"Here, you had better dry the things in the bundle," said Lockwood,
"for they are as wet as a sponge--but that is a very illogical figure;
for though a sponge may be wetted, yet a sponge need not always be
wet."
Chandos took the bundle and went with it into the neighbouring room,
on which the little sunshine that autumn had left was shining. He
opened it, displayed the few articles it contained--half-a-dozen
shirts, a suit of fashionable, well-cut clothes, with some combs and
brushes, a small inkstand, and a roller dressing-case, richly mounted
with silver. They were all as wet as water could make them; and he
proceeded to unfold the various articles of apparel, placing them one
by one over the backs of the wooden chairs. His eye was resting
steadily upon one of the shirts, when Lockwood came in, with a face
grave even to sternness, and an open letter in his hand, apparently
just received.
"You have deceived me," were the first words he uttered; and as he did
so his eye rested unwinking on his young companion.
"How so, Lockwood?" asked Chandos, without the slightest emotion. "If
any one tells you in that letter that you are not named in the will in
the manner I stated, he is deceiving you, not I."
"Not about that--not about that at all," answered Lockwood, "that is
all true enough; but--." He paused, and laid his finger upon a mark in
the wet linen, adding, "Look there!"
"My dear Lockwood," said Chandos, laying his hand familiarly upon his
arm, "I did not deceive you--you deceived yourself; but I did not
intend long to leave you in any mistake. I only wished my own plans to
be first arranged--I wished to give myself time to think, and be
prepared to act, before I spoke of matters that concerned me only, and
not you at all."
"It was hardly fair, Sir," answered Lockwood, not yet satisfied. "You
left me to say things that might offend you; and though I am a humble
man, yet we have what is called politeness of our own kind amongst us,
as well as amongst others; and we do not like to say what may be
offensive except upon necessary occasions."
"Could I have taken offence under such circumstances," replied
Chandos, "I should have been a fool, deserving to suffer by his folly.
But you must lay aside your anger, my good friend; first, because it
is uncalled for; secondly, because I have enough to grieve me; and
thirdly, because I am going to ask your hearty concurrence and
assistance in plans which are now formed to meet very painful
circumstances."
"Painful indeed!" said Lockwood, with much feeling.
"What has that letter told you?" asked his companion.
"All," replied the other; "everything. I now know why you have acted
as you have. The steward was always a good friend of mine, and of my
poor mother's; and he has told me all that happened. I do not wonder
at what you have done; I shall not wonder at anything you may do."
"All, he cannot have told you," answered Chandos; "for no one knows
all but myself and one other, who, I am sure, for his own sake, would
not tell it; nor would I. However, what is necessary to be said I can
tell you as we go up to the abbey. I would fain walk over the old
place from one end to the other; and therefore we will set out as soon
as you like. You shall hear my plans and purposes; you shall give me
help, if you can and will; and, at all events, I am quite sure you
will keep my secret."
"No fear of my not doing that. Sir," answered Lockwood, warmly; "and
help you I will, as far as I can, if you will only tell me how. That
is all that is wanted; for though I and mine have not been well
treated, you have been treated worse, I think."
"Do not call me 'Sir,' Lockwood," replied his young companion,
grasping his hand warmly; "call me Chandos; and say not a word against
those who are gone, if you love me. There is something so sacred in
death, that, though it may be a weakness not to scan the actions of
the dead as we would do those of the living, yet it is a weakness I
could not part with. There is something beyond--above reason in man's
nature--something that distinguishes him more from the brute, raises
him far higher above it. It is that feeling which is called by the
Word of God, _charity_; (very different from that to which we men give
the name;) and if we are forbidden to censure our living enemies, how
much more our dead friends! In this matter there has been some
mistake; the will is dated ten years ago, when all the circumstances
were very different, when no unfortunate dissensions had arisen, when
I was myself a mere stripling. So let that pass; and now let us go. As
I walk along I will tell you my plans. Do not attempt to dissuade or
advise me; for my resolution is taken, and all I require is help."
"I wish to Heaven you would have something more," rejoined Lockwood,
earnestly.
"What is that?" inquired Chandos.
"Why, the five hundred pounds," answered the other. "I can make no use
of it, indeed. I have no need of it. I am like a tree that has grown
into a certain shape, and can take no other. I have enough, Sir, for
all my wants and wishes. That is what few men can say, I know; but I
can from my heart; and when I get the money I shall not know what to
do with it. I shall only be put out of my way, and, perhaps, be
tempted to play the fool."
