CHAPTER XXVI.
We once wandered, dearly beloved reader, you and I together, over some steep bare hills which lie between Winslow Park and Northferry, watching Chandos in his gardener's guise, as he travelled towards the house of Mr. Tracy. Those hills, not at all unlike the Mendips in some of their features, were somewhat different in others. The high road took the most sterile and desolate part of them, where the curlew loved to dwell in solitude, and the wild plover laid her spotted eggs. But here and there, in their long range--which might extend some five-and-thirty miles from the spot where they began to tower above the plain in one county to that where they bend the head again in another--were some dells and valleys, in which the woods nestled and the streams glided on. The river which Chandos had swam at Winslow, and which, passing on, increasing in size, gave to the village or small town near Mr. Tracy's property the name it bore, by reason of what is called a horse-ferry established there from time immemorial, had at some period of the world's history undertaken the troublesome task of forcing a way for itself through the opposing barrier of hill, and had somehow succeeded. It is wonderful what feats rivers and people will perform when they are driven into a corner, and have no way out of it but by a great effort. Then, when they have accomplished their task, how they rejoice in the triumphant exertions of their vigour, and play in scorn with the obstacles they have surmounted.
In a deep valley amongst those hills, seldom if ever trodden by human foot--for there was wanting footing for man or beast in many parts of the gorge--is one scene of exceeding beauty, well worthy of being more frequently visited than it has been. I know not whether in the spring, when the young leaves coming out decorate the sides of the dell with every hue of yellow and green, or in the autumn, when the mellow brown and red of the decaying year spreads a melancholy splendour over the woods, the picture is more beautiful; but to see it in its best aspect must always be when the tears, either of the year's wayward youth or of its sorrowful age, have been pouring down for some days before. The reason is this,--that over a high shelf of rock, the river, having overcome all the obstructions of the previous way, bounds down towards the goal to which its eager course tends in the distant plains, then first in sight, and the boughs of a thousand kinds of trees and shrubs wave round the rejoicing waterfall as if in triumph. It is not indeed with one boisterous leap that the river springs from the height, some fifty feet above, to the tumbling pool beneath; but as if at two great steps it strides upon its way, setting one white foot in foam upon a rocky point about half-way down, and then again another in the depth of the valley. A projecting point of crag, upon which a sapling ash-tree has rooted itself, stands out between the two falls; and round the point, scattered amongst the roots of the trees, lie numerous large blocks of stone, riven from the rocks above, in times the remoteness of which is told by the yellow and white lichens and green moss with which they are covered.
About a hundred yards in front of the waterfall, one fine day in the early spring of the year, when several hours of heavy rain during the preceding night had gorged the river, and given the cataract the voice of thunder, sat the gipsey woman, Sally Stanley, with her picturesque costume in its varied and bright colouring, contrasting beautifully with the cold gray stone, the rushing water, and the brown tints of the uncovered branches; while, here and there, an early green leaf, or the warm reddish brown of the unevolved buds, served to harmonize in some degree the scene with the glowing hues of her dress, or at all events to render the contrast not too strong. Nobody else was seen in the neighbourhood; and yet there were the three cross sticks, with the suspended pot, the glowing wood fire well piled up, and one small dingy tent between two large masses of stone. The woman sat beside the pot and sewed, with her left shoulder turned towards the waterfall, and her eyes apparently looking down the dell.
Opposite to her, spanning the river, was a little rude bridge, made with two trunks of trees, joining a narrow path on the one side to its continuation on the other which might be seen winding from shelf to shelf of the rock in its way to the prolongation of the valley above.
Sally Stanley sat and sewed, as we have said, an unusual occupation for a gipsey; and while she sewed she sang, a much more frequent custom of her people. But to neither affair did she seem to give much attention, turning her ear towards the stream and path, as if for some expected voice or footfall.
At length a step was heard; but she made no sudden movement, and with her head bent, listened still, slowly turning her face in the direction of the descending path, so as to gain a sight of the person who was coming down, before he crossed the river. The figure which appeared was that of a man in the prime of life--in the early prime, well dressed after a country fashion, bearing himself with a free and easy air, and, with his well-turned powerful limbs, and fine cut features, presenting the aspect of as handsome a man as one would wish to see.
A faint, almost sad smile came over the face of the gipsey woman; but she took not the slightest notice till the traveller was in the midst of the bridge, when, dropping the coarse blue stocking she was mending, she advanced towards him, and addressed him in the usual cant of her tribe, begging him to cross her hand and have his destiny told, and promising him as pretty a fortune, and as extensive a matrimonial connexion, as any moderate man could well desire.
