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."