CHAPTER XXXVII.

Small progress is made in post-chaises across country at night. On the public high road it may do very well. One may go from London to York as fast as Turpin, even without a railroad; but from county town A to county town B, you had better wait for daylight. So did Chandos Winslow find it; and it was broad day when he reached the fine old town of Salisbury. As he got out of the chaise, he inquired if there were not a coach to the railroad. The answer was, that it had gone by ten minutes. There was another three hours after; but the waiter informed him, that the light coach, the Hero, direct to London, set out for town in an hour, and beat the rail by an hour and a half; (the landlord was a proprietor of the Hero;) and upon this assurance being reiterated from various quarters, Chandos, though not very fond of heros, determined to try this specimen of the class, as he thought it very likely that the promised enterprise would be achieved. His finances, also, were not in a nourishing condition. For the first time in life he was obliged to calculate shillings: the Hero was a far cheaper conveyance than the railroad and coach combined; and after having ordered and obtained some breakfast, he got upon the top of the stage, and was driven away on the road to London.

The number of passengers was very scanty; but some one had monopolized the box; and Chandos was obliged to take up his position on the roof, with a stout countryman on one side, a grazier by trade, who was full of the famous cause which had just come off, as he termed it, at S----. Chandos certainly gave him no encouragement; but when bottles are filled too full they will run over; and his entertainment for the next twenty miles was his own trial for felony. He had the satisfaction, however, of finding a stout partisan in the good grazier, who declared that he had been sure from the first the young gentleman was innocent; for didn't he pay the fine two years before for Matthew Green, the farmer's son, who was brought up for killing some pheasants upon his father's farm? The reasoning did not seem quite conclusive to Chandos, even in his own defence; but he knew that he was not guilty of murder, and was glad to find that a good action could live a day beyond its date.

It was dark when the coach rolled into London, for it was not heroic as to time; and the crowded streets, the blaze of gas-lamps, the illuminated shops with their wide crystal fronts, and the multitudes pouring hither and thither, each busy with his particular selfishness, had a strange effect upon one who, for so many days preceding, had been engrossed with the weighing of his own life and death in the mere chance-balance of a court of justice. If there were any in all the masses of human mites he saw who had ever heard of him, it was but as the prisoner in the felon's dock; and by this time they had forgotten, and thought of him no more.

His own case had, in his eyes, seemed of immense importance not many hours before. It had connected itself, in his imagination, with the general administration of justice: it seemed to affect millions in its chances and results. But now, in the midst of that wide ocean of life, and feelings, and interests, all separate, all alone, yet all connected with each other, it lost its magnitude, and seemed small and insignificant in the diversified infinite around. "Birch, pastry-cook;" "Gobble, mercer;" "Walker, fish-monger;" what was the trial of Chandos Winslow to them? A tart, a yard of silk, a red mullet, was of much more importance to each. And what more did care any of the many who rushed past like ripples on a quick stream? Verily there is truth in the saying, that the greatest solitude is in multitudes; for there each man raises a thorny hedge of selfishness around him, which excludes every other human being except the few for whom he will be pleased to open the wicket.

On arriving at the dull-looking inn where the coach stopped, the young wanderer paid his fare, sought a bed-room, removed the dusty garments in which he had travelled, and set out for the other end of the town. As he passed through some small, quiet squares of smoked brick houses, and escaped from the pressure of the multitude, Chandos, for the first time, began to ask himself, what was the object of his visit, and what the excuse he was to make for so speedy an appearance at General Tracy's house. He went to see Rose Tracy--to hear of her, if not to see her. But what could he say when he did see her? How was he to act towards her?--how towards her uncle and her father? Though Mr. Tracy might be ruined, yet Emily and Rose were the co-heiresses of their uncle, a man of ample fortune; and Chandos could not shut his ears to the question, Was he--just tried for murder, and acquitted on evidence which must soon be proved to have been given in error--he whose pittance, originally so small, had been further diminished by an expensive trial--was he in a position to ask the hand or seek the promise of one of General Tracy's nieces? He found it difficult to answer. Then he inquired what he should assign as his motive for following the family at once to London; and he thought of many things, but at length determined to trust to chance, as, perhaps, was the wisest plan.