Lockwood, for he it was who now approached, laughed, and replied, "I have not time now, my good girl; for I am hungry, thirsty, sad, and sorry, and have a long way to go before I can get food, drink, or consolation."
"Not so, Master, not so," answered Sally Stanley; "you only cross my hand with a pretty little half-crown, and I will give you food, drink, and consolation, such as you cannot get where you are going, I am sure."
"That is no bad offer either," answered Lockwood; "and I may as well sit down by the side of your pot, and have a chat with you, as go and eat bread and cheese, and drink beer by myself in a frowsy tap-room."
"A great deal better," said the woman with a laugh. "Where could you be more comfortable than here, if you were going to the best house in all the land? Do you think that man builds better than God?"
"Why, no," answered Lockwood; "and in those respects I am a bit of a gipsey myself. I am as fond of the free air as any of you, and do not much fear foul weather, even when Æolus unchains all his blasts. But come, let us see your promised fare. I dare say it is of the best in the county, as you certainly have the choice of all that is going. Here is your half-crown for you."
He was soon seated close to where the woman had been previously sitting, with a deep tin dish upon his knee, while she, with a large wooden ladle, dipped into the pot and brought up a mixed mess, very savory to the nose, and consisting a various materials, whereof a fine turkey's leg was at all events the most conspicuous. Bread she had none to give him, but a hard biscuit supplied its place very well, and to say sooth, Lockwood, whose appetite was sharpened by a long walk, enjoyed his meal exceedingly.
"Now then," he said, "for your drink and your consolation;" and the woman brought him forth from her little tent a black bottle, the odour emitted by which, as soon as the cork was pulled out, announced it as that liquor to which we justly give the same name that eastern nations bestow upon an evil spirit. But Lockwood would none of it, and while he finished the contents of the platter, she brought him a large jug of water from the stream.
"Well," he said, after taking a long draught, "I must now wend on my way."
"You are in mighty haste," she answered, "to set out for a place you will not reach."
"How do you know I will not reach it?" he asked, smiling in his strength.
"Because I know all about you," answered Sally Stanley, "where you are going, why you are going, what has been in your thoughts all the way from Winslow hither."
"You are mighty wise," exclaimed Lockwood. "I know well enough that you gipsies are famous for fishing out of gentlemen's servants all about their masters and mistresses, but I did not know you troubled your heads with such people as myself. As to my thoughts, however, there I defy you."
"Do you?" said the woman, laughing aloud. "Now I will show you. You have been thinking of Chandos Winslow, your half-brother, and of the murder of good old Roberts, the steward; and you have been fancying that another hand, as near akin to your own, might have shed the blood that is charged upon Chandos Winslow's; and you are going down to Northferry to see what you can make out of the case."
"A marvellous good guess," replied Lockwood; "but I now recollect you, my pretty brown lass. You are the mother of the boy down at the cottage; and, like all your people, you are good at putting two and two together."
"I am the boy's mother," answered the woman; "but you are wrong in thinking that is my only way of knowing. I see more things than you fancy, hear more than people dream of; and I tell you, you will not get to Northferry to-day nor to-morrow either; nor will you go to the assizes, nor give your evidence in court: and if you did, you would only mar what you try to mend."
"That won't stop me," answered Lockwood sturdily; "truth is truth, and it shall be told: 'Magna est veritas, et prævalebit,' my pretty lass. I will tell my plain, straightforward tale in spite of any one; but I do not know what you have to do with it, and am rather curious to hear; for, to tell you the truth, I do not like you the better for wanting to stop me. If there were any gratitude in human nature, you would be grateful to Chandos Winslow, for he did all in his power to make your boy a good scholar and a good Christian: though, by the way, I suppose you care very little about his being either."
The woman's eye flashed for an instant, with a very wild and peculiar gleam in it, which I think I mentioned before, and she answered vehemently, "You are wrong, Henry Lockwood, you are wrong; I am grateful to him for everything;" and then she burst into a flood of tears.
Lockwood gazed at her with some emotion, and then put his hand kindly upon her arm, saying, "I did not mean to grieve you, my good woman; but still I do not understand you rightly: you say that you are grateful to this young gentleman; and yet you would prevent me from doing what I can to save him when his life is in danger for another man's act. You seem to know so much, that perhaps you know more; for your people are always prying about, and it is not unlikely that some of them saw the deed done. However, from what you said just now, and from the way in which you divined what I had been thinking about, I am sure you do not suspect Chandos Winslow, and that your suspicions take the same direction as my own; though mine are well nigh certainties, and yours can be but doubts."
