Four days passed after Chandos Winslow's conference with General Tracy
ere he could quit London. Lawyers are not fond of moving fast. Some
difficulties occurred in drawing up the notice to be served upon Sir
William Winslow and Lord Overton, regarding the sale of Winslow Abbey;
and the whole arrangements were not completed till late on the fourth
night. Chandos consoled himself easily, however; for during those four
days he twice saw Rose Tracy; and he began to comprehend better than
he had ever done before, how Mark Antony had lost a world for
Cleopatra's eyes. At length, however, on the fifth morning, one of
those machines which the Londoners, in their monosyllabic propensity
call a "cab," whirled him and his light portmanteau down to the
railway terminus, and in two minutes after, Chandos was rolling away
upon the rails towards his native place. The morning had been
beautiful, dawning with a brightness and a lustre which do not always
promise well for the risen day; and ere the train had reached the
second station, the sky was covered with gray cloud, and a thin, fine
rain was dewing the whole earth. Thicker and faster it came down as
the traveller proceeded on his way, till at length when he got out,
about sixty miles from town, to perform the rest of his journey by
coach, a perfect deluge was pattering upon the roof of the shed under
which he alighted. He had neither umbrella nor great coat; and he was
glad to find an inside place disengaged, to carry him at least part of
the way warm and dry.
His companions were an elderly woman, with a large basket, well
furnished with sandwiches, and a wicker bottle full of gin-and-water;
and a tall, stout man, of about forty-five or forty-six, tolerably
well dressed, in a long brown great-coat, and endowed with an
exceedingly yellow complexion. The lady did not seem inclined for much
conversation, but consoled herself from time to time for the evils of
travelling by the sources of comfort which she had provided in her
bottle and basket. The male traveller was somewhat more communicative,
though in a peculiarly short, dry way. He saluted Chandos on his
entering the coach with a "Good morning, Sir;" which act of homeliness
of course bespoke the rude countryman, in a land where every
well-educated man demeans himself towards his neighbour as an enemy,
till something occurs to make them friends. Chandos, on his part, was
not in the slightest degree afraid of having his pocket picked, his
character injured, or his mind contaminated; and therefore he answered
his new companion civilly, and asked if he had come down by the train.
"Yes, Sir," replied the other; "from a fool's errand."
"How so?" asked Chandos.
"Seeking in London what I might have found in the country, and what I
did not find there," rejoined the stranger; "travelling up to look for
that which travelled down with me, without looking for."
"I never could find out riddles in my life," said Chandos. "How hard
it rains! I did not see you on the train."
"I saw you," answered the man: "I see everything."
"Indeed!" replied Chandos Winslow, not particularly well pleased with
his companion: "then you must see a great deal that does not please
you."
"Not much," said the other: "I am easily pleased. Did you see a green
chariot behind the train, and a gentleman in it, and a vally--an
Italian vagabond?"
Chandos started, and turned round, saying, "No. Whose carriage was
it?"
"The master of Elmsly was in it," said the man.
"Indeed!" said Chandos. And, after a moment's thought, he added, "You
seem to know me, I think."
"Oh, yes; I know you quite well," replied the stranger. "I was in the
court when you were tried for murder."
The old lady opposite gave a start, and exclaimed, "Lord a-mercy!" and
Chandos's face flushed, partly in anger, partly in shame.
"A recollection of such things is not particularly pleasant to me," he
replied, sharply.
"I don't see why not," answered his fellow-traveller. "You knew you
were innocent, and you proved it to the jury. If it should be
unpleasant to anybody, it is to those who accused you, and to the man
who committed the murder, and would have let you be hanged for it."
Chandos made no answer, but fell into thought; and full half-an-hour
passed without a word being spoken. At length the young gentleman
inquired, "Are you of the town of S----?"
"No," answered the other; "I do not live in a town, I live in the
country; but I happened to be there that day by accident, and I went
into the court to see what was going on. It was wonderful hot; but yet
I stayed it out, though I thought I should have been suffocated."
Another long pause succeeded; the man seemed determined to hunt down a
subject the most disagreeable for Chandos to pursue; and therefore the
young gentleman refrained from all further conversation till the coach
stopped to change horses, near a spot where a road branched off
towards Winslow Abbey. There Chandos alighted, and ordered his
portmanteau to be carried up to a bed-room in the neat little
road-side inn. The old lady and the stout, yellow-faced traveller,
proceeded on their way together; and Chandos ordered some refreshment,
preparatory to a long walk which he contemplated.
