The chaise rolled on rapidly in the darkness of the night. Chandos was
fatigued--exhausted--but he slept not. Weariness of mind often
produces the same effect as overfatigue of body, and refuses that rest
which is needful for its cure. His thoughts, too, were very busy. What
was next to be done? What was the course he was to pursue in life? A
new chain was upon him, a fresh obstacle was in his way. He had stood
in the felon's dock accused of the highest crime known to the law.
What an impediment was that to all advancement! In what profession
would it not prove a barrier almost insuperable? And Rose Tracy, what
would be the effect upon her? He would not believe that it would
change her; but yet, though she might still love, though that
consolation might be left him, how could he expect that her father
would either listen to his suit, or permit his daughter to give even
hope to a man marked out by such a record as that which stood against
his name? Even if he did, what chance, what prospect was there of his
ever being in a position to claim her hand?
On such subjects rolled his thoughts, one following another,
innumerable, like the waves of an overflowing sea, while mile after
mile of the way went by. The night was dark and warm; one of those
dull, sultry spring nights, when the clouds seem to wrap the whole
earth in a dull, damp pall, shutting out the breath of heaven. The
windows were all down, and Chandos gazed forth upon the darkness,
finding something therein congenial to the heavy obscurity of his own
fate, offering nothing to interrupt the gloomy current of his
thoughts, yet tranquillizing them with a solemn stillness.
"Mr. Tracy I must see," he thought; "for we have business to settle:
and Rose I will endeavour to see, that I may know, or at least guess
at her feelings. But I will not try to bind her to anything. It would
be cruel--ungenerous. No, no; my fate must be cleared of these dark
clouds, before I dare ask her to walk forth under the same sky as
myself."
And then he thought of leaving her--perhaps, of losing her--of never
seeing that fair face, that sweet smile again--of hearing that she was
united to another. And his heart was very bitter.
On, on, rolled the chaise, as quick as the post-boy could induce the
horses to go. It was a long stage, a dark night, and a weary way back.
He wished it was over, and his boots off. They passed through
Milltown, and rattled over Longheath, then down they went into stony
Langburn, and then slowly up the hill again. When they got to the top,
the horses were once more put into a brisk pace, and away they went
over the downs, with darkness all around them, and the road hardly
distinguishable from the turf. But still the post-boy kept upon his
way, knowing the ground by habit, in the night as well as in the day.
At length they went rapidly down the hill near the bottom of which
stands the thirteenth milestone from S----, and just as the chaise
crossed the little rivulet which winds on through the valley, Chandos
felt a sudden jerk, and then a depression of the vehicle. A grating
sound followed, while the horses pulled on for a yard or two, and then
the chaise stopped. The post-boy got down and poked his head under the
carriage, swore a little, and approaching the door, told the traveller
that the axle was broken.
"That is bad news, indeed," said Chandos Winslow. "How far are we from
an inn?"
"About three miles, Sir," replied the man; "but if you just go back to
the stone, and take the path to the right, it will save you half-a-mile.
I must get the horses out, and leave the shay here; but I'll put your
portmanteau on the off horse, and get it up that way."
"But can I miss the road?" asked Chandos. "It is long since I was in
this part of the country."
"Lord bless you, Sir; you can't miss it, no how," rejoined the man;
"it is as straight as a line. You just go by the old, tumble-down
mill, and then half-a-mile further you come to the church, and then--"
"I know, I know," answered the young gentleman; "I recollect it now;"
and he walked away, turning back for a moment to tell the driver to
order him a fresh chaise for Northferry, if he arrived first at the
inn.
The little path on which he had been directed rose gently from the
place where the milestone stood, to surmount the shoulder of the high
range of hills over which they had been passing for the last two
miles; and it was plainly marked out by the white, chalky staff of
which it was composed, from the dark hue of the short turf upon the
downs. After Chandos had gone on for about the distance of a mile,
there seemed to be a glimmering amongst the clouds to the east, and
the objects around became more distinct. The moon was rising. Quarter
of a mile further, he caught sight of a mill, which he now remembered
well; for it had often served him as a sort of landmark in his youth,
and was connected with memories both very pleasant and very painful.
It lay upon his right hand as he went, and he knew that, from the high
point on which it had been placed, to catch all the winds, Elmsly, one
of his father's seats, was just seven miles distant by the hill paths,
and Winslow Abbey, just eleven on the other side; though the distance
between them by the roads was twenty-four.