"Are yours well nigh certainties?" she exclaimed eagerly. "Can you prove it? Can you satisfy judge and jury? But, no," she added, in a mournful tone, "it were better not--you cannot prove it--you can have nothing but suspicions either. You did not see your bad brother's hand strike the blow--you cannot tell what was the provocation given--you can mention no cause for a man killing his own steward."
"Yes I can," answered Lockwood. "The blow struck I certainly did not see; for I was well nigh two miles off at the time."
"I know that as well as you do," said the woman with a laugh; "I know where you were, and all about you. But what is it you can prove if you were so far distant?"
"I can prove that there was a cause," answered Lockwood, "a cause for the act in one case, and none in the other; for the very night before, poor Roberts found a note in Sir Harry's own handwriting, declaring that he had left a copy of his second will, dated not five years ago, in the hands of his eldest son. Roberts showed me the memorandum himself, the moment after he had found it, and he was as well aware as I am that Sir William has destroyed the will, because it did not suit his purposes. Was that not cause enough for giving a knock on the head to one who possessed such dangerous information? Besides, there is a great deal more: the very next day he came over to seize on the furniture in those two rooms, and lock it all up; but I have been beforehand with him. All the papers that Roberts had found were safe enough, and the furniture was moved to farmer Richards's great barn and under my lock and key. He sent me down word that he would prosecute me. I told him to do so if he dared. But now I must go, my good woman; and I say the truth shall be told, whatever comes of it."
"Do you think, Lockwood," asked the gipsey woman, "that if Chandos Winslow himself had seen the murder committed, he would bring such a charge against his brother?"
"Perhaps not," replied Lockwood; "but that is not the question. Here am I, no way partial in the business, whose duty it is to an innocent man to tell the truth, whether he wishes it or not; and therefore I shall go on to Northferry at once, and see Mr. Tracy, and tell him all I know. If he does not do what is right, I will go on to the lawyers and tell them."
"Mr. Tracy you cannot and you will not see," said Sally Stanley. "Have you not heard he was arrested for debt, and taken to London yesterday afternoon; and the two girls and their uncle are gone up after him this morning?"
"Arrested?" exclaimed Lockwood; "what! the rich Mr. Tracy arrested? he who was supposed to be the most wealthy man in all the county?"
"Aye, there it is, Harry Lockwood," said the woman: "that is the difference between your people and the gipsies. We are content with food and clothing, the open sunshine, and the free air; but you are never content. If you are poor you must be rich; if you are rich, you must be richer. The madness of gain is upon you all; and this wealthy Mr. Tracy must needs speculate, to make himself more wealthy, till he has made beggars of himself and his children. All on account of these railroads, with which they are putting the whole land in fetters; he who, a month ago, was rolling in riches, has not so much in his pocket as Sally Stanley, who once begged her bread at a rich man's door, and was driven away with a cur at her heels. You will not see Mr. Tracy for a long time to come."
"Then I will go to the lawyers," rejoined Lockwood; "for the story shall be told."
"No, it shall not," answered the woman, "that I am resolved. I tell you, you will spoil all; and if you leave the matter alone, he is quite safe."
"I will not trust to that," answered Lockwood. "There, take off your hand!--you are not such a fool as to think you can stop me;" and at the same moment he shook off the grasp which she had laid upon his arm, somewhat rudely and impatiently, perhaps.
The next instant his collar was seized by a stout man, who sprang from behind the masses of broken stone, while another leaped out and caught his right arm, and a third seized him round the legs and tried to throw him down. His great strength, however, sufficed to frustrate their efforts for a moment or two. He disengaged his arm, aimed a blow at the man who grasped his collar, which was parried with difficulty, and kicked off the other gipsey who was grasping his legs; but three or four more came running down from amongst the woods, and after a sturdy resistance he was overpowered and his hands tied.
"What the devil do you mean by ill-treating one of our women?" demanded a tall, powerful fellow, of about fifty years of age. But Lockwood only replied by a loud laugh; and the gipsey grinned at the open falsehood of his own pretext.
"What shall we do with him, Sally?" said the latter, turning to the woman; "he must be looked sharp after if we are to keep him, for he is a rough customer, I can tell you."
"Ah, you have found that out," cried Lockwood; "you will find me rougher still before I have done with you."
"Hush! hush!" said Sally Stanley; "take him away and keep him where we agreed upon. I will find those who will watch him well. You had better go with them quietly, young man; for you must see by this time that there is no use of struggling."
"Not much, I believe," answered Lockwood. "But I should wish to know, before I go, my good woman, what it is you want, and what you are to do with me."
"To keep you from making mischief," replied Sally Stanley. "There, take him away, lads, and I will come up directly; but mind you keep him safe."