A Whim, and Its Consequences / Collection of British Authors Vol. CXIV

by G. P. R. James

The sun had set before he reached the park; and walking slowly along under a row of broad chestnuts which bordered the paling on the east, he approached Lockwood's house, thoughtful, and perhaps more sad than when he had first visited it. But the house was all dark, and he rapped and tried the door in vain. Then thinking that perhaps the person he sought had gone up to the Abbey, he crossed the wide savannahs and groves of tall trees, and came upon the house towards the eastern angle. There were lights in several of the rooms, and a suspicion that his brother might be at the house crossed his mind. How to ascertain the fact without discovering himself, became the next question; but the night was very dark, the tall windows came down to within three feet of the ground of the terrace; the wind was high and noisy, so as to cover the sound of his footfalls, and in most of the rooms the curtains seemed not to have been drawn. He would look in, he thought, and see who were the tenants.

The rooms nearest to him he knew were those inhabited by the keeper, Garbett, and his wife; and passing on along the principal front, he paused at what had been called in his boyish days the little drawing-room. There were candles on the table, and two men within, one holding a light in his hand, the other mounted on a ladder, pasting printed numbers upon the old family pictures, previous to a sale. The next room, the great drawing-room, was dark; but the music-room beyond displayed to his eyes a tall, dry-looking person, in a frock coat and a yellow waistcoat, probably an auctioneer, striking the keys of an old piano which had stood there since his mother's days. Then came the boudoir, without lights, and a little ante-room, also in darkness. Beyond was the small study, the furniture of which had been bequeathed to himself, and in it was a faint light, which, when he looked through the windows, he perceived was afforded by the open door of the library adjoining. Going on a few steps, he paused and gazed, not doubting that if Lockwood was at the Abbey he would be there; but no such figure presented itself.

At the large table sat Mr. Faber, the late Sir Harry Winslow's secretary, and probably his son, with writing materials before him; and--opposite one of the large gothic bookcases, with a candle on a small table at his side--was Roberts, the steward. He was busily engaged with a set of strange-looking iron instruments on a ring, in what seemed to be picking the lock of one of the drawers, a range of which ran between the book-shelves above, and a row of cupboards below. The next instant, while Chandos was still gazing, the drawer was pulled out, and Roberts took forth a whole handful of papers. He threw one after the other down into a basket at his side with very little consideration, till suddenly he paused, looked earnestly at one of the few which remained in his hand, and then seemed moved by stronger emotions than Chandos had ever before observed in his calm and little perturbable countenance. The moment after he said something to Mr. Faber, and then Chandos heard him distinctly say, "Call him, call him."

The young secretary rose from the table, paused to look earnestly at the paper in the steward's hands, and then left the room. Roberts sat down and wrote, looking from time to time at the paper as if he were copying something inscribed upon it; and at the end of perhaps two minutes, Mr. Faber returned. As he entered the room his eyes turned towards the window where Chandos stood, and he suddenly lifted his hand and pointed. It was evident that he saw somebody looking in; but Chandos was sure that in the darkness, and at the distance at which he stood, his features could not be distinguished. He was agitated, and his thoughts troubled with all he had seen. He felt convinced that his brother was in the house, and had been sent for by Roberts. He feared an encounter with Sir William at that moment and in that garb. He feared himself and his own vehemence--it was a lesson he had lately learned; and hurrying away, he plunged into the woods, crossed the park again, and sought a village about two miles distant, where a little inn was to be found.

Entering with as composed an air as possible, Chandos Winslow asked for a room and some tea; and having been accommodated at once, for persons dressed like himself were frequent and honoured guest, he sat down to think.

What was the meaning, he asked himself, of the scene he had just beheld at the Abbey? It was evident that the drawers of the bookcases which had been left to him with all their contents of every kind, had been opened without his consent or knowledge. All that those two rooms contained, of every kind and description whatsoever, had been left to him by his father's will. The papers which he had seen taken out might be of infinite importance to him. Who could tell what might be done with them? Roberts he believed to be perfectly honest. Faber, though very weak, was kind and gentle; but his brother he felt he could not depend upon. His notions of right and wrong were anything but strict; and his ideas of his own privileges and rights distorted by that species of haughty selfishness, which makes despots of crowned monarchs and tyrants and unjust men in every walk of life, might induce him to read the legacy to his brother in a very different sense from the plain one, and lead him to take possession of the papers which had been found by his steward and his secretary.

Chandos thought long--sadly--seriously. There are despairing moments, when all earthly things seem nothing. When the objects of hope and desire appear valueless--when we feel tired out with the struggle against fate, and are inclined to give it up and let all things take their chance. Those are dangerous moments. Let every man beware of them. They are the first symptoms of the worst kind of mental malady--apathy; and without prompt and speedy remedies, the disease will get such a hold that it will be with difficulty cast off. Chandos felt it creeping upon him, as he had once felt it before. It seemed as if his destiny was to misfortune; as if nothing could go right with him; as if every effort, every hope failed. What was the use of prolonging the strife? What mattered it how the papers, the furniture, the books, the busts, the pictures, were disposed of? Why should he play out a losing game? Were it not better to spread out his cards upon the board, and let his adversary make the most of them?

But, happily, like a ray of light breaking through the storm clouds--like the first smile of summer after winter--like an angel sent to comfort, the image of Rose Tracy rose up before his memory. For her was the struggle. She was the spirit of hope to him; and the strife against fortune was renewed. Every possession--every chance became an object worth preserving, as Rose Tracy presented herself to thought, and for her he resolved to neglect no effort which he had power to make. The first thing he decided upon was to let Roberts, at least, know that he was aware of what had taken place; and, calling for pen and ink and paper, he wrote him a short formal note, to the following effect:--

Sir,

I am much surprised to find that the drawers of the bookcases left to me by my father's will, together with everything that the library and adjoining study contain, of every kind whatsoever, have been opened with pick-locks, without my consent. I write this merely to remind you that you are accountable to me, and only to me, for everything that you may have found in those drawers, and to insist that the papers of which you have taken possession, be given into the hands of no one but