He had not seen that mill, however, for many years; for unpleasant
associations had attached themselves to it of late, and overbalanced
the pleasant recollections of youth. As he now gazed on it, walking
on, the sight, as it stood out from the sky, which was of a pale gray,
with the moon's light amongst the clouds, did not cheer him; and the
long, thin arms of the rotting sails called back to his mind the
description which Lockwood had given of it.
From the point where the mill was passed by the path, the latter
descended towards the little town where Chandos expected to get
horses; but ere it reached that bourne, the road he was following had
a labyrinth of lanes and hedges to go through. Before it came to that
more cultivated part, however, it ran some way along at the bottom of
the bare hills amongst some green pasture-ground with the downs on the
right and the hedgerows on the left. Just in the midst on this track
stood a little detached church, called St. Mildred's, with a tall
conical spire, somewhat dilapidated, and a little churchyard, within
a ruined stone-wall. Though the faint moon through the veil of cloud
did not afford much light below the edge of the hill, yet the spot
where the church stood was marked out by its spire rising over
everything else around, and by the numerous black yew-trees in its
garden of graves. Chandos saw it some time before he reached it, and
the sight of it too was sad to him. Yet when he was opposite the rude
gate; with its cross-beam over-head, he stopped to gaze at the old
church and its dark funeral trees; and that sensation which sometimes
comes salutary over us, of the nothingness of human joys and sorrows,
stole upon him as he asked himself, where were the hands that raised
the building--where those who planted the trees--where the many
generations that had passed since the one arose, the others sprang up.
As he paused--it was but an instant--he thought he heard a low moan,
as of some one in distress. It was repeated, and came from the
churchyard; and, opening the gate, he went in. The moans led him on
nearly to the back of the church, which stood detached, with no other
building near; but presently they ceased, and he looked around over
the waves of graves, and their little head-stones, without seeing any
one. He felt certain that the sounds had proceeded from a spot not far
distant; and, raising his voice, he asked, "Is any one there? Does any
one want help?"
There was no answer; and, after stopping for a moment, Chandos walked
a step or two further; and then, looking a little to the left, he
thought he saw something like a human form stretched out upon one of
the little grassy mounds. He approached quietly, and looked down upon
it, perceiving that he had not deceived himself. It was the form of a
woman, lying with her face downwards upon a grave evidently not newly
made. She was living, for her breath came thick, and laden with sobs;
and Chandos asked in a kindly tone, "What is the matter, my good
woman? Can I do anything to assist you?"
At the sound of his voice, the woman started up, exclaiming,
"You!--You here? Oh, fiend!"--But then she suddenly stopped, gazed at
his tall figure in the dim light, and then added, "Ah! is it you, Sir?
I did not know you: I thought it was another." And she sat herself
down upon the adjoining grave, and covered her eyes with her hands.
"Surely I know your voice," said Chandos. "Are you not the gipsey
woman, Sally Stanley, the little boy's mother?"
"You know my voice better than I know yours, it seems," replied the
woman; "for yours deceived me."
"But what are you doing here, my poor woman?" inquired Chandos. "You
seem in great distress, on some account. Come, leave this place; it
can do no good to you, or any one, to remain weeping over a grave at
midnight."
"Every year of my life, at this day, and this hour, Chandos Winslow,"
replied the woman, "I come here to weep and pray over those I
murdered."
"Murdered!" exclaimed her companion. "But it is nonsense, my good
woman; your brain is wandering."
"I know it is," answered Sally Stanley; "I need no one to tell me
that. It does wander often, and sometimes long; but on this night it
wanders always. I said 'murdered,' did I not? Well, I said true. I did
murder him; but not as your brother murdered Roberts, the steward,
with one blow, that ended at once all pain and resistance--slowly,
slowly, I murdered him--by grief, and shame, and care, and despair;
aye, and want too had its share at last."
"Good God! then who are you?" demanded Chandos Winslow.
"Ask me no questions," answered the woman. "Ever since those days a
fire comes into my brain, from time to time, that nothing will put out
till it burns out of itself; and I see more than other people, know
more--I see the dead, alive; and I behold the unborn deeds before they
are committed; and the hand of God is upon me. Ever on this night--the
night when the old man died of sorrow, I am at the worst; for then it
is that my heart is given up to the hell of its own making, and I come
here to cool my brain and my bosom upon the green grass of his grave.
