Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=u6olAAAAMAAJ
(the New York Public Library)
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS.
VOL. CXIV.
A WHIM, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
IN ONE VOLUME.
A WHIM,
AND
ITS CONSEQUENCES.
COPYRIGHT EDITION.
LEIPZIG
BERNH. TAUCHNITZ JUN.
1847.
A WHIM, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
CHAPTER I.
A solitary room at midnight: a single wax candle lighted on the table: the stiff dull crimson silken curtains of the bed close drawn: half a dozen phials and two or three glasses. Is it the chamber of a sick man? He must sleep sound if it be, for there is no noise--not even a breath; and all without is as still as death. There is awe in the silence; the candle sheds gloom, not light, the damask hanging sucks up the rays, and gives nothing back: they sink into the dark wood furniture: one could hear a mouse creep over the thick carpet; but there is no sound! Is it the chamber of the dead? But where is the watcher?--Away! and what matters it here? No one will come to disturb the rest of that couch: no brawling voices, no creaking doors will make vibrate the dull cold ear of death. Watch ye the living! The dead need no watching: the sealed eyes and the clayed ears have sleep that cannot be broken.
But is it the watcher who comes back again through that slowly opening door? No, that is a man; and we give all the more sad and solemn tasks of life to women. A young man, too, with the broad, free brow gathered into a sad, stern frown. He comes near the bed; he draws slowly back the curtain, and, with the faint ray of the single candle streaming in, gazes down upon the sight beneath. There it lies, the clay--animate, breathing, thoughtful, full of feelings, considerations, passions, pangs, not six-and-thirty hours before. But now so silent, so calm, so powerfully grave: it seems to seize in its very inertness upon the busy thoughts of others, and chain them down to its own deadly tranquillity.
It is the corpse of a man passed the prime, not yet in the decline, of life. The hair is gray, not white; the skin somewhat wrinkled, but not shrivelled. The features are fine, but stern; and there is a deep furrow of a frown between the eyebrows, which even the pacifying hand of death has not been able to obliterate. He must have been a hard man, methinks. Yet how the living gazes on the dead! How earnestly--how tenderly! His eyes, too, fill with tears. There must have been some kindly act done, some tie of gratitude or affection between those two. It is very often that those who are stern, but just, win regard more long-enduring, deeper-seated, more intense, than the blandishing, light-minded man of sweet and hollow courtesies.
The tear overtops the eyelid, and falls upon the dark shooting-jacket; and then, bending down his head, he presses his lips upon the marble brow. A drop (of the heart's dew) will be found there in the morning; for there is no warmth in that cold forehead to dry it up.
The curtains are closed again; the room is once more vacant of breath. The image of human life upon the table, that decreasing taper, gutters down with droppings like those of a petrifying spring. A spark of fire, like some angry passion of the heart, floats in the melted wax above, nourishing its flaming self by wasting that it dwells in. Then comes back the watcher, with bleared and vacant eyes, and lips that smell of brandy. She has sense enough yet to stop the prodigal consumer of her only companion of the night; and sitting down, she falls asleep in the presence of death, as if she were quite familiar with the grave, and had wandered amongst the multitudes that lie beneath.
CHAPTER II.
It was the autumn of the year, when men who do such things, shoot pheasants, and go hunting. The leaves had fallen from the trees, and were blown about in heaps by the chill wind; or if any hung upon the sapless branches, it was but as the tatters of a shroud on the dry bones of some violated tomb; the grass in the fields was brown, and beaten down by wind and storm; the streams were flooded with yellow torrents from the hills, and waved about in wild confusion the thick, fleshy stems of the water weeds; and the face of earth, cold and spiritless like that of a corpse, glared up to the sunless sky, without one promise of the glorious resurrection of the spring. It was night, too, dull, gray night. The raven's wing brooded over the whole world; clouds were upon the firmament; no moonbeam warmed with sweet prophecy the edge of the vapour; but, dim and monotonous, the black veil quenched the starry eyes of heaven, and the shrill wind that whistled through the creaking tree-tops, stirred not even the edges of that dun pall so as to afford one glimpse of things beneath.
There was a dark clay-like smell in the air, too, a smell of decay; for the vegetable world was rotting down into the earth, and the death of the year's life made itself felt to every sense. All was dark, and foul, and chilly as a tomb.
