It was as pale as death.
By Mr. Tracy's persuasion the surgeon was sent for; and was soon in the house.
"Well, what is the matter with you?" he asked, as soon as the young baronet was pointed out as his patient; and, pressing his hand upon the pulse, he stared into Sir William's face, as if he wished to put him out of countenance.
"I do not know, doctor," replied the other. "I do not feel well--am fatigued--have got a head-ache--my temples throb; and my thoughts are somewhat confused."
"You have got something on your mind," said Sandy Woodyard, thinking of Emily, whom the old man loved dearly, and did not like to see sacrificed; "your conscience is not quiet, I should think--this is all mental."
"What do you mean, Sir?" asked Sir William Winslow, fiercely; his pride and his courage coming arm in arm to his aid the moment he was attacked in front.
"I mean just what I say," replied the surgeon, nothing daunted; "there is no sign in the pulse or the temperature of the skin, to show any corporeal ailment. It must be mental; and the best thing to prevent the mind acting too strongly on the body, will be to let you blood. Bring me a basin and a good stout stick, flunky."
Sir William Winslow submitted willingly enough, though he hated the old man mortally, for words which touched rudely but unwittingly on the deep concealed wound. Sandy Woodyard made him grasp the stick tightly in his hand, pierced the arm, and as the blood spirted forth, indulged in a grim smile, muttering. "Ay, black--damned black--black blood as ever I saw--very needful to draw this off--we must have a good drop!"
And a good drop he did certainly take; for, whether, from judging it really necessary, or from a slight touch of malice, he bled the baronet till he fainted. Sir William was carried to his room, and soon brought to consciousness again; but good Mr. Woodyard was not aware that, in one respect, at least, he had conferred a favour, by affording a fair excuse to his patient for not joining the party below any more that night. Even that was a relief; but it was not till the next morning that Sir William Winslow was aware of all he had escaped.
It was the custom at Northferry, for the under gardener, every night, before he retired to rest, to perambulate the grounds, and then to let loose some large dogs, serving as very necessary guards to a place which, by its open boundaries, and solitary situation, was much exposed to depredation. On the night in question, about ten o'clock, he sallied forth, when the moon was just rising, faint, dim, and watery, as she not unfrequently appears after one of those fine, warm, unseasonable, February days, with a few thin lines of gray and white cloud drawn across her sickly disk. She gave a good deal of light, however; and he took his way along the paths, rather enjoying the walk than feeling it a burthensome task. When he approached the confines of the grounds, on the field side, and came near the little temple so often mentioned, he saw, by the beams of the moon, something lying, partly on the path, partly off, like a large dog curled up to spring at him; and he paused in doubt and some alarm. The object remained quite still; and drawing slowly nearer, he found it was the body of a man. He touched the hand; it was deadly cold; and in terror and consternation he ran straight across the lawns back to the house. Servants and lights soon followed him down to the spot; and consternation and horror reached their height, when it was found, that the very person who a few hours before had been asking for the head-gardener, at the mansion, had been murdered in the grounds. The body was already quite stiff; but it was taken up and carried into one of the tool-houses, while some of the people ran back to give Mr. Tracy information of the event. The rest gathered round the corpse as it lay upon a gardener's bench; and many were the comments made--some ridiculous and almost laughable, some sad, some sublime in their simplicity.