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Title: The Gipsy: A Tale (Vols I & II)

Author: G. P. R. James

Release date: April 4, 2012 [eBook #39376]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by
        Google Books (Princeton University Library)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIPSY: A TALE (VOLS I & II) ***




Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by
Google Books (Princeton University Library)











Transcriber's Notes:

   1. Page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=nqMuAAAAYAAJ

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






                              THE GIPSY;


                               A TALE.




                           BY THE AUTHOR OF


                 "RICHELIEU," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," &c.




   "Ah! what a tangled web we weave,
    When first we venture to deceive."
                            Sir Walter Scott.




                           IN TWO VOLUMES.

                               VOL. I.




                               NEW YORK
                    HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
                           FRANKLIN SQUARE.
                                1855.






                              THE GIPSY.




                              CHAPTER I.


At that time in the world's history when watches, in their decline
from the fat comeliness of the turnip to the scanty meagerness of the
half-crown, had arrived at the intermediate form of a biffin--when the
last remnant of a chivalrous spirit instigated men to wear swords
every day, and to take purses on horseback--when quadrupeds were
preferred to steam, and sails were necessary to a ship--when Chatham
and Blackstone appeared in the senate and at the bar, and Goldsmith,
Johnson, and Burke, Cowper, Reynolds, Robertson Hume, and Smollett,
were just beginning to cumber the highways of arts and sciences--at
that period of the dark ages, the events which are about to be related
undoubtedly took place, in a county which shall be nameless.

It may be that the reader would rather have the situation more
precisely defined, in order, as he goes along, to fix each particular
incident that this book may hereafter contain to the precise spot and
person for which it was intended. Nevertheless, such disclosures must
not be; in the first place, because the story, being totally and
entirely a domestic one, depends little upon locality; and, in the
next place, because greater liberties can be taken with people and
things when their identity is left in doubt, than when it is clearly
ascertained; for, although--


             "When caps into a crowd are thrown,
              What each man fits he calls his own,"


yet no one likes to have his name written upon his fool's cap, and
handed down for the benefit of posterity, attached to such an
ornament.

It was, then, on an evening in the early autumn, at that particular
period of history which we have described, that two persons on
horseback were seen riding through a part of the country, the aspect
of which was one whereon we delight to dwell; that is to say, it was a
purely English aspect. Now, this character is different from all
others, yet subject to a thousand varieties; for although England, in
its extent, contains more, and more beautiful scenes, of different
kinds and sorts of the picturesque, than any other country under
heaven, nevertheless there is an aspect in them all that proclaims
them peculiarly English. It is not a sameness--far, far from it; but
it is a harmony; and whether the view be of a mountain or a valley, a
plain or a wood, a group of cottages by the side of a clear, still
trout stream, or a country town cheering the upland, there is still to
be seen in each a fresh green Englishness, which--like the peculiar
tone of a great composer's mind, pervading all his music, from his
requiem to his lightest air--gives character and identity to every
object, and mingles our country, and all its sweet associations, with
the individual scene.

The spot through which the travellers were riding, and which was a
wide piece of forest ground, one might have supposed, from the nature
of the scenery, to be as common to all lands as possible; but no such
thing! and any one who gazed upon it required not to ask themselves in
what part of the world they were. The road, which, though sandy, was
smooth, neat, and well tended, came down the slope of a long hill,
exposing its course to the eye for near a mile. There was a gentle
rise on each side, covered with wood; but this rise, and its forest
burden, did not advance within a hundred yards of the road on either
hand, leaving between--except where it was interrupted by some old
sand-pits--a space of open ground covered with short green turf, with
here and there an ancient oak standing forward before the other trees,
and spreading its branches to the way-side. To the right was a little
rivulet gurgling along the deep bed it had worn for itself among the
short grass, in its way towards a considerable river that flowed
through the valley at about two miles' distance; and, on the left, the
eye might range far amid the tall, separate trees--now, perhaps,
lighting upon a stag at gaze, or a fallow deer tripping away over the
dewy ground as light and gracefully as a lady in a ballroom--till
sight became lost in the green shade and the dim wilderness of leaves
and branches.