Ah! that chapter of accidents, with its manifold pages, how often do its magic spells relieve poor mortals from their greatest difficulties! What wonders has it not done for every man! Which man amongst us, if he were to look back through life with sane and scrutinizing eyes, would not find that far more than one-half of all his successes--far more than one-half of all his reverses--far more than one-half of all that has befallen him in life, is attributable to that broad chapter of accidents, and not to his own efforts, his own errors, or his own fore-thought.

Chandos Winslow walked up Green-street, at length; and then the question became, which is General Tracy's house? He fixed upon one, and rang the right-hand bell. An unknown and powdered servant appeared, and informed him very civilly, (for Chandos Winslow's appearance was not easily to be mistaken for anything but that of a gentleman,) that the house was Lord ----'s; but he added the information that was wanted. General Tracy's abode, he said, was about ten doors further up, nearer to the Park: the gentleman would see a small brass-plate upon the door. Chandos soon found the door and the brass-plate, and as that house still possessed a knocker, he knocked. The door was opened by the General's old servant, who had been with him at Northferry; and the man almost started, certainly gazed with wonder, when he saw the well-known face which presented itself. He was an elderly man, whose wits when they once got into that state which I must call "stirred-up," did not easily settle again; and in his ideas regarding Chandos Winslow, there was some confusion. In his eyes Chandos was, according to the happy figure of a celebrated lady, "three gentlemen in one;" namely, Acton, the gardener, Sir William Winslow's brother, and the prisoner upon trial for the murder of Mr. Roberts; and there was in the man's air and manner a mixture of all the expressions which those three personages were severally calculated to call up--there was familiarity, there was respect, there was consternation.

"Lord, Mr. Acton!" he exclaimed, "is that you? Well, I am very glad to see you, Sir; Lord 'a mercy! only to think!"

"Is General Tracy, at home?" asked Chandos, in a somewhat agitated tone.

"No, Sir," replied the man; "he has gone with Mr. Tracy to a meeting of the lawyers; but the young ladies are upstairs, and I am sure they will be glad to see you."

"Pray, tell them I am here," said Chandos: and the man went up to the drawing-room accordingly. In a minute after, he came half-way down, and, looking over, desired Chandos to walk up. With a quick step he did so, and was ushered into the drawing-room, where he found those two beautiful girls, both somewhat pale, and both somewhat agitated. Emily remained upon the sofa; but Rose, with her lip quivering, and tears in her eyes, advanced to meet him.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you," she said, holding out her hand. "This is very kind of you, indeed, to come so soon."

Chandos could not refrain; he pressed his lips upon the hand she gave him; and then turned his eyes for a moment to the face of Emily, to see if the act surprised her. She only smiled kindly. Chandos saw at once from her eyes, that the two sisters trusted each other; and a restraint was at once removed.

"I am very happy, indeed, to see you, Mr. Winslow," said Emily; "for till this morning we have been sadly anxious about you; and poor Rose nearly ill with apprehension."

She too gave him her hand, as she spoke; but Chandos did not kiss it. Yet Emily was quite satisfied.

It would be difficult to detail what followed; for it was but a confused crowd of questions and answers, in all of which appeared the deep interest which the parties took in each other.

Chandos found that they were already acquainted with all the details of the trial; for the whole family had devoured rather than read the report, which had appeared in the evening papers. They spoke not of the particulars, indeed; and, with them, Chandos was not inclined, to dwell upon the subject; but it was evident and gratifying to him, that not one of all Mr. Tracy's family had felt a doubt of his innocence. Yet whenever the matter was named, the conversation became strange and vague; so much so, indeed, that had any person unacquainted with them been a witness of what passed, he might have supposed, had it not been for the warmth of manner displayed, that a suspicion had existed and still lingered. There was a cloudy sort of doubt, indeed, which overshadowed the minds of both those fair girls, but a doubt which attached not in the least degree to Chandos Winslow. In the mind of Rose, that doubt amounted almost to a certainty; and some words which she had incautiously dropped in her agonizing suspense as to the result of the trial, had communicated suspicions to her sister, less defined, but more painful, than those which she herself entertained. With Chandos, of course, there was no doubt; he knew the truth too well; but all the horror of that truth seemed to present itself more strongly to his imagination, when he sat in the presence of poor Emily, and recollected the tie, imperfect as it was, which bound her to his brother.

