The ground-floor of Sir William Winslow's house at Elmsly, contained
as splendid a suite of rooms as any in England; and nothing that taste
could do to give grace to the decorations, or that skill could effect
to afford that comfort of which we are so fond, had been neglected by
the last possessor, during a period of three years before his death.
Sir William Winslow, however, was in some sort a stranger to the
house, which was now his own: for, during several years, great
coldness had subsisted between himself and his father. He had spent
much of his time on the Continent; and had not, in fact, been at
Elmsly for two years, when he was summoned thither in haste, a few
hours before Sir Harry's death. The interview between himself and his
brother Chandos at Winslow Abbey took place on the Tuesday; and on the
Thursday following, about nine o'clock at night, he was seated in the
large dining-room of the magnificent suite I have mentioned, with the
clergyman of the parish opposite to him.
The table, looking like a little island, in the ocean of Turkey carpet
which flowed around, was covered with the desert, and with sundry
decanters of choice wines; and two servants handed the plates of fruit
and preserves to their master, and their master's guest. When this
ceremony had been performed, the attendants left the room; and a
desultory conversation, mingled with wine took place between Sir
William and the clergyman. The latter was a stout, portly man, with a
good deal of the animal in his original composition; but rigidly and
pertinaciously kept down by a strong moral sense, and high religious
feelings. The motives which had produced so speedy an invitation on
the part of Sir William Winslow were various: but one was, that Sir
William did not like to be left alone. His own thoughts were
unpleasant companions. Again, he was anxious to retrieve some part of
the good opinions he had lost. He felt that he had undervalued
character; and, of late, things had appeared important to him, which
he had looked upon with contempt before. Amongst others, some sort of
religious opinions began to be objects of desire. He did not much care
what, for his notions on the subject were very indefinite; but he felt
a want, a craving for something that could give him the support which
he possessed not in his own heart--for something that would afford him
hope, when there was nought within him but despair. He had heard--he
knew, indeed--that the Christian religion promised pardon for
offences, hope to the sinner, peace to the repentant. And he sent to
the clergyman to seek a certain portion of religion, just as a thirsty
labourer would send to a public-house for a jug of beer.
The conversation, as I have said, was of a desultory kind: the subject
of religion was approached in a timid, uncertain sort of way by Sir
William Winslow; more as an opening than anything else: and the
clergyman answered in a few brief, but very striking words; which
produced a deep effect. He treated the matter less doctrinally than
philosophically, and in such a manner, that Sir William Winslow was
inclined to fancy what he said had a personal application to himself;
although the good man had no such intention.
"It is beautifully and happily ordained," said the clergyman, in
answer to something which had preceded, "that the commission of crime,
and the reproaches of conscience, very frequently, by the desolation
which they produce in worldly things, should awaken in us the
conviction of another state; give us a sense of our immortality; and
teach the man who has only known himself as a mere animal, that he
possesses a spirit, to be lost or saved, to live for ever to
punishment or felicity. That conviction once gained, and the question
naturally follows: 'What can I do to be saved?' The Word of God
replies 'Repent'; and repentance to salvation is not unfrequently the
consequence."
Sir William Winslow mused; but after a time he replied, in a
discursive manner, "It is a curious consideration what this same
spirit can be. I doubt not its existence; for I feel a moving power
within me, apart from, and independent of, mere _will_. But what is
it? I see it not. No one has ever seen it."
"Hold, hold," cried the clergyman; "you must not say that. The records
of Scripture bear witness, that spirits have been seen; and it can be
shown philosophically, that there is no reason for supposing such a
thing impossible."
The worthy pastor had been set upon a subject which was a favourite
one with him, and he went on, citing history after history, and
instance after instance, to prove that, under certain circumstances,
there were means of communication established between the dead and the
living. He even went so far as to argue that it would be absurd to
suppose it otherwise; that granting that there is such a thing as
spirit, and that spirit is immortal, all analogy would show that there
must be a power in the disembodied of producing certain influences
upon their brethren in the flesh. "You cannot point out any order of
beings," he said, "from the most imperfect to the most perfect, which
has not some knowledge and communication with those next to it in the
great scale of animated nature."
