at that distance see what the papers were."
"No, I could not see," reiterated Faber.
"Nevertheless," said Chandos, gravely, "what you did see, and what you do know, is so important, that I must request to have it in writing."
"Oh no, indeed, I cannot, Mr. Winslow," said the young man, very pale, "Why, if Sir William Winslow were to know, what would happen? You will not ask me, I am sure."
"Be quite sure, Faber, not only that I will ask; but that I will insist," answered Chandos, with a frown. "Let me have pen and ink, Lockwood, and we will have this down at once. My good friend, you have no choice. You have made a statement this night which you will soon have to repeat in a court of justice. Now your fault, Faber, is timidity: that timidity might lead you to gloss over or attempt to conceal facts in court, which would be speedily wrung from you by cross-examination, and you would be put to shame, But by insisting upon your signing the account you have given, I guard you against yourself; for you will have no motive for hesitation or concealment. You must there state what you have here stated, without a consideration of the consequences."
"I cannot, indeed I cannot," exclaimed Faber, trembling violently.
"Faber, I insist," replied Chandos; "I did not think that you, whom I have so often befriended, so often protected, would refuse to do a simple act of justice in my favour, out of regard for a man comparatively a stranger to you. Write down his words, Lockwood, as well as you can recollect them. They shall then be read over to him, that he may sign them."
"Oh, Mr. Winslow, I did not think you would do this," cried Faber; "you know what a terrible man Sir William is."
"Write, Lockwood, write," cried Chandos, his lip slightly curling with contempt. But Faber started up from the table, saying in a more resolute tone than he had hitherto used, "It is of no use, I will not sign it, I will go."
Chandos, however, threw himself between him and the door, locked it, and took out the key. "Your pardon, Mr. Faber," he said; "you do not go. You stay here, and sign the statement you have just made, or if you go, you go in custody."
"In custody?" exclaimed the young man, his eyes staring wildly with fear.
"Yes, Sir," answered Chandos; "in custody, on a charge of being accessory to the destruction of my father's will, which, allow me to tell you, is a felony. Sir William Winslow may be a very violent man, but you will find that his brother is a very resolute one."
"Oh, Mr. Winslow, I am sure you would not do such a thing," cried Faber.
"You will see in two minutes," replied Chandos sternly. "When Lockwood has finished the paper, you shall have your choice. You either sign it, or he fetches a constable. In the mean while, sit down; for I am in no humour to be trifled with."
The young man cast himself on his chair, covering his eyes with his hand. Lockwood wrote rapidly; and in about ten minutes the short statement he drew up was finished. He then read it aloud, pausing upon each sentence; and Chandos, satisfied that it was substantially the same as the account which Faber had himself given, placed it before him, saying, "There is pen and ink."
The young man hesitated for more than a minute; and then Chandos withdrew the paper from before him, and turned to Lockwood, saying coldly, "Fetch the constable, Lockwood. I will guard him till you return."
"Stop, stop," cried Faber; "I will sign it. Only give me a little time. You should have put in, that I was accidentally looking out of my window that night."
"Put it in yourself above," answered Lockwood, handing him the pen.
Faber took it, and made the alteration he proposed; then paused and hesitated again, but in the end wrote his name rapidly at the bottom.
"And now, Faber," said Chandos, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, "you will yourself have more peace of mind. Depend upon it, the only way to preserve a man's dignity of character, his peace, and self-respect, is to do what he knows is right, perfectly careless of consequences. You were aware that I had been wronged. You had the means of assisting me to regain my right, and that, by only making a declaration which you were bound in honour and justice to make. You should, indeed, have made it before; but I forgive your not having done so, because I know you are afraid of a man whose violence gives him anything but a claim to respect."
"Why I should gain more than lose," said the weak young man, bursting into tears; "if you could prove this other will, I should have two hundred a year more than by the other; so you must see it was not my own interest I was consulting, Mr. Winslow."
"No, you were consulting nothing but your fears, Faber," said Chandos; "and those fears of Sir William Winslow, depend upon it, are quite vain and foolish. He has no power over you; he can do nought to injure you."
"How I shall ever meet him again, when he comes hack, I know not," answered Faber, with a melancholy shake of the head.
"He Is back already," replied Chandos; "at least, I am told so."
The young man started off his chair at this announcement, actually as if some one had fired a pistol at him; but while he was gazing in Mr. Winslow's face with a look of terror almost ludicrous, some one shook the door of Lockwood's house, and Faber darted away into the inner room, as if he thought that it could be none other than the man he so much dreaded.