"No, no," answered his guest, "I neither can nor will take that which
was justly destined for you. Besides, I do not need it, I am not so
destitute as you suppose. Something--a pittance indeed, but still
something--was secured to me long ago, and it no one can take from me.
But, come; as we walk along, we will talk more."
And they did talk as they walked along, earnestly, eagerly, and took
more than one turn out of the way because their conversation was not
done. At length, however, they directed their course in a straight
line across the park, and in a few minutes Winslow Abbey stood before
them. Many of my readers who know the part of the country in which I
live must have seen it, some few perhaps wandered all over it; but for
those who have not, I must describe it as it appeared before the eyes
of Lockwood and his companion.
Winslow Abbey was one of the few buildings of Richard the Third's
reign. It was not of the most florid style of even that time, and much
less so than that of Richard's successor; but still there was
wonderful lightness and grace in the architecture. Some parts of the
building, indeed, were older and heavier than the rest, but rich and
beautiful notwithstanding. These were principally to be found in the
abbey church, which was quite in ruins, mantled with green ivy, and
fringed with many a self-sown ash. Growing in the midst of the nave,
and rising far above, where the roof had once been, was a group of
dark pines, waving their tops in the wind like the plumes upon a
hearse. Who had planted them no one knew; but the record might well
have passed by, for their size bespoke the passing of a century at
least. There, ruin had fully done his work, apparently without one
effort from man's hand to stay his relentless rage; but such was not
the case with the rest of the building. Old and somewhat decayed it
certainly was; but traces were evident, over every part, of efforts
made, not many years before, to prevent the progress of dilapidation.
In the fine delicate mullions, in the groups of engaged columns, in
the corbels and buttresses, in the mouldings of the arches, were seen
portions of stone, which the hand of time had not yet blackened; and
here and there, in the ornamental part, might be traced the labours of
a ruder and less skilful chisel than that which had sculptured the
original roses, and monsters, and cherubims' heads, scattered over the
whole. The ivy, too, which, it would seem, had at one time grown so
luxuriantly as to be detrimental, had been carefully removed in many
places, and trimmed and reduced to more decorative proportions in
others. Where the thin filaments of the plant had sucked out the
mortar, with the true worldly wisdom which destroys what it rests on
to support itself, fresh cement had been applied; and though some
years had evidently passed since these repairs had been made, the
edifice was still sound and weather tight.
Projecting in the centre was a large pile, which had probably been the
Abbot's lodging, richly decorated with mitre, and key, and insignia of
clerical authority; for the Abbot of Winslow had been a great man in
his day, and had sat in Parliament amongst the peers of the realm. On
either side were large irregular wings, with here and there a mass
thrown forward nearly on the line of the great corps de logis, and
more richly ornamented than the parts between; but all, as I have
said, beautifully irregular, for one of the great excellencies of that
style of building is the harmonious variety of the forms. From either
angle of the façade ran back long rows of lower buildings, surrounding
a court with cloisters, external and internal; and on both sides the
deep beech woods came boldly forward, offering, in their brown and
yellow tints, a fine contrast to the cold gray stone and the green
ivy. All that appeared on the mere outside of the building, was of
centuries long gone by, or, at least, appeared so to be. Even the
terrace in front, raised by a step or two above the surrounding
park.--though probably abbots and monks had passed away ere it was
levelled--had been made to harmonize with the Abbey by a screen of
light stone-work in the same style. But through the small-paned
windows of the building, the notions of modern times peeped out in
efforts for that comfort which we so much prize. Shutters of dark oak
were seen closed along the front, except in one room, where three
windows were open, and rich damask curtains of deep crimson flapped in
the November wind.
Chandos halted on the terrace, and gazed round. How many sensations
crowd on us when we first see again in manhood the places we have
known and loved in youth! But whatever were those in the young man's
bosom, they vented themselves in but one expression. "Pull it down!"
he exclaimed, in a tone at once melancholy and indignant. "Pull it
down!"
"Who, in the name of folly and wickedness, would ever think of such a
thing?" cried Lockwood.
"It has been spoken about, nevertheless," answered Chandos; "and he,
who had the bad taste to propose it, has now the full power to do it.
But let us go in: the house seems well enough; but the park is in a
sad neglected state."
"How can it be otherwise?" was Lockwood's answer, as he led the way
across the terrace towards one of the doors near the eastern angle of
the building. "There is but one keeper and one labourer left. They do
all they can, poor people; but it would take twenty hands to keep this
large place in order. But the house is better, as you say; and the
reason of that is, that, when Sir Harry was here last, just about five
years ago, though he only stayed one day, he saw with his own eyes
that everything was going to ruin. He therefore ordered it to be put
in proper repair. But the park he took no notice of; and it has gone
to rack and ruin ever since."