Disturb me not; but go, and leave me. I can have no help of man."
"Nay, poor thing!" said Chandos Winslow, "I cannot, in truth, leave
you in such sorrow and in such a place, without trying to give you
some consolation. You have said you come here to pray. Do you not know
then, that, whatever be your offences, there is pardon and comfort for
all who pray in faith and with repentance?"
"Aye; but we must all bear our punishment, nevertheless," replied the
woman. "Do not try to console me, young man. If you would needs stay,
(and it is better that you should, for I have wanted much to see you,
and have much to say to you,) sit down on the church step there for a
while, till this hour is past, and I will tell you things you want to
hear. But do not try to console me. God may give me consolation at his
own time. Man can never."
Chandos was eager to get to his journey's end; but yet he felt real
compassion for the poor woman, and a strong reluctance to leave her
there alone. He thought that if he remained for a while, and humoured
her sorrow, she might be the sooner induced to quit the spot; and he
determined to sit down on the church steps, as she had said, and wait
the result. Such as I have said were his strongest motives for
remaining; but at the same time a doubt, a suspicion of the truth, to
which he would hardly give a moment's attention, crossed his mind; and
then her strange words regarding his brother and the steward awakened
still stronger curiosity, and made him almost believe that there had
been other witnesses, besides himself, to the crime for which he had
so lately been tried.
"Well, I will wait, then," he said; and, retiring from the spot, he
seated himself at a distance, and gave himself up to thought. There is
nought so variable as the influence of thought upon our appreciation
of the passing of time. Sometimes it seems to extend the minutes into
hours, the hours into months and years. Sometimes thought seems to
swallow up time, and leave nought in existence but itself. The latter
was more the case with Chandos Winslow than the former. The church
clock struck one shortly after he sat down. It struck two before he
fancied that the hand had half paced round the dial, and a minute or
two after the woman was by his side.
"You have waited patiently," she said, "and I will try and repay you.
I longed to see you as soon as I heard that it was all done, and you
were free. I owe you much; but you owe the gipsey woman something,
Chandos Winslow; for, had it not been for me, they would have found
you guilty."
"Indeed!" said the young gentleman; "but how is that, Sally Stanley?"
"Did not the parson bear witness that you had been with him that
night?--aye, and his servant too?" she asked. "Well, I found out that
they had mistaken Lockwood for you, and had mistaken me in what I told
them; and I went over to Sandbourne, and first told the good young man
of what they accused you, and that he ought to go and give evidence at
the trial. He was for setting out directly; but I let him know that
the inquest was over, and that he could do no good till the trial, and
bade him keep himself quiet till then. Lockwood would have spoiled it
all," she added, in a rambling manner; "but I took care of Lockwood
too, and kept him close till it was too late for him to do any harm.
He had nearly done it though, they tell me. He is a harsh man,
Lockwood."
"But he has a good, kind heart," replied Chandos.
"He does not mind treading on other people's hearts," she answered,
leaning her head upon her hand, and seating herself upon one of the
lower steps. "But whither are you going now, Sir? This is not the road
to London."
"I am going to Northferry, Sally," replied Chandos. "I must see Mr.
Tracy, and your poor little boy. The dear child gave his evidence
nobly; but I find Mrs. Humphreys took him away out of the town as soon
as the trial was over."
"Aye, he little knew whom he was giving evidence against," said the
woman, in a wild way; "but they tell me he behaved well."
"You seem to have got intelligence of everything very soon," said
Chandos.
"Sooner than anybody else," answered Sally Stanley; "we always do. You
Englishmen may try what you like--coaches, and railroads, and
telegraphs; but the gipsies will always have the news before you.
There were many of our people there, and I soon had the tidings. But
what do you want at Northferry? The boy is there, but he will do well
enough without you; and as to Mr. Tracy, you will not find him. He is
far enough away with all his. Have you not heard all that has
happened?"
"No," answered Chandos; "I thought he was there. Has he gone to
London?"
"They have taken him to London," answered the woman; "but I will try
and tell you all about it, if my brain will let me. You know that he
ruined himself with buying what are called shares; and that, to save
himself from the first shock, he sold his child--his Lilly, as he used
to call her--to a murderer--a murderer of old men. He thought, that by
selling the best of his shares he would be able to stave off the rest
of the sums he owed; and that the Northferry property would, at all
events, be saved for his own daughter, as it would become her
husband's--the murderer's. I told her how it would be long before.