"Who is there?" asked Lockwood.
"It is I, Sir," answered the voice of Garbett, the keeper; and, at a sign from Chandos, Lockwood opened the door, saying, "What is it, Garbett?"
The man started at beholding Chandos Winslow, and exclaimed, "Bless me, Sir, is that you? Well, Sir, I am glad to see you, now I know who you are. Why I taught you to shoot when you were a young lad at Eton."
"I am very glad to see you," answered Chandos; "but you wanted to tell Lockwood something."
"Why, Sir, it is a night of surprises," said Garbett: "your brother, Sir William, arrived at the Abbey about an hour ago. We have been looking for Mr. Faber everywhere, and can't find him; and so he sent me down to tell Mr. Lockwood that he wants to see him."
"If he wants me, he must come down to seek me," said Lockwood, bluntly. "I want nothing with him; and therefore shall not go near him. Just tell him what I say, Garbett. He knows me well enough, and won't expect any civil messages."
While Lockwood had been giving this answer, Chandos Winslow had remained with his arms crossed upon his chest, his teeth set fast, and his lips compressed. There was a great struggle going on in his breast. The feelings of indignation which had been raised against his brother were very strong. He did not comprehend that it was vindictive pride, rather than avarice, which had made Sir William Winslow destroy his father's will--the desire of triumphing over, and trampling upon, a brother who had offended him, rather than the love of mere money; he called the transaction pitiful, as well as base; and when Garbett entered, Chandos was resolved, without pause, to expose the whole in a court of justice, at all risks. But, as the man spoke, gentler emotions arose--feelings strong, though tender. He remembered early days. He hesitated, though he did not yield. He asked himself, "Is there not a middle course?" and before the keeper could reply to Lockwood, he said aloud, "I will go up to him myself;" and he moved towards the door.
"Think twice, think twice," said Lockwood, laying his hand upon his arm.
"No; I am resolved," said Chandos, in a sad, but determined tone. "We will meet once more as brothers, before we meet as adversaries. I will forget for the time there is ought within his bosom but kindred blood, and a brother's spirit. I will entreat, I will persuade, I will argue, as a last resource before I am driven to menace and to act. I will try what reason will do, in order to escape a course, the results of which I dread to think of."
"Well," said Lockwood; "well, it is the right way; but he does not deserve it, and no good will come of it."
Chandos made no reply, but walked out into the park, and took his way, with a quick step, towards the Abbey.
"We had better go after him at once, Garbett," said Lockwood; "there is no knowing what may follow. They are both sharp spirits; and I should not wonder if there were blood shed."
"Lord, Mr. Lockwood, I hope not," cried the keeper; "but let us be after him, then; for it is as well to be near to part them in case of need."
"It might be difficult to part them," answered Lockwood; "but come along;" and taking up his hat, he accompanied the keeper into the park, leaving Faber, still trembling with apprehension, in the inner room of the cottage.
In the large drawing-room at Winslow Abbey, with four tallow candles on the table, to give some light to its great extent, stood Sir William Winslow, his brow heavy with thought, his cheek pale, and his eye haggard with anxiety. The gloomy room, the faded hangings of dull crimson velvet, which seemed to drink in all the rays of light and give none back again, the many memories with which the place was stored, the solitary aspect of the nearly deserted mansion, the melancholy sighing of the wind through its courts and corridors, tended not to raise the spirit in a heart already depressed by crime. He had sent his valet to Elmsly, glad to be freed from his oppressive presence, and had come on alone, full of bitter and even angry fancies. The worm that never dies was in his heart, the fire that cannot be quenched consumed his brain. He had given way to an intemperate burst of passion at not finding Faber there waiting to receive him, though the young man knew not of his coming; but when he had sent Garbett out to find Lockwood, and he remained alone in that wide room, his feelings became more gloomy and less fierce, his heart sunk, to think of what he was, and of what he might yet become.
The memories of pleasant childhood, too, of innocence, if not of peace, (for he had been turbulent from his infancy,) came back in mournful contrast with the present, when peace and innocence were gone together, when nought remained but bitter anxiety, and corroding fear, and dark remorse. It was well nigh despair he felt.
Yet there was something like a gleam of sunshine upon the long, long past which made him fix his eyes by preference upon it. He thought of the young days when he had sported in that room, piled up the chairs into castles, or built himself houses with the sofa cushions. He saw his father's stately form stand gazing at him with pride; he beheld his mother sit and watch him with affection; he knew that both had looked forward with expectation of high things to his future career; he asked himself where were these hopes? how were they fulfilled? Gone, gone, with those days of childhood, with those innocent sports, with the calm of infancy, with the fleeting ills of boyhood. Gone for ever--a bar between them and fruition, which no repentance could ever remove, no reformation ever do away.