With a quick, strong step, firm, well-planted, unwavering, a man walked along with a stick over his shoulder, and a bundle on the hook of the stick. There was nothing gay or lightsome in his gait. It betokened strength, resolution, self-dependence, but not cheerfulness. He whistled not as he went: the wind whistled enough for the whole world. He neither looked up nor down, but straight forward on his way; and though the blast beat upon his breast and over his cheek, though the thin, sleety rain dashed in his face, and poked its icy fingers in his eyes, on he went sturdily. He never seemed to feel it. He was either young and hardy, or had bitter things in his heart which armoured him against the sharp tooth of the weather--perhaps both. He seemed to know his way well too, for he paused not to consider or look round; but on--on, for many an hour he walked, till at length a stream stopped him, hissing along under its sedgy banks, and in some places overtopping them with the swollen waters.
There he halted for an instant, but not longer; and then with a laugh, short and not gay, he walked straight on, following the path. The turbid torrent came to his knee, rose to the hip, reached his elbows. "Deep enough!" said the night wanderer, but on he went. The stream wrestled with, and shook him, tugged at his feet, strove to whirl him round in its eddies, splashed up against his chest, and, like a hungry serpent, seemed to lick the prey it was fierce to swallow up. He let go the stick and the bundle, and swam. It was his only chance to reach the other bank alive; but he uttered no cry, he called for no help: perhaps he knew that it would be in vain. He could not conquer without loss, though he gave the torrent buffet for buffet, but, like a determined band fighting against a superior force, he smote still, though turned from his direct course, and still made progress onward, till catching the root of an old tree, he held firm, regained his breath and his footing, and leaped upon the bank.
"Who are you? and what do you want here?" asked a voice the moment after, as he paused by the tree, and drew a deep breath.
The wayfarer looked round, and saw, by what light there was a man of apparently his own height and strength, standing by an alder near. "I must first know where I am," he said in return, "before I can tell you what I want."
"Come, come, that will not do," replied the other; "you must have some sharp object, to swim across such a night as this, and must know well enough where you were coming, and what you were coming for. Who are you? I say--and if you do no tell, I will make you."
"That were difficult," answered the other; "but I will tell you what I am, and why I swam the stream, if that will do. I am a man not of a nature nor in a mood to be turned back. The river lay in my way, and therefore I came over it; but I have lost my bundle, which is a pity; and I am wetter than is pleasant."
"As for your bundle," said the other, "that will stick upon Winslow wear; and as for your being wet, I could help you to dry clothes if I knew who you were."
"Not knowing will not prevent you," rejoined the other. "Winslow wear!--Now I know where I am. I was not aware I had walked so far by seven good miles. Then I must be in Winslow park."
"Not far wrong," said the other man; "but you seem to be a somewhat strange lad, and wilful withal. As you have lost your bundle, however, and got your clothes wet, you had better come with me; for after all, I dare say you mean no harm, and I may as well help you to a dry jacket."
"I mean no harm to any one," was the reply; "and I think I must stop somewhere near, for my clothes will not dry so soon to-night as they would in the summer sunshine."
"Certainly not," answered the other, "there is more chance of saturation than evaporation."
The swimmer of the stream turned suddenly and looked at him, in some surprise: then fell into a fit of thought: and in the end, without noticing his companion's fine words observed, "I am not getting any dryer by standing here: and you are getting wetter; for the rain is coming on more fiercely. If you have any will to give me shelter and dry clothes, now is the time. If not, I must go and seek them elsewhere."
"Suppose I say you shan't," inquired the other, "what would you do then?"
"Walk away," was the answer.
"And if I stopped you?" said the other.
"Pitch you into the river, and see if you can swim it as well as I did," rejoined the wayfarer.
"The chances would be against you, my friend," rejoined his new companion: "we are about the same height and size, I think; and not very different in make. Suppose us equal then in strength. You have, however, taken a walk to-night long enough to make you lose seven miles of your count; you have swam that river in flood, and have lost somewhat of your strength at every mile of the way, and every yard of the water. Your strength and mine then, being at first equal quantities, you must inquire, whether a can be equal to b, minus c the walk, and d the stream?"
"Yes," answered the other, "for there is one thing you do not take into account."
"What is that?" asked the arithmetician.
"Despair!" said his new-found friend; "for I tell you fairly, that if you make me try to pitch you into the river, I do not care a straw whether I go in with you or not."
"That is a different affair," replied his companion drily; "despair is an unknown quantity, and I have not time to arrive at it; so come along."