While the mutton-chop was in preparation, and he was taking out some
necessary articles from his portmanteau, the thick veil of clouds
which covered the sky became of a paler grey, and then, towards the
westward, where a wide open country extended before the windows of the
inn, the edge of the vapour drew up like a curtain, showing the yellow
gleam of evening between the woods and hedgerows in the distance.
Before the young traveller's light meal was concluded, the rain had
ceased entirely, and no trace of clouds remained upon the heaven,
except some white feathery streaks of rising vapour, chequering the
fresh deep blue.
Telling the people of the inn that he might not return till the
following morning, Chandos walked on, taking the narrow lane which led
along the side of the hill towards Winslow Abbey, then at the distance
of about seven miles. The sun was within half an hour of its setting;
but the sweet, long twilight of the late spring evenings was to be
depended upon for many minutes after the star of day was down, and
Chandos did not wish to reach the cottage of Lockwood before it was
dark. He walked therefore calmly and somewhat slowly, now mounting,
now descending, amongst the trees and copses of the hill side, as the
road pursued its varying course. Sometimes the view was shut out by
trees, and nothing was seen but the green branches and the round
silvery trunks of the old beeches, with the rays of the setting sun
stealing in amongst them, and tipping the moss and underwood with
gold; but more frequently he caught sight of the wide extended plains
to the west, lying in definite lines of purple and grey, with the
varied scenery of the hill-slope forming the foreground, the trees of
the old wood tossed here and there amongst the yellow, broken banks,
and every now and then part of the outline of a cottage or small
country-house contrasting its straight forms with the wavey lines of
the landscape, and bringing in images of social life amongst the
wildness of uncultivated nature.
The sun was more than half down; but a bright spot of gold upon the
edge of the horizon, with one line of dark cloud drawn across it,
still poured forth a flood of splendour, when a little turn of the
road brought Chandos nearly in front of a human habitation. It was a
simple little cottage, of two stories high, with a row of green paling
before it, a little garden in front, and two doors, one in the centre,
and the other at the side leading probably to the kitchen. It was
built upon the extreme verge of the steep bank, so that there seemed
no exit behind; and the road spread out wide before, under a cliffy
piece of the hill, which seemed to have been scooped out by man's
hands, probably for sand or gravel. It was a sequestered little nook;
and, in the green evening light, as it streamed through the trees,
looked as peaceful an abode as a weary heart could well desire.
The pleasant tranquillity of the scene had apparently attracted
another person, besides the inhabitants of the cottage, to make a
temporary sojourn there; for, underneath the high bank just opposite,
was a stream of silver-gray smoke rising up against the cliff, and
curling in amongst the trees which topped it; and below was seen the
dilapidated tin-kettle from which it proceeded, with an old man
blowing hard into the hole where once a spout had been. A number of
pots and pans lay around, and a wallet was cast upon the ground hard
by. The old man whistled a wild air in time as he blew, and his face
was turned rather towards the house than his work, so that Chandos had
a full view of his features. It required not two looks to bring to his
recollection the travelling tinker, who had conducted him to the
gipsey encampment on his first visit to Northferry.
Walking up to him with a smile, the young gentleman asked if he
remembered him; and the old man, laughing, winked his eye, answering,
in his peculiar cracked voice, "Aye, do I, master gardener. Do you
want food, and drink, and information to-day, as you did the last time
we met?"
"Food and drink I can dispense with to-day," replied Chandos; "but a
little information would not be amiss. Can you tell me, my good
friend, where I can find Sally Stanley."
"I can find her myself," answered the tinker; "that is to say, I could
find her if I could quit this; but I mustn't."
"Indeed!" said Chandos, in some surprise: "why not? I suppose you will
go before night; for you have not got even a tent here to cover you."
"That's nothing," answered the gipsey; "I shall be here all night,
unless some one comes to relieve me, as they call it."
"Why, are you on guard, then?" asked Chandos.
"I'm on watch, and that is as good," replied the tinker, winking his
eye, and looking towards the house.
"Who are you watching there, then?" demanded the young gentleman; but
the old man only grinned, and made no reply for a minute or two, till
Chandos repeated his question.