Sir William Winslow listened, but replied not, keeping his teeth tight
shut, and his lips compressed; and the clergyman proceeded in the same
strain, till the clock struck ten, when he suddenly rose to depart.
His host would willingly have detained him a little longer; for, as I
have said, he loved not to be alone; but he was too haughty to press
it beyond one request; and the clergyman, who was a man of habits,
always retired at ten.
When he was gone Sir William walked into the drawing-room and ordered
coffee. He took it very strong, and that agitated rather than calmed
his nerves. He walked up and down for half-an-hour, and then he said
to himself, "I will go and look over those letters. There is no use in
going to bed, I should not sleep." He then ordered candles in the
library; but he would not go thither till they were lighted. When that
was done he walked slowly in, and took up some of the unopened letters
with which the table was strewed. The second which he broke was signed
"Overton;" and after having run his eye down the page, he threw it
away with a look of anger. He would read no more, and sitting down in
the large arm chair, where so often his father had sat, he gnawed his
lip, with his eyes bent upon the ground.
The clock struck eleven, and Sir William started in his seat and
counted it. A minute or two after, he took out his pocket-book, and
drew from it a folded piece of vellum. He did not then look at the
contents, however, but thrust it into a drawer of the table. Then,
rising from his seat, he walked to the window and looked out. It was a
beautiful moonlight night, the soft, silvery rays resting on the lawns
and woods of the park, and the little stars, faint and sleepy in the
sky. He gazed for several minutes; but I know not whether he beheld
anything but the objects of his own fancy. Then he walked up and down
the room again, and twice stood for a moment or two opposite the
drawer in the library table. At length he suddenly pulled it open,
took out the vellum, unfolded it, and read the strange contents.
"By--," he exclaimed, after thinking for a moment, "this is devilish
strange! it is the very day she drowned herself!" and the vellum
trembled in his hand. "I won't go. Why should I go?"
He looked at the writing again: "She will come and fetch me!" he
repeated, with his lip curling; "I should like to see her;" and the
proud spirit seemed to rise up again in full force. But then he shook
his head sadly, and murmured, "Poor girl! she told me once before she
would come, and she did--to her own destruction."
The clock struck the half hour, and in great agitation--agitation
scarcely sane--Sir William Winslow walked up and down the room again,
with a wild, irregular step, his eyes rolling in his head, as if he
saw some strange sight, and his hand frequently carried to his brow,
and pressed tight upon his forehead.
At the end of about ten minutes, he stopped, gazed vacantly upon the
floor, and then, with a sudden start, exclaimed aloud, "I will go to
her! She shall not say that I feared her. She shall not come here--no,
no--yet I believe, alive or dead, she would do it, if she said it.--It
is her hand too. That name, how often have I seen it with different
feelings! Poor Susan!" and walking out of the library, and through the
corridor, he took his hat and quitted the house.
The moon lighted him on his way through the park. He could see every
pebble in the ground; but yet his step was as irregular as if the way
had been rough and rude. Nevertheless he went very quick; he seemed
impatient; and when he found the park-gates shut, he did not wait to
awaken the people of the lodge, but cut across to a stile which went
over the paling; and there he issued forth into the road. About two
hundred yards before him rose the church, with its good broad
cemetery, encircled by a low wall. The moon shone full on the white
building, rising like a spectre amongst the dark trees and fields
around.
Sir William Winslow stopped suddenly, crossed his arms upon his chest,
and thought. Then the heavy bell of the church clock began to strike
the hour of midnight; and walking rapidly on he reached the gate of
the churchyard, while the sound of the last stroke still swung
trembling in the air. He passed through the little turnstile, and
walked up the path. There was a new tombstone close upon the right,
which he had never seen before; and his eyes fixed upon it. The
letters of the inscription were all plain in the moonlight, and the
name "Roberts" stared him in the face, with these words following,
"Brutally murdered, by some person unknown, on the fifth of February,
one thousand eight hundred and forty-five, in the sixtieth year of his
age."