The other did not make any answer, but walked on with him, following a path which in ordinary times communicated with that which he had pursued on the other side of the stream, by a little wooden bridge, which had been apparently washed away in the flood. Both the men mused; and probably there was a good deal of similarity in the questions which they were separately trying in their own minds. When man first meets man, to each is presented a problem which he is bound to solve as speedily as possible. Every man is a sphinx to his neighbour, and propounds an enigma, which the other must answer, or woe be to him. The riddle is, "What is within this casket of flesh before my eyes?" and none can tell how important may be the solution. We may be parted soon, whether the impression made by the one upon the other be like the ripple of the wind upon the sea, or profound as the channel which the torrent has worn in the rock; for--
"--many meet, who never yet have met,
To part too soon, but never to forget."
But on the contrary, under the most adverse circumstances, without a probability, against all likelihood, the companion led in by the hand of chance, is often linked with us by fate through life--bound by the iron chain of circumstances to the same column in the prison of destiny as ourselves, destined to work at the same day-labour, and accomplish, with our help, the same task. None but the dull, then, ever see another human being for five minutes, without asking, "What is the god of the temple? what are his powers?"
There was not a word uttered by either, as they walked along. Yet each knew that the other was not an ordinary man; but the person whom the wayfarer had found upon the bank was much more curious in his inquiries; for the other, though a quick and active-minded creature, had many other thoughts in his bosom, stronger, more continuous than those which the character of his companion had suggested, and which the latter might cross and recross, like the thread upon the shuttle, but did not interrupt.
Now for the first time on his long way--he had walked thirty miles that night--he sometimes looked around him. The faint gray of dawn aided his eyes; but the objects were not cheerful. The scenery indeed was fine. There were hill and dale; and river and lawn; wood and heath; fern, hawthorn, birch, oak, beech, and solemn yew, with the broad, sturdy chestnut, and the tall, ghostlike larch. There were jays amongst the trees, just stirring and screaming in the first light; and herds of deer, with the thick-necked bucks lifting their heads to snuff the morn. Nevertheless, there was a something which spoke neglect--a keeper's house untenanted, with broken windows--long rasping arms of bramble stretching across the paths, some trees cut down and rotting where they lay, a Greek temple in ruins, with marble columns, which in their own fair clime would have remained pure as the snows of Olympus, green with the dark mould of English humidity. Ducks were dabbling among their favourite weed, where swans had swam in the clear water; and an infinite number of rich exotic evergreens, untrimmed and forgotten, were mingling their low branches with the long, rank grass. There was no mistaking it. The place had been long neglected.
They passed quite across the park to a spot where the solid brick wall had been carried out of the straight line, to enclose about half-an-acre of ground beyond the exact limits. An open fence of wood-work separated that half-acre from the actual park. The brick wall run round without, forming three sides of a parallelogram. The space within was neatly cultivated as a garden; and there were, besides the long, straight rows of cabbages amongst the well-trained trees, several beds of autumn flowers, still in bloom. They were as stiff as all late flowers are; but still they were flowers, and it was autumn; and they gave signs of care in the midst of neglect, of vigour amidst decay, of life in death.
There was a little wicket-gate in the centre of the wooden fence, with a latch, which the wayfarer's companion raised, and led the way down a gravel walk, to a house amongst the apple-trees at the other side, resting against the wall of the park--a small house of two stories--built of brown brick, and covered with white and yellow lichens. Another moment and they were within the door, which was not locked. The room they entered had a brick floor, clean swept and reddened. Everything was in good order, and a wood fire, which was already lighted, had fallen into that state where glowing eyes look out from the white ashes, like those of a lion from a bush. The walls had two rows of shelves hanging against them, and a great old dark oak armory or press, carved with apostles and wild beasts. Balaam and his ass, were there too; and the old prophet and the lion. The shelves supported, the one, crockery, the other, old books with greasy backs. Standing in front of the books, on the same shelf, were two or three small cups of precious old china, and an ink-glass. Amongst the crockery, were a bullet-mould, a powder-horn, and half-a-dozen floats. There was a neat white curtain over the window, and every one of the tiny panes was as clear as a diamond.
The wayfarer looked around him with a faint smile, and then turned to his host; and the two gazed upon each other in silence for a minute. If there had been a struggle between them on the bank of the stream, it would have been a very doubtful one; for never were two men better matched. As they stood there, they looked like two well-chosen carriage-horses, of an equal height within a quarter of an inch, both broad in chest, strong in limb, thin in flank, both tanned with exercise and exposure; both of that hardy rich brown complexion, where the hair seems to curl from very vigour, and both in the prime of strength and activity, though in point of years lay the principal difference between them. The master of the house might, perhaps, be three or four years older than his guest; but as the latter was at least four or five and twenty, age gave the other no advantage.
