"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."