Amid the scattered oaks in advance of the wood, and nestled into
the dry nooks of the sand-pits, appeared about half a dozen dirty
brown shreds of canvass, none of which seemed larger than a dinner
napkin, yet which--spread over hoops, cross sticks, and other
contrivances--served as habitations to six or seven families of that
wild and dingy race, whose existence and history is a phenomenon, not
among the least strange of all the wonderful things that we pass by
daily without investigation or inquiry. At the mouths of one or two of
these little dwelling-places might be seen some gipsy women with their
peculiar straw bonnets, red cloaks, and silk handkerchiefs; some
withered, shrunk, and witch-like, bore evident the traces of long
years of wandering exposure and vicissitude; while others, with the
warm rose of health and youth glowing through the golden brown of
their skins, and their dark gem-like eyes flashing undimmed by sorrow
or infirmity, gave the beau idéal of a beautiful nation long passed
away from thrones and dignities, and left but as the fragments of a
wreck dashed to atoms by the waves of the past.

At one point, amid white wood ashes, and many an unlawful feather from
the plundered cock and violated turkey, sparkled a fire and boiled a
caldron; and, round about the ancient beldam who presided over the pot
were placed in various easy attitudes several of the male members of
the tribe--mostly covered with long loose great-coats, which bespoke
the owners either changed or shrunk. A number of half-naked brats,
engaged in many a sport, filled up the scene, and promised a sturdy
and increasing race of rogues and vagabonds for after years.

Over the whole--wood, and road, and streamlet, and gipsy
encampment--was pouring in full stream the purple light of evening,
with the long shadows stretching across, and marking the distances all
the way up the slope of the hill. Where an undulation of the ground,
about half-way up the ascent, gave a wider space of light than
ordinary, were seen, as we have before said, two strangers riding
slowly down the road, whose appearance soon called the eyes of the
gipsy fraternity upon their movements; for the laws in regard to
vagabondism[1] had lately been strained somewhat hard, especially in
that part of the country, and the natural consequence was, that the
gipsy and the beggar looked upon almost every human thing as an enemy.

With their usual quick perception, however, they soon gathered that
the travellers were not of that cast from whom they had anything to
fear; and indeed there was nothing of the swaggering bailiff or
bullying constable in the aspect of either. The one was a man of
about six-and-twenty years of age, with fine features, a slight but
well-made person, and a brown but somewhat pale complexion. His eyes
were remarkably fine, and his mouth and chin beautifully cut; he rode
his horse, too, with skill and grace; and withal he had that air of
consequence which is at any time worth the riband of the Bath. His
companion was older, taller, stronger. In age he might be thirty-two
or three, in height he was fully six feet, and seldom was there ever a
form which excelled his in all those points where great strength is
afforded without any appearance of clumsiness. He rode his horse,
which was a powerful dark-brown gelding, as if half his life were
spent on horseback; and as he came down the hill with the peculiar
appearance of ease and power which great bodily strength and activity
usually give, one might well have concluded that he was as
fine-looking a man as one had ever beheld. But when he approached so
as to allow his features to be seen, all one's prepossessions were
dispelled, and one perceived that, notwithstanding this fine person,
he was in some respects as ugly a man as it was possible to conceive.


---------------------

[Footnote 1: At various times very severe laws have been enacted in
all countries against gipsies. The very fact of being a gipsy, or
consorting with them for a certain length of time, was, at one period,
punishable by death in England. The greater part of these laws,
however, had been repealed before the epoch at which the events
recorded in this book occurred; and that wandering race were simply
subject to the regulations respecting rogues and vagabonds. The old
spirit of the penal statutes, however, was not forgotten, and the
gipsies were often visited with bitter persecution long after those
statutes had ceased to exist. It is not unworthy of remark, that in
Scotland they have been, at various times, not only treated with great
lenity, but that their leaders have been recognised by law as
sovereign princes, exercising capital jurisdiction over their own race.]