The wayfarer was dressed in a dark velveteen shooting-jacket, leathern gaiters, and strong but well-made shoes; and under the coat was a waistcoat, with long rows of little pockets, for holding gun charges. He had what is called a foraging cap on his head, and a good deal of whisker and hair. His nose was straight, his eyes hazel, his teeth fine, and his chin rounded and somewhat prominent. The other was dressed in a fustian coat, with large pockets, thick hobnailed shoes, and leathern gaiters, with a straw hat upon his head, and corduroy breeches on his thighs. His features were good, and, like his guest, he had a straight nose and a rounded chin, with eyebrows exactly like the other's; but the eyes, instead of being hazel, were of a dark gray, and his beard and whiskers were closely shaved, and hair cut short. There were several points of difference between them, but more of similarity; and the similarity depended upon feature, form, and complexion, the difference more upon adventitious circumstances.
"You are my double," said the master of the house, after they had gazed at each other for some time, both feeling that there was a strong resemblance; "and as such you have as good a right to wear my clothes as myself. They are not as good as yours; but they are dry, which makes them better for the time."
He opened the old armory, which was full of guns and fishing rods, and from one of two drawers at the bottom took out a very little used suit of country-made clothes.
"There," he said, "put those on; and we will afterwards go and see if we can find your bundle at the wear. Here, come into the back room, and I will give you a clean shirt and stockings. I never let cotton and wool lie together; for they might quarrel, being near akin."
The other followed, and after having fulfilled his promise as to the shirt and the stockings, the master of the house left him, and returned to blow the fire into a blaze.
CHAPTER III.
Man wonders why it happens so often that in our first manhood disappointments, bitter as undeserved, fall upon us--why we are crossed in honourable love--thwarted in noble ambition--frustrated in generous endeavour--distracted in a just course--denied our reasonable expectations. Some reply, It is a part of the original curse, and that we must go on struggling and grumbling. Others--better and wiser men, and far more religious--find out that it is to wean us from earthly affections which, when the world is in its spring loveliness, are apt to take too great a hold upon us. Both may be right; yet there may be something of training in it too. We have things to accomplish in our manhood, a course to be run, a contest to fight out; and at that time of youth we are colts which must be bitted and bridled, put at the longe, have the rollers between our jaws; and many a sore mouth and galled withers must be endured before we are fit for the hard rider, Fate, to get upon our back, and gallop us to the end of our career. Does not that filly sporting in the field think it very hard that she may not go on cantering up and down, with her head held high, and her nostrils snorting fire, or that she may not go on cropping buttercups and sweet grass--all very reasonable desires for a filly--but must come and be driven round and round a ring, with a long whip at her hocks, and a drunken horse-breaker in the middle, holding her from her joyous freedom by a long cord? Truly, she may well think it a hard case; but she was not made for her own service--nor was man.
There is something of the same feeling in the breast of that young wayfarer as he sits there by the fire, after having changed his clothes. That knitted brow and curling lip show that he thinks he has been hardly used by fortune; and yet there is a thoughtful look about his eyes which may indicate a search for, and a discovery of, the ends and objects of disappointment. The power of thought is a wonderful thing. See how it steals over him, smoothing the wrinkle out of the brow, relaxing the bitter turn of the lip. He is forming plans--or building castles--reawakening hope--recovering faith and trust. Something is working in his mind for peace!
"You have made me very comfortable," he said, abruptly, while the other lifted a small tin kettle from the fire, where it had been hissing and spluttering for a minute or two; "and I am now ready to go out and seek my bundle at the wear. My wet things can dry here till I come back."
"We will have a cup of tea first," said his entertainer, "the girl will bring the milk in a minute; and, though I can do without most luxuries, I cannot do without tea. It is the only thing that goes into the mouth which may be considered a luxury of the mind. It is wonderful how it clears a man's head, and gives him a command over his intellect. If I want to solve a problem, or translate a stiff passage, I must have my cup of tea. The Chinese must be a wise people to grow such a herb."
The wayfarer smiled. "You are a strange sort of person," he said; "and, I suppose, are of a better rank and station than your appearance betokens."
"I am the son of the blacksmith's daughter," replied the man, simply; "I can shoe a horse or forge a bar with any man in the country. That I learned from my grandfather. I can shoot a buck or bring down a snipe nineteen times out of twenty. That I learned from the head keeper. I know as much of gardening and botany as the old gardener did, who is now himself a compost, poor man; and I know somewhat more of mathematics, and Latin, and Greek, than the master of the grammar-school, who taught me; but yet I am nothing but the son of the blacksmith's daughter; and I wish to be nothing more."