Then the other girl, I suppose, was to be provided for by the old
General.--I only tell you what the people say. Well, let me see, where
was I? All the shares were to be sold; but the shares could not be
found; for a lawyer-man--a rogue, called Scriptolemus Bond, had run
away and carried them all with him. So Mr. Tracy was arrested, you
see, and taken to London; and his brother and the two girls went up
the morning after."
"Good Heaven! did he really trust that man?" cried Chandos. "His
looks, his words, almost his gestures spoke him a charlatan. I heard
him boast he had a commission to buy shares for Mr. Tracy; but I
doubted the very fact, because he said it; and never believed that he
could be trusted to a large amount by a man not wanting in good
sense."
"Everyman is a fool in some points, and every woman a fool in one,"
answered Sally Stanley. "But I have nothing to do with his folly or
his wisdom.--What is it to me? However, he wanted to make his riches
more; and then every man goes mad. He trusted a knave, and the knave
ran off with the plunder. So Mr. Tracy is in prison, or something like
it, and the knave is free."
"This is sad--this is very sad," said Chandos. "Is there no trace of
this villain, who has brought a kind and generous family from
affluence to beggary?"
"Oh! he will go at large like other villains," replied the woman. "The
world is full of them, and they sit in high places. It is very strange
that all men take so much interest, and feel so much compassion for a
rich man that falls into poverty; while a world more misery may come
upon a humble household without drawing a tear beyond the four walls
of their own cottage."
"There is some truth in what you say," replied her companion,
thoughtfully; "but yet, the fall from high to low is deeper than from
low to lower: the contrast more painful. I should think, too, that you
would much regret this misfortune to Mr. Tracy's family, as thousands
of others, in a far inferior position to himself, in point of fortune,
will mourn over it. Can you tell me a family who were more kind to all
around them? Can you tell me a rich man whose wealth was more
liberally shared with the poor and needy? Was any man suffered to want
in his neighbourhood, if Mr. Tracy or his daughters could relieve him?
Did any child lack education in his neighbourhood from the parents'
poverty? Was he harsh even to those for whom the laws are harsh? Even
your own child: did not these two young ladies, who now, perhaps, are
weeping over their own and their father's ruin, show themselves kind,
and tender, and generous to him?"
"I am wrong, I am wrong, Chandos Winslow," cried the woman; "but
something makes me bitter this night. I am not myself, young man, I
tell you. You must come and speak with me another day, and perhaps I
can do something. The man you speak of is a good man, and should be
saved. Let us try to save him."
"But how can that be done?" asked Chandos, sadly. "He is already
ruined, it would seem."
"Oh, no; no one is ruined who has not broken a father's heart, and
laid him in the grave," replied Sally Stanley: "that is ruin! that is
ruin! It is ruin here--and here;" and she laid her hand upon her brow,
and upon her heart. "But you will come and see me, and talk to me
again, and see what can be done to save him."
"Why, what can you do in a matter like this?" asked her young
companion.
"Did I not help to save your life?" she demanded, quickly. "I may do
something in this too--come back and I will tell you more. I must have
time to think. To-night I have no thoughts. Will you come?"
"But where shall I find you, and when?" asked Chandos. "Your abode, I
fancy, is always varying; and I might seek you over the whole country
without discovering you."
"Come in a fortnight to the place where we met three months ago, when
you were going on a scheme that all the wise ones and the great ones
would have thought madness," was the woman's reply. "You recollect the
place in the lanes above Northferry: come there. I knew not at that
time what drove you out of that fine house at Elmsly, and made you put
on a gardener's coat, and take service like a hireling. I thought it
was the Jacob and Laban story; and that you were going to serve for a
fair wife; but I know more now. And a sweet, good girl she is, too.
Her gay heart will be dull enough now, I dare say, poor thing; but you
must go and comfort her."
"Where am I to find her? is the question," answered Chandos. "But,
doubtless, I shall hear from the servants at Northferry."
"The servants!" cried the woman, with a laugh: "there are no servants
there. The house is shut up. Half the servants are discharged; and the
rest are gone with the old General and his nieces to London. But I
will tell you where to find them. He has a house in a place they call
Green-street though it is as brown as all the rest of the den. Go
there, and ask for them, and you will find some of them, at least."
"Do you mean that Mr. Tracy has a house in Green-street?" asked
Chandos. "Or are you still speaking of the General?"
