CHAPTER XLV.
The ground-floor of Sir William Winslow's house at Elmsly, contained as splendid a suite of rooms as any in England; and nothing that taste could do to give grace to the decorations, or that skill could effect to afford that comfort of which we are so fond, had been neglected by the last possessor, during a period of three years before his death. Sir William Winslow, however, was in some sort a stranger to the house, which was now his own: for, during several years, great coldness had subsisted between himself and his father. He had spent much of his time on the Continent; and had not, in fact, been at Elmsly for two years, when he was summoned thither in haste, a few hours before Sir Harry's death. The interview between himself and his brother Chandos at Winslow Abbey took place on the Tuesday; and on the Thursday following, about nine o'clock at night, he was seated in the large dining-room of the magnificent suite I have mentioned, with the clergyman of the parish opposite to him.
The table, looking like a little island, in the ocean of Turkey carpet which flowed around, was covered with the desert, and with sundry decanters of choice wines; and two servants handed the plates of fruit and preserves to their master, and their master's guest. When this ceremony had been performed, the attendants left the room; and a desultory conversation, mingled with wine took place between Sir William and the clergyman. The latter was a stout, portly man, with a good deal of the animal in his original composition; but rigidly and pertinaciously kept down by a strong moral sense, and high religious feelings. The motives which had produced so speedy an invitation on the part of Sir William Winslow were various: but one was, that Sir William did not like to be left alone. His own thoughts were unpleasant companions. Again, he was anxious to retrieve some part of the good opinions he had lost. He felt that he had undervalued character; and, of late, things had appeared important to him, which he had looked upon with contempt before. Amongst others, some sort of religious opinions began to be objects of desire. He did not much care what, for his notions on the subject were very indefinite; but he felt a want, a craving for something that could give him the support which he possessed not in his own heart--for something that would afford him hope, when there was nought within him but despair. He had heard--he knew, indeed--that the Christian religion promised pardon for offences, hope to the sinner, peace to the repentant. And he sent to the clergyman to seek a certain portion of religion, just as a thirsty labourer would send to a public-house for a jug of beer.
The conversation, as I have said, was of a desultory kind: the subject of religion was approached in a timid, uncertain sort of way by Sir William Winslow; more as an opening than anything else: and the clergyman answered in a few brief, but very striking words; which produced a deep effect. He treated the matter less doctrinally than philosophically, and in such a manner, that Sir William Winslow was inclined to fancy what he said had a personal application to himself; although the good man had no such intention.
"It is beautifully and happily ordained," said the clergyman, in answer to something which had preceded, "that the commission of crime, and the reproaches of conscience, very frequently, by the desolation which they produce in worldly things, should awaken in us the conviction of another state; give us a sense of our immortality; and teach the man who has only known himself as a mere animal, that he possesses a spirit, to be lost or saved, to live for ever to punishment or felicity. That conviction once gained, and the question naturally follows: 'What can I do to be saved?' The Word of God replies 'Repent'; and repentance to salvation is not unfrequently the consequence."
Sir William Winslow mused; but after a time he replied, in a discursive manner, "It is a curious consideration what this same spirit can be. I doubt not its existence; for I feel a moving power within me, apart from, and independent of, mere will. But what is it? I see it not. No one has ever seen it."
"Hold, hold," cried the clergyman; "you must not say that. The records of Scripture bear witness, that spirits have been seen; and it can be shown philosophically, that there is no reason for supposing such a thing impossible."
The worthy pastor had been set upon a subject which was a favourite one with him, and he went on, citing history after history, and instance after instance, to prove that, under certain circumstances, there were means of communication established between the dead and the living. He even went so far as to argue that it would be absurd to suppose it otherwise; that granting that there is such a thing as spirit, and that spirit is immortal, all analogy would show that there must be a power in the disembodied of producing certain influences upon their brethren in the flesh. "You cannot point out any order of beings," he said, "from the most imperfect to the most perfect, which has not some knowledge and communication with those next to it in the great scale of animated nature."
Sir William Winslow listened, but replied not, keeping his teeth tight shut, and his lips compressed; and the clergyman proceeded in the same strain, till the clock struck ten, when he suddenly rose to depart.
His host would willingly have detained him a little longer; for, as I have said, he loved not to be alone; but he was too haughty to press it beyond one request; and the clergyman, who was a man of habits, always retired at ten.
When he was gone Sir William walked into the drawing-room and ordered coffee. He took it very strong, and that agitated rather than calmed his nerves. He walked up and down for half-an-hour, and then he said to himself, "I will go and look over those letters. There is no use in going to bed, I should not sleep." He then ordered candles in the library; but he would not go thither till they were lighted. When that was done he walked slowly in, and took up some of the unopened letters with which the table was strewed. The second which he broke was signed "Overton;" and after having run his eye down the page, he threw it away with a look of anger. He would read no more, and sitting down in the large arm chair, where so often his father had sat, he gnawed his lip, with his eyes bent upon the ground.