---------------------


Thanks to Jenner and vaccination, we (the English) are nowadays as
handsome a people as any, perhaps, in Europe, with smooth skins and
features as nature made them; but in the times I talk of, vaccination,
alas! was unknown; and whatever the traveller we speak of might have
been before he had been attacked by the smallpox, the traces which
that horrible malady had left upon his face had deprived it of every
vestige of beauty--if, indeed, we except his eyes and eyelashes, which
had been spared as if just to redeem his countenance from the
frightful. They--his eyes and eyelashes--were certainly fine, very
fine; but they were like the beauty of Tadmor in the wilderness,
for all was ugliness around them. However, his countenance had a
good-humoured expression, which made up for much; neither was it of
that vulgar ugliness which robes and ermine but serve to render more
low and unprepossessing. But still, when first you saw him, you could
not but feel that he was excessively plain; and yet there was always
something at the heart which made one--as the ravages of the disease
struck the eye--think, if not say, "What a pity!"

The dress of the two strangers was alike, and it was military; but
although an officer of those days did not feel it at all scandalous or
wrong to show himself in his regimentals, yet such was not the case in
the present instance; and the habiliments of the two horsemen
consisted, as far as could be seen, of a blue riding-coat, bound round
the waist by a crimson scarf, with a pair of heavy boots, of that form
which afterward obtained the name of Pendragon. Swords were at their
sides, and--as was usual in those days, even for the most pacific
travellers--large fur-covered holsters were at their saddle-bows; so
that, although they had no servants with them, and were evidently of
that class of society upon which the more liberal-minded prey and have
preyed in all ages, there was about them "something dangerous," to
attack which would have implied great necessity or a very combative
disposition.

As the travellers rode on, the gipsy men, without moving from the
places they had before occupied, eyed them from under their bent
brows, affecting withal hardly to see them; while the urchins ran like
young apes by the side of their horses, performing all sorts of
antics, and begging hard for halfpence; and at length a girl of
about fifteen or sixteen--notwithstanding some forcible injunctions
to forbear on the part of the old woman who was tending the
caldron--sprang up the bank, beseeching the gentlemen, in the usual
singsong of her tribe, to cross her hand with silver, and have their
fortunes told; promising them at the same time a golden future, and,
like Launcelot, "a pretty trifle of wives."

In regard to her chiromantic science the gentlemen were obdurate,
though each of them gave her one of those flat polished pieces of
silver which were sixpences in our young days; and having done this,
they rode on, turning for a moment or two their conversation, which
had been flowing in a very different channel, to the subject of the
gipsies they had just passed, moralizing deeply on their strange
history and wayward fate, and wondering that no philanthropic
government had ever endeavoured to give them a "local habitation and a
name" among the sons and daughters of honest industry.

"I am afraid that the attempt would be in vain," answered the younger
of the two to his companion. "And besides, it would be doing a notable
injustice to the profession of petty larceny to deprive it of its only
avowed and honourable professors, while we have too many of its
amateur practitioners in the very best society already."

"Nay, nay! Society is not as bad as that would argue it," rejoined the
other. "Thank God, there are few thieves or pilferers within the
circle of my acquaintance, which is not small."

"Indeed!" said his companion. "Think for a moment, my dear colonel,
how many of your dearly-beloved friends are there who, for but a small
gratification, would pilfer from you those things that you value most
highly! How many would steal from one the affection of one's mistress
or wife! How many, for some flimsy honour, some dignity of riband or
of place, would pocket the reputation of deeds they had never done!
How many, for some party interest or political rancour, would deprive
you of your rightful renown, strip you of your credit and your fame,
and 'filch from you your good name!' Good God! those gipsies are
princes of honesty compared with the great majority of our dear
friends and worldly companions."