"Of the General, to be sure," replied the woman. "It is a small,
narrow house, fit for a solitary man. I was there once, and the old
soldier, his servant, was kind to me, because I talked to him of
Northferry, and the places round. He is not a bad man, General Tracy,
as men go--better than most; and I think he will keep his word with
the boy, whatever be his concern for his brother."
"You may be quite certain he will," replied her companion. "General
Tracy is a man of honour, and never breaks his word."
"What! not to a woman?" demanded Sally Stanley, with a mocking laugh.
"Well, go up to him, and see. Put him in mind of the boy; and tell him
for me, that mice sometimes help lions, as the old fable-book says
that I read at school. Then come down to me this day fortnight; and
perhaps I may tell you more--I do not say that I will--I do not say
that I can; but yet I have seen more unlikely things. Do you know
anything of your brother?"
"Nothing," replied Chandos, "but that he has gone to the
continent--whither, I know not."
"He has taken a bad heart and a heavy conscience with him," said the
woman. "But you must learn where he has gone; for some day you will
have to claim your own at his hands. He will not always triumph in his
wickedness. A day of retribution will come."
"I trust he is not so wicked as you seem to think," answered Chandos
Winslow; "and, at all events, I pray, if he have done wrong, as
doubtless he has in some things, that repentance rather than
retribution may reach him."
"If he has done wrong!" cried the woman, vehemently. "Chandos Winslow,
do you not know that there is upon him a load of crime that may well
weigh him down to perdition? I know not what you saw on that dark
fifth of February; but there were those who saw you with a dead man's
head upon your arm, mourning over him--there were those who saw that
dead man walking alive with your own brother five minutes before; and
fierce were the looks and sharp the words between them. Our people
never go into your courts to bear witness for or against you; but
there were words spoken and overheard that night which would have
taken the charge from you and placed it where it ought to be, had
those words been told again before the judge. There were words spoken
which shall not be forgotten, and which may yet rise up and bear fruit
that he wots not of."
Chandos Winslow laid his hand gently on her arm. "Vengeance," he said,
"is a terrible passion. It is possible my brother may have injured you
in times long past. I think it must be so, from much that you have
said. But if so, I beseech you, seek not in anyway to injure him; for
in so doing, you would but render yourself more wretched than you tell
me you are. You too may have done wrong--you too may have brought
unhappiness on others. Forgive, if you would be forgiven. I think I
know you now; and if I do, it explains much that was doubtful
regarding one for whom and for whose wrongs I have deeply grieved,
believing her dead full eight years ago. My brother has, I have reason
to believe, wronged me too; but if he has, I have forgiven him; and
you may see that it is so when you recollect that even to save my own
life I would not endanger his."
"And have you grieved for me, Chandos Winslow?" said the woman. "I
knew you pitied me; but I thought not the bold, brave boy would long
think of her he sought to see righted. I found sympathy and kindness
with those who saved my life, and I became one of them; but I thought
all the rest of the world had forgotten me. And you grieved for me!
God's blessing be upon you for it; be you blest in your love, and in
your fortune, and in your children; be you blessed in health of body
and of heart; be your age tranquil and your death calm. But, hark!
There are people calling. What can they want? It is not any of our
people. They know themselves better than to make such a noise."
"It is most likely some of the people from the inn seeking me,"
replied Chandos. "I sent on the post-boy with orders to have a chaise
ready for Northferry; and I am so late, they may think me lost, or
murdered."
"Go then, go quick," cried the woman; "do not let them come hither:
and forget not in a fortnight to return."
"I will remember," answered Chandos; and bidding her adieu in a kindly
tone, he left the churchyard.
It was as he thought. The people of the inn had become alarmed at his
long absence, and had sent out to seek him. He gave no account of his
detention, however, when he met the messengers, but merely said he had
stopped a while by the way.
On his arrival at the inn, he found the chaise he had ordered at the
door, ready to carry him to Northferry; but a change had come over his
purpose. He paused, indeed, and meditated for a moment or two, asking
himself if he could depend upon the woman's information, and
considering whether it might not be better to proceed as he had at
first proposed. But he speedily concluded in favour of the more
impetuous course; and, ordering the ticket to be changed, and the
chaise to drive towards London, gave occasion for some marvel on the
part of the landlord, at what the worthy host thought fit to call "the
gentleman's queer ways."