CHAPTER XLII.
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 at my trial for your crime, 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."