The clock struck eleven, and Sir William started in his seat and counted it. A minute or two after, he took out his pocket-book, and drew from it a folded piece of vellum. He did not then look at the contents, however, but thrust it into a drawer of the table. Then, rising from his seat, he walked to the window and looked out. It was a beautiful moonlight night, the soft, silvery rays resting on the lawns and woods of the park, and the little stars, faint and sleepy in the sky. He gazed for several minutes; but I know not whether he beheld anything but the objects of his own fancy. Then he walked up and down the room again, and twice stood for a moment or two opposite the drawer in the library table. At length he suddenly pulled it open, took out the vellum, unfolded it, and read the strange contents.
"By--," he exclaimed, after thinking for a moment, "this is devilish strange! it is the very day she drowned herself!" and the vellum trembled in his hand. "I won't go. Why should I go?"
He looked at the writing again: "She will come and fetch me!" he repeated, with his lip curling; "I should like to see her;" and the proud spirit seemed to rise up again in full force. But then he shook his head sadly, and murmured, "Poor girl! she told me once before she would come, and she did--to her own destruction."
The clock struck the half hour, and in great agitation--agitation scarcely sane--Sir William Winslow walked up and down the room again, with a wild, irregular step, his eyes rolling in his head, as if he saw some strange sight, and his hand frequently carried to his brow, and pressed tight upon his forehead.
At the end of about ten minutes, he stopped, gazed vacantly upon the floor, and then, with a sudden start, exclaimed aloud, "I will go to her! She shall not say that I feared her. She shall not come here--no, no--yet I believe, alive or dead, she would do it, if she said it.--It is her hand too. That name, how often have I seen it with different feelings! Poor Susan!" and walking out of the library, and through the corridor, he took his hat and quitted the house.
The moon lighted him on his way through the park. He could see every pebble in the ground; but yet his step was as irregular as if the way had been rough and rude. Nevertheless he went very quick; he seemed impatient; and when he found the park-gates shut, he did not wait to awaken the people of the lodge, but cut across to a stile which went over the paling; and there he issued forth into the road. About two hundred yards before him rose the church, with its good broad cemetery, encircled by a low wall. The moon shone full on the white building, rising like a spectre amongst the dark trees and fields around.
Sir William Winslow stopped suddenly, crossed his arms upon his chest, and thought. Then the heavy bell of the church clock began to strike the hour of midnight; and walking rapidly on he reached the gate of the churchyard, while the sound of the last stroke still swung trembling in the air. He passed through the little turnstile, and walked up the path. There was a new tombstone close upon the right, which he had never seen before; and his eyes fixed upon it. The letters of the inscription were all plain in the moonlight, and the name "Roberts" stared him in the face, with these words following, "Brutally murdered, by some person unknown, on the fifth of February, one thousand eight hundred and forty-five, in the sixtieth year of his age."
Sir William Winslow trembled violently, and murmured, "Who has done this? Who has done this?"
His courage had well nigh deserted him entirely; and he paused, hardly able to go on, when a voice from the farther side of the cemetery asked, "Are you come?"
He knew the tongue, though it had sounded sweeter in other days; and striding forward, he answered, "I am here! Where are you?"
"Here," answered the voice from the direction of a tall mausoleum, over the mouth of the Winslow vault: "Come on!"
He advanced, but could perceive no one. He walked round the monument; the space was quite clear around. "Where are you? What would you with me?" he cried.
"I am where I have a right to be," answered the voice from a spot apparently below his feet. "I am amongst those from whom sprang a man who promised to make me one of them, and broke his promise. I am amongst your dead, William Winslow! Your father is on my right hand, and your mother on my left. Your place is here beside me, and will not be long vacant, if your spirit does not bow itself to repentance, your strong will does not yield to right."
"God of Heaven!" he cried, laying his hand upon the gate in the iron railing which surrounded the tomb, and shaking it violently; but instantly there was a low laugh, and a voice said, "Poor fool!--You ask," continued the voice, "what I would with you? For myself, I seek nothing. You can neither harm nor benefit me more. The time is past. The hour is gone by; and what you could once have done, is now beyond your power. But for our boy, you can do much; you can atone to the mother, by love to the child. Take him to yourself; own him as yours; and oh! above all things, teach him to avoid and to abhor such crimes as you yourself have committed."
"Our boy!" cried Sir William Winslow, "I knew not that you had one, Susan. Oh, Susan, in mercy, in pity, tell me where he is?"