At length, after about a quarter of an hour had passed, Emily rose, saying, with a smile, "I will leave you a little; for I know you must have much to say to each other. My father and my uncle will soon be back, and then I will join you again."

When she was gone, a few minutes were given to tenderness. Dark and sad events are skilful pioneers for love and confidence. They hew down in no time all the barriers of restraint and reserve, and leave the way free for heart to approach heart, unresisted.

But Chandos Winslow felt that in deep enjoyment they were losing moments precious for explanation: and at length he turned the conversation, somewhat abruptly, perhaps, to his own situation, in relation to herself.

"I see, dearest Rose," he said, "that you have made a confidant of your sister, and I am delighted that it is so; but I must not let my hopes carry me too far, and lead me to believe that the pain and anxiety which you must have suffered, have driven you to communicate all that is between us to your father and your uncle."

"I did not know that I might, Chandos," she answered: "in the dreadful state of suspense and anguish in which your trial placed me, I could not, indeed, refrain from sharing my thoughts with poor Emily. Thus much, however, I thought myself bound to tell my father--that I had known your real name from the moment you came to Northferry--that we had met before, and passed one long, happy day together; but that you had exacted from me a promise not to betray you, because you particularly wished your brother not to know where you were. My father asked but one question, which was, whether I believed I was myself in any degree the cause of your coming to Northferry? I replied, certainly not; for that I had every reason to believe you did not know that I was there, or was his daughter. This seemed to satisfy him perfectly; but indeed he has had so many painful things to think of, that I do not wonder at his giving no further attention to the subject. With my uncle, it is very different; for I am sure he suspects, if he does not know the whole. You have heard, of course, the sad change of fortune we have met with. My father is at liberty now, on what they call bail, I believe; but I tremble every moment, for what each ensuing day may produce. It is supposed, that the man who has carried away all the shares, and bonds, and papers of that kind, does not intend to sell them; as there would be difficulty and danger in so doing, even in a foreign country; but is likely to negociate with my father for the restitution, in consideration of a sum of money, and indemnity for the past. Nothing has been heard of him, however; and in the meantime it is ruin to my father."

"Has no part of his course been traced, dear Rose?" asked Chandos.

"It was at first supposed he had gone to the Continent," replied his fair companion; "but every inquiry has been made at the passport offices, and no trace of a person of his peculiar appearance can be found at any of those places. They now fear that he may have escaped to America."

"He is not a man to be mistaken," said Chandos: "I saw him once when I was travelling up to London in January; and in the public carriage itself he could not refrain from making use of your father's name to entrap others. He tempted even me, Rose, poor as I am: and those words bring me, dear girl, to matters which had better be spoken of at once--spoken of even between you and me, although, perhaps, it is strange to mention them to you at all--."

"Tempted you, Chandos!" exclaimed Rose Tracy. "Oh! I hope he did not succeed."

"Oh, no!" answered her lover; "but yet I was in a degree tempted. I was going to London, with my thoughts full of Rose Tracy, with my heart full of passionate attachment. I felt that under the will of my father, which had been proved, my means were far too small, without some great exertion on my own part, to justify me in pretending to her hand; and at the very moment when I was thinking of how I could mend my broken fortunes--by what effort, by what scheme, however bold, I could acquire a position which would give me even hope, this man crossed me with visioned promises of speedy wealth. But a moment's reflection on the means, a moment's examination of the man himself, dispelled the illusion. Now, however, dear Rose, it behoves me to put the same questions to myself which I then put. I am not richer, but poorer; all I have on earth is but a pittance, barely enough to maintain myself in the rank of a gentleman. What will your father, what will your uncle say, if I presume to tell them of my love, and ask for it their countenance and approbation?"