He took a candle from the table, and held it up to the large picture of his mother, gazing earnestly upon features which had almost faded from memory. Suddenly his eye fell upon a ticket in the corner, marked, "Lot 60;" and he exclaimed, "Good God! was I going to sell that? No, that must not be sold!" And taking the ticket, he tore it from the frame.
The next instant there was a timid knock at the door, and he said, in a milder voice than usual, "Come in."
It was the keeper Garbett's wife, with something like a letter in her hand; which, advancing many curtsies, she presented to Sir William.
"Who was it gave you this?" asked the baronet, taking a curiously folded piece of vellum from her hand.
"A strange-looking man, Sir," she said, "gave it in at the door: more like a corpse than a living man."
"You may go," said Sir William Winslow, without opening the letter, which he conceived to be some law paper, connected perhaps with the relations regarding property between his brother and himself; and when she was gone he paused a moment, in thought. Whatever were his meditations, they ended by his exclaiming, "No! Curse me if he shall! It is unfair and unjust. I am the eldest son; and he had no right to have it. I will fight it out to the last penny I have."
As he spoke, he tore open the letter hastily. What was his surprise to find that the few lines it contained were written in blood-red ink, and in a fine, clear, steady female hand. He held it to the candle and read the following words:--
"William Winslow, alive or dead, meet me on Thursday at your father's grave in the churchyard of Elmsly, at midnight. Fail not, or I will come to fetch you.
"Susan Grey."
He let the parchment fall from his hand, and gazed at it as it lay upon the floor with a wild and straining eye. No one had scoffed more loudly at all superstitions--no one in his life and conduct had shown a more practical contempt for the very idea of supernatural visitations. But his nerves were shaken by remorse and apprehension. Terror and anxiety had enlisted fancy on their side. He knew the handwriting well; he believed that no one was aware of his return to England; he thought that the hand which must have traced those lines had long been consigned to the grave. Hardihood, and firmness, and the powers of reason, gave way together; and the fierce, firm, proud Sir William Winslow, trembled in every limb. He called it a fraud--an absurd, a ludicrous invention, an idle deceit, a scheme only fit to frighten a child. But yet he gazed upon the parchment, yet his limbs shook; notwithstanding every effort, yet his heart sunk; and he thought of the injured and the dead; he thought of his violated promises, his unfeeling abandonment, his brutal repulse of the prayer for mercy and support; and he felt, ay, he felt in the heart of the spirit, that if ever the dead are permitted to revisit earth and warn those who have wronged them of approaching retribution, his was a case in which such an awful interruption of the ordinary laws that govern all things might well take place: in short, that he had called upon himself a special curse, and might well expect a special punishment.
Ere he could nerve himself to throw off the first dark impression, the door opened suddenly; and with a fearful start Sir William Winslow sank into a chair. The next instant his brother stood before him.
"What brings you here?" cried the baronet, recovering himself the next moment; "what brings you to this house? I thought, Sir, we had parted not to meet again."
"You were mistaken, Sir William," answered Chandos, shutting the door behind him. "Events have taken place since we parted which render our meeting again necessary. When I left you, I told you I would never enter your house again; but in coming hither I only come to my own."
"Your own!" exclaimed Sir William; "what do you mean? Have you gone mad?"
"Far from it, my brother," answered Chandos, taking a chair and seating himself before him; "let us not begin, William, with violence and altercation. What may result from our conversation, God knows; but let it, at all events, commence with calmness. That I bear you no ill will, you ought to feel; for when your life was in my power I spared it: nay, I spare it still."
"It is false," cried Sir William Winslow; "you have no power over my life; you never have had. It was your own was in danger."
Chandos commanded himself: "You are very foolish to believe," he said, "that deeds such as you have done, can ever be done in perfect secrecy. Two words spoken by me atmytrial foryourcrime, would have brought forward such a mass of evidence against you, that by no subtlety could you have escaped. I saw you strike the blow--ay, and repeat it, as the old man fell; but my testimony would have been of little avail, perhaps, unless corroborated. But corroboration was not wanting. There were other eyes that saw you go down with him; there were other ears that heard your angry words; there were those too who saw you return; there were persons who watched your agitation, and your wild whirling conversation, and drew the right deduction. But, more than all, in your case there was a motive for the deed, which explained all, and rendered it more horrible. Shall I tell you what that motive was?"