His fellow-traveller replied nothing for a moment or two, unless a
smile, partly gay, partly bitter, could pass for answer. The next
minute, however, he read his own comment upon it, saying, "I thought,
De Vaux, you were to forget your misanthropy when you returned to
England."

"Oh, so I have," replied the other in a gayer tone; "it was only a
single seed of the wormwood sprouting up again. But, as you must have
seen throughout our journey, my heart is all expansion at coming back
again to my native land, and at the prospect of seeing so many beings
that I love: though God knows," he added, somewhat gloomily--"God
knows whether the love be as fully returned. However, imagination
serves me for Prince Ali's perspective glass; and I can see them all,
even now, at their wonted occupations, while my vanity dresses up
their faces in smiles when they think of my near approach."

His companion sighed; and as he did not at all explain why he did
so, we must take the liberty of asking the worthy reader to walk into
the tabernacle of his bosom, and examine which of the mind's gods it
was that gave forth that oracular sigh, so that the officiating
priest may afford the clear interpretation thereof. But, to leave an
ill-conceived figure of speech, the simple fact was, that the picture
of home, and friends, and smiling welcome, and happy love, which his
companion's speech had displayed, had excited somewhat like envy in
the breast of Colonel Manners. Envy, indeed, properly so called, it
was not; for the breast of Colonel Manners was swept out and garnished
every day by a body of kindly spirits, who left not a stain of envy,
hatred, or malice in any corner thereof. The proper word would have
been _regret_; for regret it certainly was that he felt when he
reflected that, though he had many of what the world calls friends,
and a milky-way of acquaintances--though he was honoured and esteemed
wherever he came, and felt a proud consciousness that he deserved to
be so--yet that on all the wide surface of the earth there was no
sweet individual spot where dearer love, and brighter smiles, and
outstretched arms, glad voices, and sparkling eyes, waited to welcome
the wanderer home from battle, and danger, and privation, and fatigue.
He felt that there was a vacancy to him in all things; that the magic
chain of life's associations wanted a link; and he sighed--not with
_envy_, but with _regret_. That it was so was partly owing to events
over which he had no control. Left an orphan at an early age, the
father's mansion and the mother's bosom he had never known; and
neither brother nor sister had accompanied his pilgrimage through
life. His relations were all distant ones; and though (being the last
of a long line) great care had been bestowed upon his infancy and
youth, yet all the sweet ties and kindred fellowship which gather
thickly round us in a large family were wanting to him.

So far his isolated situation depended upon circumstances which he
could neither alter nor avoid; but that he had not created for himself
a home, and ties as dear as those which fortune had at first denied
him, depended on himself; or rather what in vulgar parlance is called
a _crotchet_, which was quite sufficiently identified with his whole
nature, to be considered as part of himself, though it was mingled
intimately--woven in and out--with qualities of a very different
character.

This crotchet--for that is the only term fitted for it, as it was
certainly neither a whim nor a caprice--this crotchet may be
considered as a matter of history--of his history, I mean; for it
depended upon foregone facts, which must be here explained. It is sad
to overturn all that imagination may have already done for the reader
on the very first news that Colonel Manners had a foregone history at
all. He had not been crossed in love, as may be supposed, nor had he
seen the object of his affections swept away by a torrent, burned in a
house on fire, killed by an unruly horse, or die by any of those means
usually employed for such a purpose. No; he had neither to bewail the
coldness nor the loss of her he loved, because, up to the moment when
we have set him before the reader, he had unfortunately never been in
love at all.