Rose leaned her head upon her hand, and her eyes filled with tears; but she answered at length, "You must tell them, at all events, Chandos. You cannot tell, you cannot imagine the pain--the agony of mind which the concealment I have already practised has brought upon me--innocent and justifiable as I thought it. Oh! Chandos, for my sake you must abandon all further disguise."

"For your sake, dear Rose, I would do anything," replied Chandos Winslow; "but of course you do not wish me to enter upon the subject to-night. To-morrow I must go into the city to sell out a part of my small portion, in order to pay the expenses of the late trial. I must also see my friend, Sir ----, who so nobly and ably defended me. He seems to entertain a belief--on which, however, I would not found the slightest hope--that a subsequent will of my father's may either be recovered, or the intention of it proved, or something of the kind--I really do not exactly know what; and that I may be thereby enabled to stop the sale of Winslow Abbey."

Rose started; but ere she could explain the effect which such a step, if it were practicable, might have upon the fortunes of her father, a carriage drew up to the house, and there was a footman's knock at the door. Emily immediately joined them, and it was evident that she had been weeping. Chandos knew not his strange position: but could he have seen into the hearts of those two fair girls, what would he have beheld?--That the one rejoiced at his acquittal of a crime she knew he had not committed, yet saw therein the prospect of misery to herself by the probable consequence of his brother's return to England; that the other, while she could not but hope that he might establish his rights, whatever they were, feared that her own father's utter ruin would be thereby consummated.

The next moment General Tracy and his brother entered the room. Mr. Tracy's face bore evident marks of the mental suffering he had endured and was enduring. The tranquil, well-satisfied, somewhat self-sufficient air was gone; and there was a look of sadness, bordering on the morose, in its place. No man likes to find himself a fool; and most men try to prevent others from discovering the same fact, or at all events to hide their own mental assent thereunto, by assuming a cold pride which will not bate a jot of its dignity. Thus, though he was shaken and evidently enfeebled in frame, he walked into the room with as stately a step as if he had never committed a folly in his life.

General Tracy, on the contrary, was unchanged either in person or demeanour. There was the stout, soldier-like, upright form; there was the warm, rosy complexion; there was the frank, straightforward bearing, and the warm, good-humoured smile, betokening the cheerful disposition, so charming in an old man. He walked straight up to Chandos Winslow and shook him heartily by the hand, saying, "Delighted to see you, my young friend. None have taken a deeper interest in late events than we have done in this small house; though it was impossible for any of us to be down at S----. None have more rejoiced that you have had fair play shown, and justice done you; for that was all we feared--that some of the quirks and quibbles of the law, some of the follies or obstinacies of jurymen, might make wrong seem right."

Mr. Tracy also held out his hand to his former gardener, but it was more coldly; and he only said, "I can assure you, Mr. Winslow, I never entertained the slightest doubt regarding you, and rejoice much that you have been able so fully to justify the opinion every one entertained of you; though why you thought fit to play gardener for so many months, I have not yet been able to divine."

"That will be easily explained, Mr. Tracy," replied Chandos; "and to explain it is one of the great objects of my coming here directly after the trial. The facts are simply these: I had long entertained a strong desire--a whim if you please to call it--to see the poorer classes nearer than a rich man can usually see them. A good many years ago, a very severe dispute occurred between my brother and myself, into the particulars of which I need not enter. Whoever was in fault, it left a coldness between us which never decreased. When my father's will was read, I found that he had made me a dependent on my brother, as far as it was in his power to do so. I was not disposed to be dependent upon any man, nor to be under any obligation to one with whom I was not on good terms. I expressed my determination--I trust, in no ungentlemanly manner--to receive nothing from my brother; and a sharp altercation ensued, which ended in my leaving a house that had become his. A small property had been left me some time before by a relation; my father had added by his will a very valuable library and some fine pictures. With these I might either have limited my ambition to what I had, or I might have opened for myself a new career; but I accidentally heard, immediately after I quitted my brother's house, that you were seeking a head-gardener. I had for four or five years taken upon myself the entire superintendence of the fine gardens at Elmsly, and my old whim of descending for a time from the station in which I was born, and mingling with the poorer classes of the people, as one of themselves, came back upon me. I had no knowledge that in your daughter I should meet one who had known me in a different rank of life; for the scenes where we had formerly met were so different from the quiet seclusion of Northferry, that the identity of the name of my fair acquaintance with that of the gentleman whose service I sought, never struck me. I feel, however, Mr. Tracy, that I owe you an apology for having deceived you as to who I was; but you will clearly see that I had no hope of carrying out my scheme with any one, unless my name and station were concealed."