Sir William Winslow sat silent, with his eyes bent down upon the floor; and after a pause, Chandos went on. "You learned that night, that your victim had discovered you had burnt your father's will to wrong your brother; he taxed you with it; and you killed him!--Be silent!--Do not deny it; but listen to me. I have the proofs, strong and speaking proofs, of the crime with which he charged you, as well as of the other. I know every item of the will, each legacy that it contained; and I know, moreover, what is of greater importance still--the very moment, and the very place at which you destroyed it. Shall I tell you where and when? In the strong room at Elmsly, on the night after my father's death. Alone, and with the door closed, you thought no eyes saw you; but you were mistaken. Everything that you did was observed by one competent to bear witness of the facts, and I now ask you, William Winslow, whether you will drive me to bring forward that witness in a court of justice? For, of one thing be perfectly assured, that Winslow Abbey shall not be sold; and that you shall do me justice, either voluntarily, or by compulsion."
He spoke slowly; and during the time that he did speak his brother's hardy and resolute spirit had leisure to recover itself, and prepare for resistance,
"You are violent, I see, as ever. But let me inform you that you are mistaken--mistaken, first, as to your facts, and secondly as to the person you have to deal with. Do you not know, Sir," he continued, changing his whole manner, and assuming the stern and overbearing tone more natural to him: "do you not know that I am not a man to be bullied or insulted with impunity?"
"I neither bully nor insult you, Sir William Winslow," replied his brother; "I tell you plain and undeniable facts. I do so in order that you may spare yourself and me the pain of forcing me, much against my will, to compel the concession of my just demands."
"And pray what are your sweet demands?" asked Sir William Winslow, with his lip curling.
"The execution of my father's last will," answered Chandos. "If your memory fail you as to the particulars, I can refresh it from a paper in my pocket."
A momentary shade of hesitation appeared upon the face of Sir William Winslow; but it passed away again immediately, and he answered boldly, "The only will, Sir, that your father left has been proved, and is in course of execution. In that I find no right or title given to you to interfere with the disposal of Winslow Abbey; and I rather imagine you will think twice, before you afford the world the disgraceful spectacle of a younger brother attempting to dispossess the elder of his patrimonial property."
"You did not go to Elmsly, I perceive, Sir William," said Chandos, "or you would have discovered, before now, that such calculations upon my forbearance are erroneous. When you do go there, you will find a notice in due form, not to proceed with the pretended sale of that which is not yours; and probably a letter from Lord Overton, to tell you that he has received my protest against the whole transaction between you and him, regarding Winslow Abbey."
"You have not done it," cried Sir William, starting up.
"You are mistaken; I have!" replied Chandos, firmly; "I have taken the first step in a course which I will tread unremittingly to the end--if I am driven to do so. But I beg of you, I beseech you, to think of the consequences, and to spare me the pain. Remember, I entreat, what must be proved in the course of such a suit. I shall have to prove," he continued, "that poor Roberts discovered in the drawer of the library here, a memorandum in my father's own handwriting, of having given a signed copy of the will to you. I shall have to prove, by the same witnesses, who were present when that memorandum was found, that he came over in haste to Northferry, to bear me the important information; and that he was murdered before he reached me. I shall have to prove that he believed that you had burned the will: perhaps I shall have to prove, also, that he told you so as you stood together by the fish-pond at Northferry, the moment before his death."
His voice sunk almost to a whisper as he spoke; and a livid paleness spread over Sir William Winslow's face.
Chandos thought he had produced some effect, and he went on more eagerly. "Oh, William!" he said, "consider, and do what is right; for the sake of our father's and our mother's memory; for the sake of the honour of our name and race--for your own sake, if not for mine, do me justice. Remember, O remember, that even to save my own life I would not peril yours; that I abandoned and would not use the plain, straightforward defence which would have freed me from danger and anxiety in a moment; that I would not be a witness against a brother; that I would not bring an accusation against you, even to cast the burden from myself--an accusation which, once made, would have been supported by a thousand other facts--by the testimony of her who heard you speaking with poor Roberts, by the testimony of those who saw you walking with him, by the evidence of the man who witnessed your return to the house, by that of your own servants, who must have seen things which could leave no doubt."
Sir William sank into his chair again, and grasped the arm tight, but made no answer.
"Remember that I forbore," continued Chandos; "and do me simple justice. But hear why I forbore:--I believed that you struck the fatal blow under the influence of blind and headlong passion; but I knew that a jury would not take that into account, when they found the crime committed tended to cover another crime. I think so still: I do believe, I do trust that with time for thought, that with any pause for consideration, you would not deliberately have brought that old man's gray hair to the dust, even to hide the wrong that you did me."