As he spoke, he pushed back a small door, plated with iron, and
studded with large nails, hardly wide enough for two persons to pass
at a time and pointed at the top, to fit the low arch of the
stone-work. A narrow passage, guiltless of paint or whitewash, led to
what had been the abbot's kitchen, in times long gone. It formed now
the sitting-room of the good keeper and his wife, who had been put in
to take care of the house. In honour, however, of an expected guest,
the cloth, which was already laid, although it wanted near an hour of
one, was spread in the housekeeper's room adjoining.
The good dame, who with a little girl fifteen or sixteen years of age,
her niece, was busied in hospitable cares, viz., in the spitting of
the already plucked teal, made a courtesy to Chandos on being caught
in the fact, which had nearly run the poor bird in her hands through
the body in a sense and direction totally different from that which
she intended. But Chandos soon relieved her from any little temporary
embarrassment, by saying, that he would walk through the house with
Lockwood, till dinner was ready.
A flight of steps led them up to paved galleries and halls, many in
number, confused in arrangement, and not altogether convenient, except
for the purposes for which they were originally destined. Chandos
seemed to need no guide, however, to the labyrinth; and it must be
observed, that the only use of Lockwood, as his companion, seemed to
be to exchange an occasional sentence with him, and to open the
window-shutters of the different rooms, to admit the free air and
light.
"Let us go this way, Lockwood," said his younger companion; "I wish to
see the library first; and the best way will be through the glazed
cloister, round the inner court."
"How well you remember it!" said Lockwood. "But I fear you will find
the library in bad order; for the people left in the place do not know
much about books."
Nevertheless, Chandos hurried on, and entered a long, broad,
stone-paved passage, which had been ingeniously fitted up, so as to
defend those who passed along from the wind and weather. This gallery,
or cloister, ran along three of the internal sides of the building,
only interrupted at one point by a large hall-door, through which
carriages could pass from the terrace to the inner court; and,
threading it quickly, Chandos and his companion reached a door at the
opposite angle, which, however, was not to be opened easily. The key
Lockwood had not got; but, pushing back a lesser door to the left,
which was unlocked, they found their way through a small, elegantly
fitted-up study to another door of the library, which did not prove so
stubborn. In this little study, or reading-room, were six old oak
chairs, curiously carved, and covered with rich crimson velvet; a
sofa, evidently modern, but worked by a skilful, and, doubtless,
expensive upholsterer, so as to harmonize with the other furniture; a
writing-table, of old oak, with bronze inkstands, lamps, penholders,
and some little ornaments of the same metal; and two small bookcases,
with glazed doors, which covered and discovered the backs of a number
of splendidly-bound books.
"This is all mine, Lockwood," said Chandos, gazing round with some
pleasure. "It is left to me so distinctly, that there can be no cavil
about it, or there would be a cavil, depend upon it. The words
are:--'The library, with all the furniture, books, pictures, busts,
and other articles of every kind whatsoever in the room so called; and
also everything contained in the small writing-room adjoining, at the
time of the testator's death.'"
"I'll make an inventory of them," said Lockwood, with a cheerful air.
"The library, too? Why, that's a fortune in itself."
His younger companion mused for several moments, with his hand on the
library-door. "That is true," he said; "I never thought of that. And
yet it were a painful fortune, too, to turn to any account; for it
would go hard with me, ere I sold the old books, over which I have
pored so often. However, Lockwood, take you an inventory, as you say:
and in the mean time, I will consider how I am to dispose of all these
things. I shall never have a house big enough to put those bookcases
in."
"You can't tell," answered Lockwood. "What you are going to try first,
you will soon get tired of; and then you will take some other course,
and may raise yourself to be a great man, yet. You have had a good
education, been to Eton, and college, and all that; and so you can do
anything you please."
Chandos shook his head sadly, and replied: "The road to high fortune,
my good friend, is not so easily travelled now as once it was. So many
are driving along it, that there is no room for one to pass the
other."
"There's another reason besides that," answered Lockwood, "why we see
so few mount high now-a-days. It's all like bread and butter at a
school; there's but a certain portion of butter for the whole; and if
the number of mouths be increased, it must be spread thinner. However,
as I have said, you can do what you like; for you are young,
determined enough for anything, and have a good education, so you may
be a great man, if you like."
"You have had a good education too, Lockwood," replied the other.