"Very likely!" said the tinker; "don't you think I'll tell you,
master? I'm watching some one who will not come out in a hurry while I
am here; and when I'm gone, there will be another, and when he's gone,
another, till we starve the rat out of his hole, or at all events find
out if he is in it. But you have nothing to do with that. You are not
one of us, you know. You've your own trade, and that's a gardener's.
Stick to that."
"I've given that up sometime, as I think you know," answered Chandos.
"Aye, may be, may be," said the old tinker; "I've heard something of
it. But what is it you want to say to Sally Stanley? Do you want your
new fortune told? She is the rarest hand amongst them for that. Never
was such a one; for she is always right, one way or another: and our
people think she has got a spirit that tells her all that is going to
happen, at those times when she gets into her tantarums and goes about
amongst the dead men's graves and that. I would not bide her curse for
a great deal. It fell hard upon poor Harry Chambers; for you know he
was sent over the water for life, just three months after. But what do
you want with her?"
"Nay, that is my business," answered Chandos; "only you tell her I am
down here again, and will speak to her when she likes. I have a good
many things to say that she may wish to hear; and she has something to
say to me."
"But where shall she look for you?" asked the tinker. "Though I dare
say she knows well enough; for she knows everything."
"It is better to make sure," replied the young gentleman; "so let her
know that I shall be at Lockwood's cottage to-night, and be gone by
day-break. I shall then be at my place at Northferry, for a day or
two, or between that and S----; and then, perhaps, over at Elmsly."
"I shan't see her to-night," said the tinker; "for she is a good way
off; and Garon comes up when I am to go. After that I'll find her
out.--But look, look--quietly, quietly! Don't you see a man in there,
at the back of the little parlour--a man with a round face and a pair
of green spectacles?"
"Yes, I do," said Chandos; "now that they have opened that window at
the back to let the light in, I see a man there; but I cannot well see
what he is like."
"Use your young eyes well," said the tinker; "and tell me if he has
not a round, red face, and a pair of green spectacles on, and a flaxen
wig, and a cravat high up about his chin--why, I can see the
spectacles myself."
"So do I now," said Chandos. But the next moment the front window was
shut, and all further view into the interior of the room cut off.
Chandos mused. He had more than once, as a native of a well-wooded
country greatly frequented by gipsies, remarked the extraordinary
knowledge which that curious race of wanderers acquire of all that is
passing in their neighbourhood, and had wondered how they arrived at
their information. The uses which they put it to when gained was more
evident; but he knew not till that night, and indeed few do know the
marvellous pains which gipsies often take to find out minute and
apparently insignificant facts, and the no less wonderful skill with
which they combine them when obtained, and draw deductions from them,
generally approaching very close to the truth. Sometimes they have an
object, and sometimes none; for curiosity by habit becomes a passion
with them. But in the present instance there was evidently some end in
view; and Chandos, from various circumstances, felt inclined to
inquire further ere he proceeded.
Following the same train of combinations which a gipsey would most
likely have followed, suspicions were excited which he longed to turn
into certainties; and after thinking over the matter for a time, he
said, "And so, my good friend, the gentleman with the round, red face
and green spectacles is hidden down here, is he?"
"I did not say he was hidden," answered the tinker, instantly upon his
guard.
"You said what amounts to the same thing," replied Chandos; "for you
told me he would not come out as long as you were here."
"Aye; that may be for fear of having his bones broke," said the other;
"you know, we don't easily forgive them who offend us."
"Come, come; I am not to be put upon the wrong scent," replied
Chandos. "Sally Stanley told me something of this before; but I did
not think she would have found out his hiding-place so soon."
"Why, what does she know of it?" asked the tinker, with the most
natural air in the world; "you are out in your guesses, master
gardener. You can't come over an old cove like me. If you know
anything of the gemman, go and ring the bell, and ask if Mr. Wilson's
at home. I dare say he'll see _you_;" and the old man laid a strong
emphasis on the last word.
"Is it a Mr. Wilson who lives there, then?" asked Chandos.
The gipsey nodded his head, and Chandos, saying, "It is not a bad
plan," walked straight up to the little gate, and rang the bell. The
gipsey put his tongue in his cheek, and winked his eye; but the next
moment a maidservant came to the door of the house, and, without
approaching the garden-gate, inquired, in a flippant tone, "What do
you want, young man?"