"A curious whim, indeed," said General Tracy; "and one which has had very serious results. Nevertheless, I can perfectly understand the feelings in which it was conceived, my young friend; for it is a sort of thing I have often entertained an idea of myself, without having ever had the spirit to carry it out. I dreamed of it even as a boy, when reading the adventures of the disguised Haroun al Raschid."

"I never had such visions," said Mr. Tracy; "nor do I think that the enterprise would answer at all the object for which it was undertaken. A man who descends, either voluntarily or involuntarily, from a higher to a lower station in life, carries his own world of habits, thoughts, feelings, and prejudices with him; and sees through the same discoloured spectacles, though he may see a little nearer. But I cannot afford to discuss such things to-night; for, to say the truth, I am weary and harassed."

Chandos received the last words as a somewhat broad and not very civil hint to go, and accordingly rose and took his hat; but General Tracy stopped him, saying, "Stay a minute, stay a minute; I want to talk to you about two or three things, Winslow: first, I must know where you are to be found; next, when we shall see you again."

"I am, for to-night, the denizen of a very unfashionable part of the world," replied Chandos, "and under the auspices of a somewhat strange-looking monster, called the Swan with Two Necks, in Lad-lane; but to-morrow I shall be at the ---- Hotel, in Cork-street. A man who has been tried for murder will, of course, be an object of curiosity and remark for a few days; and I wish to get it over as soon as possible."

"You are right," said the General; "but come down into the dining-room, and let me talk to you about one or two things connected with that same trial. Arthur, I suppose you will be gone to bed before I come up. Good night!" and, taking up a light, the old officer led the way down.

Chandos bade adieu to the rest of the party, warmly in some cases, somewhat coolly in another, and followed. When they were below the General closed the door, and then shook his young companion by the hand again, saying, "I congratulate you from the heart at the issue of the trial, though that issue was brought about by means to me totally unexpected."

"Not more so to you than to myself, General," replied Chandos Winslow, frankly; "that is to say, if you mean the evidence of Mr. Fleming and his servant. Nor will I conceal from you for a moment, that the whole of that evidence was false--under an error, I am quite sure; but none the less false. I was not at Northferry at all that night after I returned to my own cottage. Mr. Fleming must have mistaken Lockwood, my half-brother, a natural son of my father's, for me. Indeed, the likeness, I believe, is very great."

"It is strange," said General Tracy, musing; and Chandos continued: "Most strange! That the evidence which saved my life should be as false as the accusation against me, is very curious indeed. Had I known what Mr. Fleming was called for before he appeared, I would not have suffered it; although I believe, had it not been for his testimony, I should have been condemned for an act of which I am as innocent as yourself; for, if you remark, there was but one circumstance which could raise a reasonable doubt in my favour: that of the servant lad, Michael Burwash, who saw some one return from the grounds into the house after poor Roberts had crossed the lawn."

"Do you know who that was?" asked General Tracy, quickly.

Chandos was silent; and the old officer added: "It was your own brother. You owe me that lad's evidence, Winslow; for, as soon as I returned to Northferry, after seeing you in prison, I examined all the servants myself, and sent word to your lawyer, that Burwash had acknowledged the important fact you have mentioned. I then gave up some time to an investigation of who the person could be who had come in so late, and by such an unusual entrance. My brother was at home at the time, I found. I was absent. None of the servants would think of entering by the Green-house. On inquiring of Emily, whose room was opposite to that where Sir William Winslow slept, I found that she recollected having heard his door shut sharply just before she rang for lights. Further, I found that he was very late down at dinner that day; that he was agitated and strange in his manner; complained of having over fatigued himself, and being unwell; and at length sent for old Woodyard, and was bled. Since then, however, Rose has acknowledged to me, that when speaking with you at the basin of gold-fish, she heard your brother's voice, in the grounds, raised loud. After that I had no doubt that Sir William was the person who returned in so curious a manner--more I am not justified in saying."