The fact is, that during his youth Colonel Manners had possessed one
of the finest faces in the world, and every one of his judicious
friends had taken care to impress deeply upon his mind that it was the
best portion of all his present possessions or future expectations. By
nature he was quite the reverse of a vain man; but when he saw that
the great majority of those by whom he was surrounded admired the
beauties of his face far more than the beauties of his mind, and loved
him for the symmetry of his external person more than for the
qualities of his heart, of course the conviction that, however much
esteem and respect might be gained by mental perfections, affection
was only given to beauty, became an integral part of that fine texture
of memories and ideas which, though I do not think it, as some have
done, the mind itself, I yet look upon as the mind's innermost
garment. Such was the case when, at the age of about twenty, he was
attacked by the smallpox. For a length of time he was not allowed to
see a looking-glass, the physicians mildly telling him that his
appearance would improve; that they trusted no great traces would
remain: but when he did see a looking-glass, he certainly saw the
reflection of somebody he had never seen before. In the mean while his
relations had too much regard for their own persons to come near him;
and when, after having purified in the country, he went to visit an
antique female cousin, who had been a card-playing belle in the reign
of his majesty of blessed memory, King George the First, the old lady
first made him a profound courtesy, taking him for a stranger; and
when she discovered who he was, burst forth with, "Good God, Charles!
you are perfectly frightful!"

To the same conclusion Charles Manners had by this time come himself;
and the very modesty of his original nature now leagued with one of
the deceptions of vanity, and made him believe that he could never, by
any circumstances, or events, obtain love. Nevertheless he made up his
mind to his fate entirely, and determined neither to seek for nor to
think of a good that could not be his. Indeed, at first, according to
the usual extravagance of man's nature, he flew to the very far
extreme, and believed that, putting woman's love out of the question,
even the more intimate friendship and affection of his fellow-men
might be influenced by his changed appearance, and that he would be
always more or less an object of that pity which touches upon scorn.
These ideas his commerce with the world soon showed him to be
fallacious; but in the mean time they had a certain effect upon his
conduct. Possessing a consciousness of great powers of mind and fine
qualities of the heart, he determined to cultivate and employ them to
the utmost, and compel esteem and respect, if love and affection were
not to be obtained. In his course through the army, too, the sort of
animosity which he felt against his own ugliness, which had cut him
off from happiness of a sort that he was well calculated to enjoy,
together with that mental and corporeal complexion which did not
suffer him to know what fear is, led him to be somewhat careless of
his own person; and during his earlier years of service he acquired
the name of rash Charles Manners. But it was soon found that wherever
the conduct of any enterprise was intrusted to his judgment, its
success was almost certain, and that skill and intrepidity with him
went hand-in-hand.

Gradually he found that, with men at least, and with soldiers
especially, personal beauty formed no necessary ingredient in
friendship; and with a warm heart and noble feelings--guarded,
however, by wisdom and discretion--he soon rendered himself
universally liked and esteemed in the different corps with which
he served, and had an opportunity of selecting one or two of his
fellow-officers for more intimate regard. Unfortunately, however, he
saw no reason to change his opinion in respect to woman's love.
Indeed, he sought not to change it; for, as we have already said, the
belief that female affection could only be won by personal beauty was
one of those intimate convictions which were interwoven with all the
fabric of his ideas. He ceased to think of it; he devoted himself
entirely to his profession; he won honour and the highest renown; he
found himself liked and esteemed by his military companions, courted
and admired in general society, and he was content: at least, if he
was not content, the regrets which would not wholly be smothered--the
yearnings for nearer ties and dearer affections, which are principles,
not thoughts--only found vent occasionally in such a sigh as that
which we have just described.

His companion, though he remarked it, made no comment on his sigh;
for, notwithstanding the most intimate relationships of friendship
which existed between himself and his fellow-traveller, and which had
arisen in mutual services that may hereafter be more fully mentioned,
he felt that the length of their acquaintance had not been such as to
warrant his inquiring more curiously into those private intricacies of
the bosom from which such signs of feeling issued forth. He saw,
however, that the proximate cause of the slight shadow that came over
his friend lay in something that he himself had said in picturing the
happy dreams that checkered his misanthropy; and putting his horse
into a quicker pace as they got upon the level ground, he changed the
subject while they rode on.