"Ask your brother," answered the voice; "ask that kind, noble brother, whom you have wronged, who has been a father to your child, when you were depriving himself of his inheritance; who has taught him virtue, and honour, and the love of God. He will give him to your arms, if you show yourself worthy of him. Thus much for myself, William Winslow; but, oh that there were any power in prayers, to make you grant that which is needful for another."
"Speak, speak!" said he eagerly; "I will grant whatever you ask. I wronged you basely, I know; I broke my plighted word; I forfeited my honour given. Speak, Susan! Let me make atonement, as far as it can now be made."
"The other for whom I prayed is yourself," answered the voice. "Oh, William Winslow, beware. The cup is well nigh full. You cannot wake the dead; but you can do justice to the living. Bend your knees to God, and implore mercy; humble your heart even before men, and do not persist in evil. Restore what you have wrongly taken, and all may go well; but hear the last words that ever you will hear on earth, from her you wronged on earth: If you persist in the evil you can by a word redress, the crime that you think is buried for ever in darkness, will rise up into light by the consequences of your own acts. Such is judgment--such is retribution--such is the will of God. Amen."
"But of what particular wrong do you speak?" asked Sir William Winslow.
There was no answer, and he exclaimed, "Speak, Susan! speak!"
All was silent, and again and again he endeavoured to obtain a reply, but in vain.
At length, moving slowly away, he passed round the other side of the church, to avoid the grave of the steward, and soon reached the park. He hurried homeward; but he entered not his own house so speedily. For two long hours he walked backwards and forwards upon the terrace, with his head bent down and his eyes fixed upon the sand. Who shall undertake to detail the terrible turns of the struggle then within him. It was a battle between the whole host of darkness and the cherubim of the Lord. Fear, and Doubt, and Pride, and Vanity, and all their tribes were arrayed against the small, bright legion which had gained one small spot of vantage ground in his heart. Doubt and Fear he knew must remain for ever on this side of the grave, to hold that part of the castle to which he had given them admittance; but their very presence there made him anxious to exclude them from the rest; and he repeated a thousand times in spirit, "Would to God I had not burned that will! Would to God that aught would afford me a fair excuse for acting as it dictated! What can I do? Where can I turn? Heaven send me, light and help!"
Still the internal strife lasted long; and when at length he re-entered the house, body and mind felt worn and exhausted. His valet gazed at him with one of his quiet, serpent looks, and said, "You seem ill, Sir. Had you not better have some cordial?"
"No, no," answered Sir William Winslow, turning from him with a faint shudder; "I want nothing but rest. It matters not."
But that night he did not lie down to rest without bending the knee, and imploring mercy and protection. It was the first time for many years. It was the first night, too, that he had slept for more than an hour at a time for several months; but now he remained in slumber undisturbed till ten o'clock, and when he woke he felt the effect of repose. He rose, threw on his dressing-gown, and approached the glass on his dressing-table. He hardly knew the face that it reflected. He did not feel ill. Sleep had refreshed him; his limbs were strong and vigorous, but all colour had fled from his cheek. He was thenceforth as pale as the dead.
He then went to the window for air, and the first thing his eye lighted upon was his valet, advanced a step or two on the terrace, talking to a tall, stout man, of a very sallow complexion, in a long, brown great coat. Sir William Winslow's heart sunk, he knew not why. He did not like to see that Italian talking with any one since he had mentioned the spots of blood upon his coat; and he gazed for a moment at the servant as he stood with his back towards him, with feelings of pain and alarm. Suddenly a change came over him. He raised his head high, and his proud nostril expanded. "It matters not," he said to himself; "I will be no man's slave long. I will do Chandos justice--I will provide for my poor boy--see him--embrace him--and then that scoundrel shall go forth to do his worst."
With these thoughts he rang his bell sharply, and soon after descended to breakfast. His meal was speedily concluded; and going into the library, he wrote for some time. One paper which he covered seemed to be a mere note; but for the other he consulted several times a law book, which he took down out of the library.
When that was done, he rang again, and ordered the servant who appeared to send the butler, the bailiff, and the housekeeper to him, all together. Before they could be collected he had folded the note and addressed it to "Chandos Winslow, Esq.," and when the three persons he had sent for appeared, with some surprise at their unusual summons, he said, I wish you to witness my signature of this paper. Then taking the pen, he wrote his name at the bottom, saying, "This is my last will and testament." The witnesses put their hands to the paper and withdrew, each observing how ill their master looked, and arguing by the sudden signature of his will that he felt more unwell than he appeared.
The event became a matter of gossip in the housekeeper's room, and the Italian valet rubbed his forehead and looked thoughtful; but he had not much time for consideration before he was called to carry a note, which had just arrived, to Sir William, who had gone to his dressing-room previous to going out. The man looked at it somewhat wistfully as he took it up; but he dared not finger the envelope, and it was delivered without the contents having escaped by the way.