Still Chandos was silent, and sat with his eyes bent down upon the Turkey carpet; and after gazing at him for a moment, General Tracy turned abruptly to another part of the subject.

"That brings me," he said, "to a point which I have hitherto forgotten, Chandos, though it is one which should have been first remembered. I have not yet thanked you, my dear young man, for the delicacy and kindness you have shown in not calling Rose as a witness. She was prepared to do her duty firmly; and when she spoke to me upon the subject, I advised her to write to you and say so; but it is not necessary to tell you what a painful task it would have been for her. You must feel--indeed, you have shown you feel it; and I thank you deeply for your consideration in this matter."

"I would not have had her called for the world," answered Chandos; "I know what a frightful thing to a woman must be a cross-examination in a court of justice. If the opposite party called her, I could not, of course, help it; but then I could have ensured--at least, I trust so--that she was subject to no pain by the cross-examination of my own counsel; and that was something."

"Everything," answered the General; "and it seems strange to me that they did not call her."

"All things concerned with the trial were strange," said Chandos. "I suppose in this instance the lawyers were well aware that your niece's evidence was not likely to suit their purpose; for, I am sorry to say, it was but too evident that the object of the counsel for the prosecution was to get a verdict against me."

"I remarked it, I remarked it," said General Tracy; "and, I am sorry to say, I have seen the same very often in criminal cases. Man is a beastly animal, my young friend, and the cause of half his brutality is vanity, it was so here, and is so always. A counsel does not choose to be beaten; and he moves heaven and earth, not so much to hang the prisoner, as to triumph over his opponents. But it must all seem very strange to you now, sitting here quietly in this dining-room, to think that, only yesterday you were made the sport of circumstances which held your life continually in the balance."

"Like a dream," answered Chandos Winslow; "and by no means a pleasant one."

"Well, it is happy, at all events, that the dream has ended so well," rejoined the old officer; "you have come off with flying colours; and although we are in sad tribulation here just now, from circumstances which you have no doubt heard of, you must come and dine with me, and we will have a long chat upon other affairs, which must be spoken of before we have done. Can you come to-morrow?"

"I fear not," answered his young companion. "I shall be the greater part of the day in the city; and have, besides, to consult lawyers upon matters greatly affecting my interests, although I much fear that no good will result from our consultations."

"Don't plunge into law! don't plunge into law!" said the General, shaking his head ruefully. "I declare, I would rather lose all I have, than to get into a law-suit about it. The roguery and folly of the world, are the fields from which lawyers reap their harvests; and a plentiful crop they get. In England, at least, there is as much philosophy as charity in that passage of the Bible which says, 'If a man take your cloak, give him your coat also;' for if you go to law with him, hang me, if those human sharks, the lawyers, do not contrive to get your breeches into the bargain. But can you come the day after to-morrow then?"

Chandos assented, and, the hour being fixed at half-past seven, took his leave, and returned to his inn in the city. The chamber assigned to him was large and gloomy: the wainscoted walls were covered, besides the paint, with the smoke and dust of half a century; the bed in the far corner rose tall and ghastly, in curtains of brown moreen; and the hangings at the windows had acquired a hue which can only be given by long immersion in a London atmosphere. There was a feeling of foul misery about the whole, which fell depressing upon the spirit of Chandos Winslow. It was much more like poverty and wretchedness than the gardener's cottage at Northferry. He thought of Rose Tracy; he recalled her father's cold and repulsive manner; he inquired of his own heart if it were possible to ask her to share poverty with him; to expose her to all the ills of penury, the daily cares and grinding inconveniences of narrow means, and to bind down her free spirit, unaccustomed to a want unsatisfied, a wish unfulfilled, in the hard chain of straitened circumstances. Chandos Winslow would not answer the question; but his heart sunk as he propounded it to himself: and he went to bed weary of the working-day world and the battle of anxious thought.