The time, as we have said, was evening; and as the strangers passed by
the gipsy encampment, a flood of purple light, pouring from as
splendid a heaven as ever held out the promise of bright after-days,
was streaming over the road; but as the travellers reached the flat,
and turned the angle of the wood where the road wound round the bases
of the hills, the sky was already waxing gray, and a small twinkling
spot of gold here and there told that darkness was coming fast. At the
distance of about half a mile farther, the river was first seen
flowing broad and silvery through the valley; and a quarter of an hour
more brought the travellers to a spot where the water, taking an
abrupt turn round a salient promontory thrown out from the main body
of the hills, left hardly room for the road between the margin and the
wood. On the other side of the river, which might be a hundred yards
broad, was a narrow green meadow, backed by some young fir plantings,
and just beyond the first turn of the bank a deep sombre dell led away
to the right; while the shadows of the trees over the water, the
darkening hue of the sky, and the wild uninhabited aspect of the whole
scene, gave a sensation of gloom, which was not diminished by a large
raven flapping heavily up from the edge of the water, and hovering
with a hoarse croak over some carrion it had found among the reeds.

"This is a murderous-looking spot enough!" said Colonel Manners,
turning slightly towards De Vaux, who had been silent for some
minutes; "this is a murderous-looking spot enough!"

"Well may it be so!" answered his companion abruptly; "well may it be
so; for on this very spot my uncle was murdered twenty years ago."

"Indeed!" exclaimed his fellow-traveller; "indeed--but on reflection,"
he added, "I remember having heard something of it, though I was then
a boy, and have forgotten all the circumstances."

He spoke as if he would willingly have heard them again detailed; but,
for a moment or two, De Vaux made no reply; and the next instant the
sound of a horse's feet at a quick trot suddenly broke upon the ear,
and called the attention of both. In a minute more, a horseman wrapped
in a large roquelaure passed them rapidly; and though he neither spoke
nor bowed, his sudden appearance was enough to break off the thread of
their discourse. When he was gone, Colonel Manners felt that, though
De Vaux might take it up again if he would, he himself could not in
propriety do so. De Vaux, however, was silent; for he was not one of
those men to whom the accidents and misfortunes of their friends and
relations furnished matter for pleasant discourse; and the topic of
course dropped there. Perhaps, indeed, the younger traveller showed
some inclination even to avoid the subject; for he led the
conversation almost immediately into another channel, pointing out to
his friend the various hills and landmarks which distinguished the
grounds of his father from those of his aunt, and dwelling with
enthusiasm upon the pleasures that his boyhood had there known, and
the hopes which his return had re-awakened in his bosom; and yet there
was mingled with the whole a touch of fastidiousness which contrasted
strangely enough with the warmth of feeling and expression to which he
gave way in other respects. He seemed to doubt the very love, the
happiness of which he pictured so brightly; he seemed to distrust the
joys to which he was so sensitively alive; he even seemed, in some
degree, to sneer at himself for giving the credence that he did to
those things which he most desired to believe true.

But Edward de Vaux had been brought up in a fastidious school. He had
lived at the acmé of fortune and trod upon circumstances all his life,
and this we hold to be the true way of becoming misanthropical. It is
nonsense to suppose that a man turns misanthrope in consequence of
great misfortunes. No such thing! it is by being fortunate _ter et
amplius_. The spoiled children of the blind goddess are those that
kick at her wheel; and those on whom she showers nothing but
misfortunes cling tight to the tire, in hopes of a better turn, till
the next whirl casts them off into the wide hereafter.

Edward de Vaux stood at the climax of fortune. Never in his life had
he known what a serious reverse or great misfortune is; and
consequently he had gathered together all the petty vexations and
minor disappointments that he had met with, and, to use the term of
Napoleon Bonaparte, had nearly stung himself to death with wasps.
Perhaps, too, he might be fastidious by inheritance, for his father
was so in a still higher degree than himself; though in the father it
showed itself in irritable impatience, and a sort of contempt both
tyrannical and insulting towards those whom he disliked; while in the
son, mingled with, if not springing from, finer feelings: passing,
too, through the purifying medium of a gentler heart, and corrected by
a high sense of what is gentlemanly, his fastidiousness seldom showed
itself except in a passing sneer at any thing that is false, affected,
or absurd, in an indignant sarcasm at that which is base or evil, or
in petulant irritability at that which is weak.