Sir William Winslow trembled violently, and murmured, "Who has done
this? Who has done this?"
His courage had well nigh deserted him entirely; and he paused, hardly
able to go on, when a voice from the farther side of the cemetery
asked, "Are you come?"
He knew the tongue, though it had sounded sweeter in other days; and
striding forward, he answered, "I am here! Where are you?"
"Here," answered the voice from the direction of a tall mausoleum,
over the mouth of the Winslow vault: "Come on!"
He advanced, but could perceive no one. He walked round the monument;
the space was quite clear around. "Where are you? What would you with
me?" he cried.
"I am where I have a right to be," answered the voice from a spot
apparently below his feet. "I am amongst those from whom sprang a man
who promised to make me one of them, and broke his promise. I am
amongst your dead, William Winslow! Your father is on my right hand,
and your mother on my left. Your place is here beside me, and will not
be long vacant, if your spirit does not bow itself to repentance, your
strong will does not yield to right."
"God of Heaven!" he cried, laying his hand upon the gate in the iron
railing which surrounded the tomb, and shaking it violently; but
instantly there was a low laugh, and a voice said, "Poor fool!--You
ask," continued the voice, "what I would with you? For myself, I seek
nothing. You can neither harm nor benefit me more. The time is past.
The hour is gone by; and what you could once have done, is now beyond
your power. But for our boy, you can do much; you can atone to the
mother, by love to the child. Take him to yourself; own him as yours;
and oh! above all things, teach him to avoid and to abhor such crimes
as you yourself have committed."
"Our boy!" cried Sir William Winslow, "I knew not that you had one,
Susan. Oh, Susan, in mercy, in pity, tell me where he is?"
"Ask your brother," answered the voice; "ask that kind, noble brother,
whom you have wronged, who has been a father to your child, when you
were depriving himself of his inheritance; who has taught him virtue,
and honour, and the love of God. He will give him to your arms, if you
show yourself worthy of him. Thus much for myself, William Winslow;
but, oh that there were any power in prayers, to make you grant that
which is needful for another."
"Speak, speak!" said he eagerly; "I will grant whatever you ask. I
wronged you basely, I know; I broke my plighted word; I forfeited my
honour given. Speak, Susan! Let me make atonement, as far as it can
now be made."
"The other for whom I prayed is yourself," answered the voice. "Oh,
William Winslow, beware. The cup is well nigh full. You cannot wake
the dead; but you can do justice to the living. Bend your knees to
God, and implore mercy; humble your heart even before men, and do not
persist in evil. Restore what you have wrongly taken, and all may go
well; but hear the last words that ever you will hear on earth, from
her you wronged on earth: If you persist in the evil you can by a word
redress, the crime that you think is buried for ever in darkness, will
rise up into light by the consequences of your own acts. Such is
judgment--such is retribution--such is the will of God. Amen."
"But of what particular wrong do you speak?" asked Sir William
Winslow.
There was no answer, and he exclaimed, "Speak, Susan! speak!"
All was silent, and again and again he endeavoured to obtain a reply,
but in vain.
At length, moving slowly away, he passed round the other side of the
church, to avoid the grave of the steward, and soon reached the park.
He hurried homeward; but he entered not his own house so speedily. For
two long hours he walked backwards and forwards upon the terrace, with
his head bent down and his eyes fixed upon the sand. Who shall
undertake to detail the terrible turns of the struggle then within
him. It was a battle between the whole host of darkness and the
cherubim of the Lord. Fear, and Doubt, and Pride, and Vanity, and all
their tribes were arrayed against the small, bright legion which had
gained one small spot of vantage ground in his heart. Doubt and Fear
he knew must remain for ever on this side of the grave, to hold that
part of the castle to which he had given them admittance; but their
very presence there made him anxious to exclude them from the rest;
and he repeated a thousand times in spirit, "Would to God I had not
burned that will! Would to God that aught would afford me a fair
excuse for acting as it dictated! What can I do? Where can I turn?
