"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 see you;" 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.