"But what is your profession or trade?" asked his guest, with apparent interest.
"Profession, I have none," was the man's answer, pouring some water into the tea-pot. "They wished to make a parson of me, I believe; but my wishes did not go with theirs. I liked hammering iron, or shooting deer, or planting flowers and trees a great deal better. I was neither fond of preaching nor being preached to; and, therefore, I studied when I liked, wandered where I liked, read, shot, planted, worked at the forge when I liked. I do believe, from all that I have seen in the world, there has never been a man on earth who did as much what he liked as I have done--except Adam, who had only one thing forbidden him, and did that too. Now, however, I suppose the change is to come--for a change always comes sooner or later in every man's fate. One might as well expect to see four and twenty hours of sunshine as a life without a change--and I suppose I must buckle to some business; for, though I eat little, and drink little, and sleep little, yet that little must be had."
"But why should you not go on as you have hitherto done?" inquired the other. "Has anything happened to deprive you of your means?"
"Yes;" answered his companion, "I had fifty-two pounds allowed me a-year, just a pound a-week, and this little house and garden; and leave to shoot rabbits, ducks, and wild fowl of all kinds, except pheasants, one buck in the year, to keep my hand in, and the right to roam about the park at all times and seasons without question. I made my own terms, and got them. But he who allowed all this is dead, and the people tell me it will not be binding upon his heir. Well, what matters it? I can work; and as soon as I heard how things were, I determined I would first try a gardener's life, as Mr. Tracy, over at Northferry, wants one. I never let myself be cast down by anything; and when you talked about despair, an hour ago, I thought, What a fool you must be."
"I believe you are right," answered his guest, "your philosophy is far the best; but somehow I think you will not be obliged to take the gardener's place unless you like it. But there is some one knocking in the next room. I thought you were alone in the house. Are you married?"
"Poo!" cried the other, "what should I do with a wife? Thank God, there is no female thing about the place but my setter bitch. That is the girl with the milk, knocking at the door in the park wall." And he walked out into the passage to receive what she had brought.
While he was gone the other sat quite still by the fire, with his eyes fixed steadily upon it. He saw not a spark, however. His contemplations were very deep; and as the other came back again, with the milk in his hand, he murmured, "If they would take him, why not another?"
"Well, you were saying just now," continued his companion, carrying on the conversation, "that you thought I should not be obliged to take the gardener's place. I should like to hear what you can know about it."
"Tell me your name," said the visitor, "and I will let you hear."
"You would not tell me yours, when I asked it," said the other, with a smile. "But it does not matter. My name is William Lockwood. Now, what do you say to that?"
"That you have no occasion to take the gardener's place," replied his guest. "Sir Harry Winslow is dead, as you say; but yesterday morning, in order to see what directions he had given for his funeral, the will was opened, and read before the whole family, servants, and secretary, and all. I was there, and heard it, and he did you full justice, left you the annuity and all you have mentioned, and added a legacy of five hundred pounds."
"And he left you nothing," said the other, fixing his eyes keenly upon him, "though you thought you had a right to expect it."
"He left me dependent upon another," replied the young man, "which I will not be," and he bent down his head and thought bitterly.
"That was hard! That was very hard!" said the other; "he was at times a hard man.--It often happens so. Those who have in their youth been what is called gay men, turn out in their old age as hard as the nether millstone. Whatever is in a man's heart remains there for ever, unless that heart be changed by the grace of God. Selfishness, which leads to one kind of vices in youth, leads to another kind in old age. The libertine turns the miser, that is all."
"But he was not a miser," cried the other, sharply, "that must not be said of him; and should not by you, at least, his son."
"Hush!" said the master of the house, sternly, "I do not own him for my father; and I told him so. For the wrong he did my mother, and because of some letters of his which she held, and I hold, he did what he has done for her son. But do not you suppose, young man, that I ever basely truckled to him who injured her. As a child I took the education that was given me; but when I was older and knew more, I steadily refused to acknowledge him for my father, or to obey his behests in any way. It is this that has made me what I am. I would not go to a college as his bastard, and become a priest at his will. I received the small atonement that he offered, as atonement, but as giving no right over me; and I added other things, as demands, to that which he vouchsafed, in order to show that it was a contract I entered into, not a duty I acknowledged. Perhaps he was not a miser, as you say; but yet look at this place, and see what it has become within the last ten years. He has grudged every penny spent upon it since he last lived here himself, and unless it is that my mother's spirit, either visibly or invisibly, wandered round the place, and made it hateful to him for the wrong he had done her, what but the miser could make him discharge servants who had long dwelt here, and deny the means of keeping up in decent state a place that gave him name, and had descended to him from many ancestors? Now, what has he done with you yourself, according to your own admission. You stand in the same relation to him that I do--all the world knows it--your mother was his wife's maid--he educated you, made you his secretary, employed your talents, made you the companion of his amusements, took you out to shoot and hunt, to plays and operas, put you nearly on a level with his lawful sons, and then left you a dependant--I suppose, upon their bounty. You have done well to cast such pitiful slavery from you. I acknowledge you as a brother, which, perhaps, they will not; and the five hundred pounds he has left to me is yours if you will take it."