Heaven send me, light and help!"
Still the internal strife lasted long; and when at length he
re-entered the house, body and mind felt worn and exhausted. His valet
gazed at him with one of his quiet, serpent looks, and said, "You seem
ill, Sir. Had you not better have some cordial?"
"No, no," answered Sir William Winslow, turning from him with a faint
shudder; "I want nothing but rest. It matters not."
But that night he did not lie down to rest without bending the knee,
and imploring mercy and protection. It was the first time for many
years. It was the first night, too, that he had slept for more than an
hour at a time for several months; but now he remained in slumber
undisturbed till ten o'clock, and when he woke he felt the effect of
repose. He rose, threw on his dressing-gown, and approached the glass
on his dressing-table. He hardly knew the face that it reflected. He
did not feel ill. Sleep had refreshed him; his limbs were strong and
vigorous, but all colour had fled from his cheek. He was thenceforth
as pale as the dead.
He then went to the window for air, and the first thing his eye
lighted upon was his valet, advanced a step or two on the terrace,
talking to a tall, stout man, of a very sallow complexion, in a long,
brown great coat. Sir William Winslow's heart sunk, he knew not why.
He did not like to see that Italian talking with any one since he had
mentioned the spots of blood upon his coat; and he gazed for a moment
at the servant as he stood with his back towards him, with feelings of
pain and alarm. Suddenly a change came over him. He raised his head
high, and his proud nostril expanded. "It matters not," he said to
himself; "I will be no man's slave long. I will do Chandos justice--I
will provide for my poor boy--see him--embrace him--and then that
scoundrel shall go forth to do his worst."
With these thoughts he rang his bell sharply, and soon after descended
to breakfast. His meal was speedily concluded; and going into the
library, he wrote for some time. One paper which he covered seemed to
be a mere note; but for the other he consulted several times a law
book, which he took down out of the library.
When that was done, he rang again, and ordered the servant who
appeared to send the butler, the bailiff, and the housekeeper to him,
all together. Before they could be collected he had folded the note
and addressed it to "Chandos Winslow, Esq.," and when the three
persons he had sent for appeared, with some surprise at their unusual
summons, he said, I wish you to witness my signature of this paper.
Then taking the pen, he wrote his name at the bottom, saying, "This is
my last will and testament." The witnesses put their hands to the
paper and withdrew, each observing how ill their master looked, and
arguing by the sudden signature of his will that he felt more unwell
than he appeared.
The event became a matter of gossip in the housekeeper's room, and the
Italian valet rubbed his forehead and looked thoughtful; but he had
not much time for consideration before he was called to carry a
note, which had just arrived, to Sir William, who had gone to his
dressing-room previous to going out. The man looked at it somewhat
wistfully as he took it up; but he dared not finger the envelope, and
it was delivered without the contents having escaped by the way.
"Countermand my horse," said his master; "I will write an answer
directly. Some one is waiting, of course."
"Yes, Sir William," replied the valet, and his master walked out at
once, and descended to the library. There, he again spread out the
letter before him, and read to the following effect:--
"The Golden Bull, Elmsly,
"May, 1845.