"Countermand my horse," said his master; "I will write an answer directly. Some one is waiting, of course."
"Yes, Sir William," replied the valet, and his master walked out at once, and descended to the library. There, he again spread out the letter before him, and read to the following effect:--
"The Golden Bull, Elmsly,
"May, 1845.
"Sir,--I am directed by my client, Chandos Winslow, Esq., to inform you, that from documents lately in the possession of Mr. Roberts, deceased, and from private marks thereon, in the handwriting of the late Sir Harry Winslow, of the true intent and meaning of which private marks the said Chandos Winslow is cognizant, he has reason to believe, that an authentic copy of the last will and testament of the aforesaid Sir Harry Winslow, Bart., signed with his name, and dated, '25th June, 1840,' is still to be found in a certain depository, at Elmsly House; hitherto unsearched by you: and, in consequence, I beg, in his name, to request that you will cause search to be made in the said place or depository, with all convenient speed, in the presence of myself, his attorney, or any other person or persons whom he may select: or otherwise, that you will sanction and permit the said search to be made by the said Chandos Winslow, Esq., or myself, as his attorney, in presence of yourself, or any other person or persons by yourself selected, as witnesses that the search or examination is well and properly made, without fraud or favour, by, Sir,
"Your most obedient Servant,
"Henry Miles,
"Attorney-at-Law and Solicitor to the firm of
Miles, Furlong, and Miles, S----."
"P. S. Sir, I am directed by my client to inform you, that he has no desire to be present in person at the proposed search, as he judges that, under circumstances, his visit to Elmsly might not be agreeable."
When he had read, Sir William Winslow held the letter up with a trembling hand, and there was evidently a renewed struggle in his bosom. But his eye rested on the note he had written to Chandos; and perhaps, he compared the feelings with which he had spontaneously addressed his brother, with those which were now excited by irritated pride, at what he conceived an attempt to drive him to that which he had been willing to do undriven. At all events, he smiled--very likely, at the first discovery of the secret springs of his own actions; and sitting down again--for he had risen for a moment--he wrote the following words:--
"Sir William Winslow presents his compliments to Mr. Miles, and begs to inform him that he is perfectly at liberty to make the proposed search at Elmsly. Sir William, however, would prefer that it should be made in the presence of his brother, Mr. Chandos Winslow, whom he will be happy to see at Elmsly, as soon as possible, for that purpose. He sincerely hopes that the will maybe found, as it may save some trouble; but, at the same time, he begs Mr. Miles to forward, or present the inclosed note (written some hours ago) to Mr. Winslow, begging him to understand that Sir William adheres to the contents, irrespective of the result of the search now demanded.
"Elmsly, &c."
The note was immediately despatched, and the master of the house leaned his head upon his hand in deep thought. He was disturbed by the entrance of the valet, who advanced with a low and humble bow, saying, "Could I speak with you for a moment, Sir?"
"No," replied the baronet, sternly; "I am engaged."
"But, Sir William," said the man.
"Leave the room, Sir!" thundered his master; "did you not hear me?"
The man obeyed; but as he quitted the library, he muttered, "Oh! very well."
Sir William Winslow felt he had gained something during the last few hours. It was courage of a peculiar sort. The day before he would not have found resolution so to answer a man, who, to a certain degree, had his life and honour in his hands. Now he had no hesitation; and as he sat and thought, he asked himself if it was the having taken the first step towards atonement which had restored to him his long-lost firmness. He thought it was; and he resolved to go on boldly. Perhaps he mistook the cause of the change in himself. His was one of those quick and irritable dispositions which cannot bear suspense of any kind, which will rather confront the utmost peril than wait an hour in fear; and the very fact of having taken a strong resolution gave the power to execute it. But still he fancied that the purpose of doing right, of making atonement, was the result of his renewed vigour; and the mistake was salutary.
In the meantime, the man whom he had dismissed from his presence so abruptly went out to one of the several backdoors of the house, and looked about, casting his eyes over the wood, which there came near the house. For a minute or two he seemed to be looking for something and not discovering it; but then, he beckoned with his finger, and a dark man, in a long great-coat, came across from under the trees and joined him.
They spoke in low tones, but eagerly, for about five minutes; and at last the dark man said, "No; we had better work separate. I will manage it, you'll see; and you can do the same if you do but frighten him enough. I must speak with the woman first; but I'll be back in an hour, if you think he'll be alone then."
"I dare say he will," answered the valet, "there are not many people come here now; but if there should be any one, you can wait about till they are gone."
"Very well," replied the other; and with a nod and a low laugh, he turned away, and left the Italian standing at the door.