The young man grasped his hand warmly, but said, "No, no--that can never be. I have hands and arms strong enough to labour for myself, and I will do so. I cannot take what is yours. I have no title to it--I have no claim to it."
"I want it not," replied Lockwood. "I need nought but what I have. I would rather not take ought but what I bargained for."
"At all events I cannot accept it," was the young man's answer; "he left it not to me, but to you, and I will have none of it. Much that you have told me I had never heard before; I was not aware of his having had a son by Lady Winslow's maid, nor that his secretary was that son."
"Men ever know less of their own history than the world knows," said his companion; "but the thing is notorious. No one ever doubted who you were; so let us children without marriage, share what he has left to such, and let the lawful children take the rest amongst them."
"I cannot do that," said the young man; and leaning his head upon his hand, he added, after a few moments' thought, "We will talk of other things, my good brother--since such you are--I must meditate over all this; and when I have done so, I will ask your help perhaps to carry out my future plans of life. I can work as well as you, and am willing to do so, though it has fallen upon me, who did not expect it, instead of upon you, who did."
"My help you shall have as far as it will go," rejoined Lockwood, "but that is not very far. It is true people like me well enough here, because I never wronged any one of a penny, and give the old women rabbits to make broth when they are puling; and they like me, too, because I am one of themselves, and never pretend to be ought else, though my father was a rich man, and I am richer than most of them; but, poor things, the only matter I have to be proud of is, that I am a plebeian. Not that I am ashamed of my dear mother; for if a man will take advantage of a woman's weakness, under solemn pledge to marry her, and then break that pledge, let the shame rise on him, not her."
"Assuredly!" replied his companion, with a ready warmth which would have fully confirmed in the mind of Lockwood, had any confirmation been necessary, the supposition of his guest's illegitimate birth; but the moment after a deepened tint appeared in his cheek, and he said abruptly, "But let us talk of other things, Lockwood. What is the state of the people about here? I hope they have not been as much neglected as the place."
"Why, you should know all about it, Mr. Faber," said Lockwood, "for you used to write all the letters to the steward, he told me. However, they are not altogether so badly off as they might be. The farmer has his land at a fair rent enough, and so he can afford to give fair wages to his labourers. The old man was not hard in that. He took what was but just, for that which was his own, and the men have prospered under it; but he did nothing else for the neighbourhood. Some of the landlords round are different, get as much as they can wring from their tenants--force them to starve their labourers; and then spend a part of the money in parish schools and new churches. I have known many a one who has made every one under him labour like galley-slaves for mere existence, by reason of his exactions, cried up as a most liberal gentleman, because he whitewashed the cottages, and built a school-house. The whitewash and the school-house together did not cost one-tenth of what he took too much for his land; and yet, to hear all the gentry speak of him, you would have thought he was an angel of a landlord. Men are queer things, Mr. Faber."
"Do not call me Mr. Faber, Lockwood," said the other with a smile; "call me simply Chandos; that is better between brothers."
"Ah, that is your Christian name, then," said his stout kinsman; "'C. Faber,' I remember the letter I saw was signed; but I thought the name had been Charles. Take another cup of tea, Chandos: it is wrung from no man's hard earnings, and will do you good."
"After all," said Chandos, resuming the conversation at a previous point, "the man who does not exact too much is by far less culpable, though he do not do all the good to his people that he can, than he who, with a covetous grasp, wrings the last shilling from his property, and spends sixpence of it in instructing the peasantry, whitewashing their houses, or pampering his own vanity. The one is only guilty of doing less than he might, the other of taking more than he ought."