As he now rode onward to rejoin those friends whom he had not seen for
nearly three years, accompanied by a companion who had never seen them
at all, the little world of his heart was in a strange commotion. All
the joy which an affectionate disposition can feel was rising up at
every point against the sway of cold propriety, and yet he tormented
himself with a thousand imaginary annoyances. Now he fancied that the
delight he felt and expressed was undignified, and might lower him in
the eyes of his companion; now he chose to doubt that his reception
from those he had left behind would be warm enough to justify the
exuberant pleasure that he himself experienced; while, keenly alive to
the slightest ridicule, he shrunk from the idea of exposing, even to
his dearest friend, one single spot in his heart to which the lash
could be applied.

"I was foolish," he thought, "not to leave Manners in London for a
day, and get all the joyful absurdities of a first welcome over before
he came down. However, my aunt would have it so; and it cannot be
avoided now."

As they proceeded, the purple of the evening died entirely away, and a
gray dimness fell over tree, and stream, and hill. Star by star looked
out, grew brighter and brighter, as the wandering ball on which we
travel through the inconceivable depth turned our hemisphere from the
superior light, and at length all was night.

In the lapse of ten minutes more, the road--which, winding about
between the hills and the stream, was forced often out of its true
direction,--had conducted them to a steep bank overhanging a wider
part of the valley, and here Colonel Manners divined--for he could
scarcely be said to see--that a scattered but considerable village lay
before them. Up and down the sides of the hill, a hundred twinkling
lights in cottage windows were sprinkled like glow-worms among the
darker masses of orchard and copsewood; and now and then, as the
travellers advanced, a bright glare suddenly flashed forth from some
opening door; and then again was as speedily extinguished, when the
entrance or the exit of the visiter was accomplished. Some watchful
dog, too, caught the sound of horses' feet, and, after one or two
desultory barks, set up his tongue into a continual peal. His
neighbours of the canine race took the signal, and--not at all unlike
the human species--ever inclined to clamour, yelped forth in concert,
whether they had heard or not the noise that roused their comrade's
indignation, so that the village was soon one continued roar with the
efforts of various hairy throats.

The salutation, however, was sweet to Edward de Vaux, for it spoke of
home--or at least of a dwelling that was dearer than any other home he
might possess; and, pausing a moment, he pointed onward to a spot,
where, on the edge of the hill beyond the village, might be seen,
cutting sharp upon the pale silvery gray of the western sky, the dark
outline of a large house, with a plentiful supply of chimneys, of an
architecture somewhat less light and fanciful than that of Palladio,
but very well suited to a dwelling in the land of peace and comfort.

"That is my aunt's house," said De Vaux, "and, though it is nearly
three miles by the road from the spot where that horseman passed us,
it is not much more than three-quarters of a mile by the path over the
hill. But that path," he added, "is impracticable for horses, or I
should certainly have risked breaking your neck, Manners, rather than
take this long tedious round."

Now, strange to say, the round that they had taken seemed longer and
more tedious to Edward de Vaux, when he came within sight of the
mansion which was to end his journey, than it had done at any other
moment of the ride. But so it was; and without inquiring into things
with which we have nothing to do, we may conclude that he felt some
of those vague, unreasonable doubts and apprehensions, which almost
every one experiences on the first view of one's home after a long
absence--those fears which are the very children of our hopes--that
anxiety which the uncertainty of human fate impresses upon our minds,
till we are sure that all is well. Who is there that has not gazed up
at his own dwelling-place as he returned from far, and asked himself,
with a sudden consciousness of the instability of all things, "Shall I
find nothing gone amiss? Has no misfortune trod that threshold? Has
disease or sorrow never visited it? Has death turned his steps aside?"