"I did you no wrong," muttered Sir William Winslow; "this is my patrimonial inheritance. You have no right to it."
"You know at this moment," answered Chandos; "that my father left it to me, because he was well aware that you do not value it as I do."
Sir William Winslow set his teeth hard, and said from between them, in a low, bitter voice, "You shall never possess it!"
"Is that your last word upon the subject," asked Chandos.
Sir William Winslow nodded his head, and answered, slowly and deliberately, "The very last."
"Then there is no resource," said the young gentleman, in a tone more of sadness than irritation; and turning to the door he left the room.
A few steps down the corridor, he found Lockwood and the keeper standing together, silent; but he was too much agitated by all that had taken place to think of the motives which brought them there.
"Come, Lockwood," he said, in a low voice; "it is all in vain. He will yield to no inducements. Where is Faber?"
"Down at my house still," answered Lockwood; "he is not likely to come out, for he is as timid as a hare."
"He had better not see my brother any more till after the trial," answered Chandos. "I must go down and speak with him;" and walking hastily away with Lockwood, he left the Abbey and crossed the park.
When they entered the little front room in Lockwood's house, they found everything exactly as they had left it, except, indeed, that the unsnuffed candles had guttered down nearly into the sockets. When they came to try the inner door, however, in search of Faber, they found it locked; and it was only when the young man heard the voices of Chandos and his half-brother calling to him, that he ventured to speak or come forth. Even then he was in a terrible state of agitation; and his first words were, "Oh, Mr. Winslow, I cannot, I dare not go up to the Abbey, or see your brother."
"I do not think it necessary or right that you should," replied Chandos. "You had better come with me to the little village inn, and go over with me to S---- to-morrow. You can thence write to Sir William, informing him that you have made up your mind to tell the whole truth regarding the will."
"I won't date the letter," said Faber; "and if you stay long at S----, depend upon it he will come over, and find us out."
Sad as he was, Chandos could not refrain a smile; but he replied, "Do not be alarmed, I will take care no harm happens to you. Moreover, I shall only remain in S---- a few hours with my solicitor. I shall then either go to Elmsly, to the house of poor Mr. Roberts, as I understand his cousin, who is his executor, has taken up his abode there for the time, or shall return to Northferry, as I find advisable. But if I go to Elmsly, I will not ask you to go with me. Now, Lockwood, I think I will set out for the inn; but you had better either come over with us now, or join us early to-morrow morning; for there is much I wish to say to you, and your presence, too, may be needed at S----."
"I will come now," said Lockwood; "there is no use of losing time.Carpe diem, master Chandos. Only let me leave my place safe; for these candles have been dropping perpendiculars too long."
Thus saying, he bolted the windows in both the rooms, shut and locked the front door, extinguished the lights, and then led his two guests out by the back door into the lane which ran under the park wall.
The walk through the narrow and tortuous roads passed nearly in silence; for Chandos was sad, as well as thoughtful; and Lockwood, though somewhat curious to know what had taken place between the brothers, did not like to inquire, especially in the presence of Faber. Nor was it a subject on which Chandos could venture to speak. He saw and knew that Lockwood entertained suspicions in regard to his brother's share in the death of poor Roberts, which were but too just; but he could not tell him the words which had passed between himself and Sir William Winslow, without confirming those suspicions--without converting them into certainties. He did not choose to do so. He had resolved indeed to let events take their course; to claim his own boldly; and if discovery and destruction fell on him who opposed his right, to let it fall; but not by any spontaneous act of his to move the tottering rock which hung impending over a brother's head.
They arrived at the inn; they sat down in a small, neat, cheerful room; but still they remained silent, till at length Faber rose, saying he was tired, and would go to bed. As soon as he had retired, Chandos saw questions hanging upon Lockwood's lips; but he stopped them at once in his usual bold and decided way.
"Ask nothing, Lockwood," he said, before the other spoke. "My brother is resolute: so am I. What passed between us must rest between us. My plan at present is to go over to S----; and after seeing my solicitor there, to proceed with him perhaps to Elmsly, where I hope to find some confirmation of the facts of my case. Indeed there may be, not unlikely, a draft of the will. You must make a formal statement of all you know regarding the memorandum; we must induce Faber to do the same; and when we have collected all the information which is to be procured, I will lay it before counsel, and proceed as they advise. Let us now to bed; for I would fain set out to-morrow as soon after dawn as possible; for this is a business in which no time must be lost."