"I am not very sure," answered his companion, musing; "I have thought over these matters a good deal, and I am not fond of splitting hairs about right and wrong. If a man does not do what he ought, he does what he ought not. 'Sins of omission,' as the parson calls them, are, to my mind, sins of commission, as soon as ever a man knows what he ought to do, and does not do it. I have a notion, Chandos, all these fine differences are only ways by which people cheat themselves to avoid self-reproach; and, I believe, what foolish people call the higher classes, are taught to do so more than any others by reading the classics; for a more wicked sort of worthless scoundrels than those old Greeks and Romans never was. The very best of them contrived to mix up so much bad with their best doings, that young lads at school learn not to know right from wrong, and to think things exceedingly fine that were very dirty."
"But there were some truly good and great men amongst them," replied Chandos, whiled away for a moment from himself by his companion's conversation: "they might be too stern and severe, perhaps, in their adherence to right; but still excess of virtue is not likely to lead others wrong who make it their example."
"I'll give you the advantage of the best of them," said Lockwood, "and be bound to pick a hole in any of their coats. We all know about Socrates, a nasty old he-goat, and won't talk of him. But take Lycurgus for an example, I mean, the Spartan. Now what he did to his countrymen would have been nothing better than swindling, if it had been about money instead of laws. He took an oath from them to do certain things till he came back from Delphi; and that certainly implied that it was his intention to come back. But instead of that, he went away from Delphi to Crete, for the express purpose of cheating the Spartans; had his old bones cast into the sea, that they might not play him as good a trick as he had played them; and left his laws to Sparta, and his name to immortality. But if I were to say to any man, 'Lend me five pounds till I come back from London,' and instead of going back, were to run away to Paris, just to avoid my creditor, what would be said of me? Now because the laws of Lycurgus were good, people think that his imposition was glorious; and thus they learn that Jesuitical maxim of the end justifying the means."
"I agree with you so far," said Chandos, gravely, "that there was a great deal of false philosophy, if I may use the term, amongst the ancients: and I am thoroughly convinced that the only true philosophy that ever was propounded to man is to be found in the Bible."
"Archimedes was the greatest man amongst them," rejoined Lockwood, following the course of his own thoughts, a habit of which he was very fond; "and in the study of his life and character, no great harm could be done to any one. But at our schools and colleges, what between Roman emperors, Greek magistrates, and gods and goddesses, we are brought all at once in our early youth into the midst of a crowd of rogues, prostitutes, and libertines, only fit for the back streets of a great town."
Unwittingly, Chandos had been led from many a grave memory and painful consideration to topics which had often engaged his youthful mind; and he replied, with a gay laugh, which showed how naturally light and cheerful was the spirit when free from the oppressive weight of circumstances: "As to the gods and goddesses, I agree with you entirely. There was not a lady amongst them who, in our times, would not have figured in the Arches Court; and as to the men, Apollo was the most gentlemanlike person of the whole, and yet he would have been transported for rape or hanged for felony long ago."
In such easy conversation they went on for half an hour more. It is no figure, but a certainty, that imagination has a charm--I mean, a power unaccountable, and almost magical, of wrapping the mind in a golden mist of its own, which hides or softens all the hard features of the scene around. But often, as with the fabled spells of the necromancer, the slightest thing--a word, a tone, a look--will waft away the pleasant veil, and restore the heart in a moment to the cold and black reality. Such was the case with Chandos. Something apparently indifferent threw him back into deep thought; and after a long pause, he started up, saying, "This is very strange, to be sitting here beside you, Lockwood, within three days! But come, let us seek the bundle I have lost. The clouds are clearing away. There is a gleam of sunshine. When will the like fall upon my fate?"
"Before long, if you are strong-hearted," answered the other, rising also. "One half of every man's fate is his own making; the other half is made for him. Fortune's store is like one of those shops at a country fair, where there are a number of articles of different value, and of different use, each at the price of sixpence. Your sixpence you must pay; but then you have your choice, if you choose but wisely."
"I am not sure of the choice," said Chandos with a sigh; "but I will choose soon, at all events:" and he walked towards the door.
"Stay a minute," cried Lockwood; "I will take my gun. We may find some teal by the wear; and you will want dinner."