"Sir,--I am directed by my client, Chandos Winslow, Esq., to inform
you, that from documents lately in the possession of Mr. Roberts,
deceased, and from private marks thereon, in the handwriting of the
late Sir Harry Winslow, of the true intent and meaning of which
private marks the said Chandos Winslow is cognizant, he has reason to
believe, that an authentic copy of the last will and testament of the
aforesaid Sir Harry Winslow, Bart., signed with his name, and dated,
'25th June, 1840,' is still to be found in a certain depository, at
Elmsly House; hitherto unsearched by you: and, in consequence, I beg,
in his name, to request that you will cause search to be made in the
said place or depository, with all convenient speed, in the presence
of myself, his attorney, or any other person or persons whom he may
select: or otherwise, that you will sanction and permit the said
search to be made by the said Chandos Winslow, Esq., or myself, as his
attorney, in presence of yourself, or any other person or persons by
yourself selected, as witnesses that the search or examination is well
and properly made, without fraud or favour, by, SIR,
"Your most obedient Servant,
"HENRY MILES,
"Attorney-at-Law and Solicitor to the firm of
Miles, Furlong, and Miles, S----."
"P. S. Sir, I am directed by my client to inform you, that he has no
desire to be present in person at the proposed search, as he judges
that, under circumstances, his visit to Elmsly might not be
agreeable."
When he had read, Sir William Winslow held the letter up with a
trembling hand, and there was evidently a renewed struggle in his
bosom. But his eye rested on the note he had written to Chandos; and
perhaps, he compared the feelings with which he had spontaneously
addressed his brother, with those which were now excited by irritated
pride, at what he conceived an attempt to drive him to that which he
had been willing to do undriven. At all events, he smiled--very
likely, at the first discovery of the secret springs of his own
actions; and sitting down again--for he had risen for a moment--he
wrote the following words:--
"Sir William Winslow presents his compliments to Mr. Miles, and begs
to inform him that he is perfectly at liberty to make the proposed
search at Elmsly. Sir William, however, would prefer that it should be
made in the presence of his brother, Mr. Chandos Winslow, whom he will
be happy to see at Elmsly, as soon as possible, for that purpose. He
sincerely hopes that the will maybe found, as it may save some
trouble; but, at the same time, he begs Mr. Miles to forward, or
present the inclosed note (written some hours ago) to Mr. Winslow,
begging him to understand that Sir William adheres to the contents,
irrespective of the result of the search now demanded.
"Elmsly, &c."
The note was immediately despatched, and the master of the house
leaned his head upon his hand in deep thought. He was disturbed by the
entrance of the valet, who advanced with a low and humble bow, saying,
"Could I speak with you for a moment, Sir?"
"No," replied the baronet, sternly; "I am engaged."
"But, Sir William," said the man.
"Leave the room, Sir!" thundered his master; "did you not hear me?"
The man obeyed; but as he quitted the library, he muttered, "Oh! very
well."
Sir William Winslow felt he had gained something during the last few
hours. It was courage of a peculiar sort. The day before he would not
have found resolution so to answer a man, who, to a certain degree,
had his life and honour in his hands. Now he had no hesitation; and as
he sat and thought, he asked himself if it was the having taken the
first step towards atonement which had restored to him his long-lost
firmness. He thought it was; and he resolved to go on boldly. Perhaps
he mistook the cause of the change in himself. His was one of those
quick and irritable dispositions which cannot bear suspense of any
kind, which will rather confront the utmost peril than wait an hour in
fear; and the very fact of having taken a strong resolution gave the
power to execute it. But still he fancied that the purpose of doing
right, of making atonement, was the result of his renewed vigour; and
the mistake was salutary.
In the meantime, the man whom he had dismissed from his presence so
abruptly went out to one of the several backdoors of the house, and
looked about, casting his eyes over the wood, which there came near
the house. For a minute or two he seemed to be looking for something
and not discovering it; but then, he beckoned with his finger, and a
dark man, in a long great-coat, came across from under the trees and
joined him.
They spoke in low tones, but eagerly, for about five minutes; and at
last the dark man said, "No; we had better work separate. I will
manage it, you'll see; and you can do the same if you do but frighten
him enough. I must speak with the woman first; but I'll be back in an
hour, if you think he'll be alone then."
"I dare say he will," answered the valet, "there are not many people
come here now; but if there should be any one, you can wait about till
they are gone."
"Very well," replied the other; and with a nod and a low laugh, he
turned away, and left the Italian standing at the door.