"Ay, but not so good as yours," said his companion. "Mine has been
picked up anyhow; and a man never makes much of that. Besides, you
have always been accustomed to keep company with gentlefolks; and I am
a boor. Education means something else than cramming a man's head with
Greek and Latin, or mathematics either; and, moreover, I don't want to
be a great man, if I could. To me it would be as disagreeable, as you
will find being a little one."
"Well, well, we have settled that question," said Chandos; "and for
the future God will provide."
He then walked up to one of the large bookcases, carved like the
screen of an old church, took down a volume so covered with dust that
the top looked as if it were bearing a crop of wool, opened it, and
read a few lines mechanically. Lockwood stood near, with his arms
folded on his broad chest, gazing at him with a thoughtful look, then,
tapping him lightly on the arm, he said, "You have forgotten one
thing: you will have to receive all these fine things some day soon;
how will that square with all your fine plans?"
Chandos took a moment or two to reply; for it would seem, he had not
indeed considered the subject. "I will tell you, Lockwood," he said;
"I will give you an order to receive them in my name. I shall be near
at hand, to do anything more that may be necessary."
"But what am I to do with them?" asked Lockwood, frightened at the
idea of such folio volumes, and awful bookcases. "But I will tell you
what I can do," he added, a moment afterwards. "There's the young
parson over at Northferry, he's a good young man and kind, I have
always heard, though I don't know him, and has a large house not yet
half furnished. He'll give them place, I'm sure. We can talk of that
afterwards. But it must be the good folks' dinner hour, by this time;
and keepers have huge appetites."
"Well, let us go back," said Chandos, with a sigh. "But we can walk
through the rooms. It will not take us longer."
"The base and the perpendicular are always in their sum more than the
hypotenuse," replied Lockwood, drily. "But doubtless they are not so
ravenous as to grudge a few minutes to look at places you have not
seen for so long, and may never see again.--Odd's life, pull the place
down! They must be mad!"
Chandos made no answer, but walked on, passing from room to room,
along the wide front of the building. He gazed around him as he went
with a slow pace, but only twice he stopped. Once it was to look at a
picture; that of a lady in a riding habit. It was an early portrait by
Sir Thomas Lawrence, with great breadth and power, and some careless
drawing and want of finish, in subsidiary parts. But the face was full
of life. The liquid eyes, with the clear light streaming through the
cornea, and illuminating the iris, seemed gazing into your heart. The
lips spoke to you; but there was a sadness in the tones, which poured
melancholy into the gazer.
"Ay, she had an unhappy life of it, poor thing," said Lockwood, at
once interpreting the expression in the portrait, and the feelings in
his companion's heart. "I, of course, had no reason to love her; but
yet, I grieved for her from my soul."
Chandos turned abruptly round, laid his left hand upon Lockwood's
shoulder, and seemed about to reply almost bitterly. But then he
stopped suddenly, looked him full in the face, with the finger of his
right hand extended to his companion's breast, and with a sad shake of
the head, moved away. The next time he stopped, it was before a small
work-table, which he gazed at for a minute or two, and then said, "If
there is a sale, Lockwood, as I dare say there will be, I should like
to have that. Purchase it for me; it cannot sell for much."
He then quickened his pace, and proceeded without a pause to the
abbot's kitchen. There was apparent, however, as he went along, a
quivering of the lip at times, and an occasional wide expansion of the
nostril, which made Lockwood think that strong emotions were busy
within him. Whatever they were, he threw off his gloom when he joined
the good keeper and his wife at their meal; and though not gay, he
chatted with the rest, and sometimes laughed; ate their good cheer
with a hearty appetite, and drank more than one glass of old ale. The
dinner was over, and they were sitting, about two o'clock, with that
pause for digestion, the necessity for which all animals feel, when a
grating sound, as of carriage wheels, was heard; and going to the
window, the three men saw a post-chaise, dragged on slowly by two
sorry jades, through the loose stuff of the long-neglected road.
"My goody! who can that be?" cried the keeper's wife, looking over her
husband's shoulder.
"It is Roberts, the steward," said Chandos, with a grave face. "Do not
let him be brought in here, Lockwood. I will see him afterwards; but
it must be alone."
Lockwood nodded his head significantly, and went out with the keeper,
who hurried to the principal entrance of Winslow Abbey, towards which
the chaise directed its course.
"Don't say anything at present of the young gentleman being here,"
whispered Lockwood to the keeper, as the latter unbolted the great
doors. An acquiescent nod was the reply, and the next moment Mr.
Roberts approached the entrance.