As they walked along, the younger of the two remained in silent thought. He was not full of the energetic inspiration of hope; and the flame of expectation had waned dim and low. Doubtless he had dreamed bright dreams in former times--doubtless he had looked at life through youth's magnifying-glass--doubtless his anticipations had been exuberant of the pleasant things of the future. But there seemed a fiat gone out against him,--that he was not to enjoy even that which had seemed within grasp. He looked over the future that he had fancied his own but a few days before, and felt that, like the prophet on "the top of Pisgah, which is over against Jericho," though there was a fair land in sight, his feet would never tread it. He felt that he had been proud, that he was proud; and he resolved to humble himself. But there was a bitterness in his humility which produced a wayward pettishness in all the plans which floated, like wreaths of smoke, before his mind. They were many, many, like the troops of strange forms which sometimes sweep--as it were, interminably--before the eyes in dreams. Varying were they too, shifting and changing in hue, and form, and position, like the streamers of the northern meteor lights. Now he would forth into the great and busy world, and cull honour and distinction with a fiery energy, with the genius he knew himself to possess, with the learning he was conscious he had acquired, with the courage he felt in heart. He would seek the camp, or the court, or the bar, or the pulpit. He would make himself independent, he would make himself great. Then again he said, No; he would cast off all the ties which had hitherto bound him; the ties of blood, of station, of society. He would take his position at the lowest grade, at the very bottom of the ladder. He would try a state entirely new, a condition different from all he had yet tried, and see what would come of it. He could change, if he liked. His mind need not rust in humble life; his abilities would not get mouldy; his small means would accumulate: He would even, he thought, from time to time vary the scene: place humble life and a higher condition side by side, upon alternate days, and judge between them. As first disappointment is always whimsical, it was upon the last scheme that his thoughts most pleasantly rested; and with it he busied himself as, crossing the further part of the park, they approached the river. The point they made for was lower down than where he had swum across; but he paid little attention to anything; and the first thing that roused him was the sudden rising of a plump of teal from the rushes. They whirled round in a dense cloud. Lockwood's gun was up in a moment, fired, and four birds came down together. Then Chandos gazed at the rushing water, red and foaming, and he thought it marvellous that he had ever crossed it alive. "Perhaps it would have been better," he said bitterly to himself, "if I had remained in its fell clasp." He spoke not a word aloud; but Lockwood answered as if he could see the thoughts written.
"Poo! nonsense!" he said; "there is always something to live for in life. And there lies your bundle, drifted ashore at the other corner of the wear. You pick up the teal, and get that one out of the water, and I will go and fetch it."
"How?" said Chandos. But the other made no reply, and, quietly mounting the top of the wear, began to walk along its slippery and narrow path towards the other side of the river. The younger man watched him for a moment with anxiety; but he saw that Lockwood trod the six-inch rail like a rope-dancer, and he turned himself to gather up the dead birds. He had got two, and was reaching over the river to pull out a third, which had fallen into the stream, with his head bent down, when a light touch on the shoulder made him look up.
"Why won't you speak to one this morning, Mr. Lockwood?" said a middle-aged man in a keeper's dress. "I thought it was your gun, but I came down to see notwithstanding; for though Sir Harry is dead, that's no reason the game should be poached."
The man looked down on his face while he spoke, and Chandos then became aware how great was the likeness between him and his companion.
"My name is not Lockwood," he said, rising up to his full height. The man drew a little back in surprise, saying, "Ay, I see you are not, now; but you are devilish like him. Then, my young gentleman, what are you doing shooting here?"
"It was Lockwood who fired," answered Chandos, gravely, with a certain degree of haughtiness in his manner and tone. "He is over there, seeking a bundle which I let fall into the water. There is his head amongst the weeds--don't you see?"
A friendly shout from the person of whom he spoke called the keeper's eyes in the right direction; and in a minute or two more, Lockwood, crossing back again over the wear, stood by them with the bundle in his hand.
"Here it is, Mr. Faber," he said; and instantly a gleam of intelligence passed over the keeper's face.
"Well, I thought you were very like," he said; "no offence to the gentleman I hope;" (for Chandos had coloured a good deal, either at his words, or Lockwood's;) "only he has got whiskers and you havn't, Lockwood. I was going down to your place this morning, to ask you if you would come up and take a bit of dinner with me and my old woman at the abbey; but as the gentleman is with you, I suppose I must not make so bold as to ask him too."
"I will come with all my heart," answered Chandos at once; "only you must take me in these clothes, for all the rest are wet."
Lockwood and the keeper smiled; and the former answered, "We don't stand upon such matters in our station, Sir! Clean hands and a good appetite are all that we need at our table. Well, Garbett, you had better give your dame the birds, to make the dinner bigger; and we will be with you at one, or before, for I dare say Mr. Faber has never seen the abbey."
"Yes I have, often," answered Chandos, abstractedly; "but it was long ago."
"Well I never knew that," replied Lockwood, with a puzzled look: but, bidding the keeper good bye, and still carrying the bundle, he walked back with his companion towards his house, both keeping silence.
CHAPTER IV.
"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.