"Is Mr. Wilson at home?" demanded Chandos, not at all expecting that
the girl would admit the residence of such a person there. To his
surprise, however, she answered, more civilly than at first, "No, Sir;
he's gone to town."
"But I saw him in that room, a minute or two ago," replied the young
gentleman.
"Lord, Sir, no," said the maid; "that is his father, the old gentleman
who is ill with a quinsy, and don't see any one. Master has been in
London this week. He'll be down o' Thursday."
Convinced that his suspicions had led him wrong, Chandos turned away,
and saw the old tinker laughing heartily. It is not pleasant to be
laughed at, as the sapient reader is probably aware. But laughers
sometimes lose; and in this instance the half-crown which had been
destined for the old man remained in Chandos's pocket: not that it was
kept there by any feeling of anger on his part; but because the young
gentleman was not inclined to face the merriment his disappointment
had created, he turned away, and walked straight on in the direction
of Winslow Abbey.
Night fell when he was at the distance of three miles from the park;
and, hurrying his pace, he soon after stood before the gates of tall,
hammered iron-work, erected more than two centuries before. The great
gates were chained and padlocked; but the lesser one, at the side, was
open, and Chandos entered the park where he had played in boyhood,
with a bitter feeling at his heart, when he thought that all his
efforts might not be able to prevent it passing away from his name and
race for ever.
He followed the path which he had trod every Sunday during his
mother's life, from the Abbey to the parish church, and back; and at
the distance of about half-a-mile from the gates, he caught sight of
the mansion. There was a single, solitary light in one of the windows,
shining faint, like the last hope in his breast; and as he advanced it
flitted along the whole range, till at length, at the further extreme,
it blazed brighter, as if several candles had been suddenly lighted.
At the same time, turning to the right, the young gentleman took the
path which led away to the house of his half-brother. The park seemed
to him even more melancholy than when last he visited it. It had a
more deserted feeling to his mind. It was to be sold; and yet for all
that he clung to it the more. If it had cost him his right hand, he
would have kept it. As we attach ourselves the more fondly to a friend
in distress, so he held more firmly by the old place he loved, because
those who ought to have loved it likewise, abandoned it.
"Would that my father had left it to me!" he repeated to himself more
than once. "Had it been nought but the Abbey and the Park, I would
have worked the flesh from my bones to keep it up. But it is
gone--gone! and the hope is vain they hold out to me. I feel it, I
know it!"
With such melancholy thoughts he walked on, through the chestnut-wood,
all in green leaf, across the ferny savannah, where the deer lay
thick, amongst the old hawthorn trees, loading the air with aromatic
balm. He approached the park wall, and saw, by the clear gray light
sent before the yet invisible moon, the enclosure round the house of
Lockwood, and the house itself--a dark, black mass, upon the silvery
eastern sky. Yet the trees and shrubs in the garden before the windows
caught another ray, and in long beamy lines the misty light poured
forth from the lozenge panes of the casements. Chandos opened the
little garden gate and went in; but as he approached the door, he
heard voices speaking, and even laughter, very dissonant to his ear.
He was in no mood for merry company: there were few people he could
wish to meet, and many he would not meet; and ere he gave any
indication of his presence, he walked along the path before the
windows and looked in, to ascertain who were the guests within. Before
him, with his back to the casement, the neat white dimity curtain of
which was not drawn, appeared the tall, powerful frame of Lockwood
himself, while a bowl of smoking punch stood upon the table before
him, and his hand was stretched out, armed with a curious,
old-fashioned ladle, which he was dipping in the fragrant compound, to
supply the glass which another person opposite was holding out towards
him. In the face of that other person, which was turned towards the
window, Chandos instantly recognized the handsome but too delicate
features of Faber. Lockwood filled the glass to the brim, and then
raised his own, already full, exclaiming so loud that the words were
heard without, "Here's to him, then. Health to our good brother
Chandos: may God grant him his rights, and send confusion to those who
would wrong him!"
Chandos waited to hear no more, but approaching the door of the house,
was about to ring the bell. A peal of laughter, not from Lockwood's
lips, though with a far more joyous sound than he had ever before
heard those of Faber utter, made the visitor pause for a moment; and
then with a sudden and somewhat impatient movement, he lifted the
latch, and entered unannounced.