I must pause, both upon the character and appearance of that person;
for he was not an ordinary one. Richard Roberts was diminutive in
person, though exceedingly well formed; most of his features were
plain; and he was a good deal marked with the small-pox; but his eyes
were fine, large, and expressive; and his brow was both broad and
high. He had been educated as an attorney by his father, who was an
attorney also; but the father and the son were different. The father
was a keen, shrewd, money-making man, who had no scruples within the
law. He had married the daughter of a country banker, and treated her
very harshly from the hour the bank broke. He had been very civil
before. She bore all patiently; for she had a very high sense of duty,
which she transmitted to her son; but she died early; for she was too
gentle and affectionate to endure unkindness long. The young man
submitted to his father's pleasure, though the desk and the red tape
were an abomination to him; and he went on studying deeply till he was
out of his clerkship, when he entered into partnership with his
father. The father, who was a thick-necked man, ate too much, and
drank too much, at a hot corporation-dinner; and a thin alderman--for
there are such things--remarked, that Roberts had eaten and drank
enough that night to serve him his whole life. So it did, too; for,
just as he was peeling his third orange after dinner, and somebody was
getting up to make a speech, which nobody was likely to attend to, Mr.
Roberts leaned amicably upon his next neighbour's breast; and that
gentleman at first imagined--notwithstanding the improbability of the
thing--that Roberts was drunk. When he was set up in his chair again,
he moved not, except to fall slowly to the other side; and then it
began to strike people, that a man might be dead instead of drunk,
even at a corporation-dinner. So it proved; and the firm was changed
from "Roberts and Son," to "Richard Roberts." To the surprise of
everybody, however, the whole business of Mr. Roberts's office was
wound up within three months, and the office closed. Every one knew,
that the old man had been of a money-making turn; but still, they
argued, that he could not have left enough for young Roberts to turn
gentleman upon. This was true; and shortly after he accepted the
situation of steward and law-agent to Sir Harry Winslow, rejecting all
fees, and doing the whole business for a moderate fixed salary, which,
with what his father had left him, was sufficient for his ambition.
Thus he had gone on for five-and-twenty years. The tenants were always
well pleased with him; for he forced no man to take a lease, when an
agreement for one would do as well; but never refused a lease when it
was required. Sir Harry was not always well pleased; for there was a
rigidity about Mr. Roberts, and about his notions, which did not quite
suit him; but Mr. Roberts, like an indispensable minister, was always
ready to resign. He was now a man of more than fifty years of age,
with very white hair, very black eyebrows, and a pale, thoughtful
complexion; and, as he walked up from the chaise to the house, his
step, though not exactly feeble, had none of the buoyancy of youth and
strong health about it.
"Good morning, Garbett. Good morning, Mr. Lockwood. You have got my
letter, I hope?"
"Not till this morning, Mr. Roberts," answered Lockwood; "although I
should have had it last night, if the postman would but take the
diagonal line, instead of two sides of a parallelogram."
Roberts smiled gravely and entered the house, saying: "Mankind will
choose devious ways, Lockwood; but, at all events, I hope you were
satisfied with the information I conveyed. I thought it best to put
your mind at ease at once."
"Oh! it was never uneasy," answered Lockwood. "I have always my hands
and my head, Mr. Roberts, and I know how to make use of them. But I
suppose you have come to seal the things up here."
"Not exactly," answered Roberts; "only a little business connected
with my situation, which I trust to get over by to-morrow morning."
"Will your honour like any dinner?" asked Garbett, the keeper. "My old
woman can get it ready for you in a minute."
"Not just yet," answered Roberts; "about four o'clock, perhaps; but I
must get through some business first. Show me the way to the late Sir
Harry's business-room, Garbett. It is so long since I was here, that I
almost forget it."
The keeper did as he was desired; and Mr. Roberts, requiring pen and
ink, and apparently wishing to be left alone, Lockwood and Garbett
left him; and the former rejoined Chandos in the housekeeper's room.
After time had been given for the gamekeeper to supply the steward
with writing materials, and the voice of the former was heard in the
adjoining kitchen, Chandos walked away straight to the room where
Roberts was shut up, and remained there for nearly an hour. At the end
of that time the door opened; and Chandos shook the steward by the
hand, saying: "I shall see you on Saturday, Roberts, for the last
time, perhaps, for months, or years; but I trust entirely to you, to
take care that whatever rights I have are duly protected."
"That I will do, you may depend upon it, Sir," replied the steward;
"and, perhaps,--But no matter; things must take their course according
to law; for we have no power, unfortunately, over men's hearts."
Chandos turned away; and the steward remained gazing after him till he
was lost in the turning of the inner cloister.