"I wish to Heaven you would have something more," rejoined Lockwood, earnestly.
"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.