"Ah, I know what you mean," answered Lockwood; "I heard of it at the time: seven or eight years ago. You mean that story of Susan Grey, the Maid of the Mill, as they called her, who drowned herself."
Chandos nodded his head, but made no reply; and Lockwood went on,
"Ay, I remember her well; she was as pretty a creature as ever I saw, and always used to put me in mind of the ballad of the 'Nut-brown Maid.' You know, the old man died afterwards. He never held up his head after your brother took her away. He became bankrupt in two years, and was dead before the third was over. And the ruins of the mill stand upon the hill, with the wind blowing through the plankless beams, as through a murderer's bones in chains on a gibbet. But, after all, though it was a very bad case, Sir William was but following his father's example. The Greeks used to say, 'Bad the crow, bad the egg!' and he trod in Sir Harry's footsteps."
"No, no, no!" said Chandos, vehemently; "my father might seduce, but he did not abandon to neglect and scorn. He might carry unhappiness--and he did--to many a hearth; but he did not, for the sake of a few pitiful pounds, cast off to poverty and misery the creature he had deluded. I know the whole story, Lockwood. This was the cause of the first bitter quarrel between my brother and myself. I was a boy of but seventeen then. But often I used to stop at the mill, when out shooting, and get a draught of good beer from the miller, or his pretty daughter. I was very fond of the girl, not with an evil fondness; for, as I have said, I was a boy then, and she was several years older than myself. But I thought her very beautiful and very good, blithe as a lark, and, to all appearance, innocent as an early summer morning. I saw her but two days before she went away; I saw her, also, on the very day of her death, when she returned, pale, haggard, in rags that hardly hid the proofs of her shame, to seek some compassion from him who had ruined and deserted her; ay, and driven her mad. It was I, who went in and told him she was in the park; and I did so fiercely enough, perhaps. He called me an impertinent fool; but went out to speak to her, while I ran hastily to my own room to bring her what little store of money I had; for I doubted my brother. What passed between them I do not well know; but, when I came to where they stood in the park, under the lime trees, not far from the high bank over the river, my brother's face was flushed and his look menacing; he was speaking fiercely and vehemently; and in a moment the girl turned from him and ran away up the bank. I followed to console and give her assistance, never dreaming of what was about to happen; but when I came up, I found some labourers, who were at work there, running down the little path to the river side. One of them had his coat and hat off, and, to my surprise, plunged into the water. But I need not tell you more of that part of the story; for you know it all already. I went back to the house, and straight to my father's room, and I told him all. There, perhaps, I was wrong; but indignation overpowered reflection, and I acted on the impulse of the moment. A terrible scene followed: my brother was sent for; my father reproached him bitterly for his ungenerous abandonment of the poor girl. He again turned his fury upon me, and struck me; and, boy as I was, I knocked him down at a blow before my father's face. Perhaps it is a just punishment for that violence, that to his generosity my fate in life was left. But yet it is very strange; for my father never forgave him; and me he was always fond of."
"Very strange, indeed," answered Lockwood. "But this brings us by a diagonal line to what I have got to tell you. Mr. Roberts has been over at the Abbey for these last two days, and is putting all things in order. A number of the tenants have been sent for, especially those who have not got leases, but stand upon agreements; and he has given them to know, that he is likely to quit your brother's service at the end of three months."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Chandos. "I am sorry for that. But yet it does not much surprise me. He and William are not made to act together. What else has he done?"
"Why, he has behaved very well," answered Lockwood; "and I believe he is an honest man. He left the people to judge for themselves, whether they would demand leases upon their agreements, or not. But it has got abroad, that the Abbey is to be immediately pulled down, all the furniture sold, and perhaps the estates sold too. At all events, the park is to be divided into two farms; though Mr. Roberts laughed and said, he did not know who would take them, with my rights of free warren over both."
Chandos leaned his head upon his hand, and closed his eyes with a look of bitter mortification. "This is sad," he said, at length: "the fine old Abbey, which has been in our family for three centuries! Well, well! Every one has a bitter cup to drink at some time; and this, I suppose, is the beginning of mine. Everything to be sold, did you say, Lockwood? The family pictures and all?"
"All of them," answered Lockwood; "everything but what is left to you: that is, the furniture of those two rooms and the books."
"I must have my mother's picture, let it cost what it will," said Chandos. "I will write to Roberts about it, if you will give him the note."