Whatever it was that Edward de Vaux felt, although the round seemed a
long one, and the time tedious that it had consumed, he yet drew in
his rein, not so as to bring his horse quite up, but to check him into
a walk; while he pointed out the house to his companion, and gazed at
its dark and distant mass himself. At that very moment, a single ray
glimmered in one of the windows, passed on into another, and then
three windows suddenly streamed forth with light. It looked like a
beacon to say that all was well; and though no man in the present day
cares a straw for things that in other years, when skilfully applied,
have won battles and overthrown dynasties--I mean omens--yet every man
has a silent, unacknowledged, foolish little system of augury of his
own; and Edward de Vaux and his companion, at the sight of this dexter
omen, set spurs to their horses, and rode merrily on their way.




                             CHAPTER II.


The reader, who loves variety, will not be displeased, perhaps, to
find that this story, leaving the two horsemen whom we have conducted
a short stage on their way, now turns to another of our characters not
less important to our tale.

In the same wood, which we have already described as clothing the
hills and skirting the road over which De Vaux and his companion were
travelling, but in a far more intricate part thereof than that into
which the reader's eye has hitherto penetrated, might be seen, at the
hour which we have chosen for the commencement of our tale, the figure
of a man creeping quietly, but quickly, along a path so covered by the
long branches of the underwood, that it could only be followed out by
one who knew well the deepest recesses of the forest.

This personage was spare in form, and without being tall, as compared
with other men, he was certainly tall in reference to his other
proportions. His arms were long and sinewy, his feet small, his ankles
well turned, and his whole body giving the promise of great activity,
though at a time of life when the agile pliancy of youth is generally
past and gone. He was dressed in an old brown long coat, "a world too
wide" for his spare form, so that, as he crept along with a quiet,
serpentine turning of his body, he looked like an eel in a great coat,
if the reader's imagination be vivid enough to call up such an image.
A hat, which had seen other days, and many of them, covered his brows;
but under that hat was a countenance, which, however ordinary might be
the rest of his appearance, redeemed the whole from the common herd.
The complexion spoke his race: it was of a pale, greenish tint,
without any rosier hue in the cheeks to enliven the pure gipsy colour
of his skin. His nose was small, and slightly aquiline, though of a
peculiar bend, forming, from the forehead to the tip, what Hogarth
drew for the line of beauty. The eyebrows were small, and pencilled
like a Circassian's, and the eyes themselves, shining through their
long, thick, black eyelashes, were full of deep light, and--to use a
very anomalous crowd of words--of wild, dark, melancholy fire. His
forehead was broad and high; and the long, soft, glossy, black hair
that fell in untrimmed profusion round his face had hardly suffered
from the blanching hand of time, although his age could not be less
than fifty-five or fifty-six, and might be more. His teeth, too, were
unimpaired, and of as dazzling a whiteness as if beetle and recca had
all possessed the properties their venders assert, and had all been
tried on them in their turn.

Such was his appearance, as, creeping along through the brushwood with
a stealthy motion, which would hardly have disturbed the deer from
their lair, he made his way towards the spot where we have seen that
his fellows were encamped. He was still far distant from it, however;
and although it was evident that he was, or had been, well acquainted
with the intricacies of the wood, yet it appeared that some leading
marks were necessary to guide him surely on his way; for, ever and
anon, when he could find a round knob of earth, raising itself above
the rest of the ground, he would climb it, and gaze for several
moments over the world of wood below him, rich in all the splendid
hues of autumn, and flooded by the purple light of the evening.

Ever, as he thus looked out, there might be seen a column of
bluish-white smoke rising from a spot at a mile's distance; and, after
towering up solemnly in the still air for several hundred feet,
spreading into light rolling clouds, and drifting among the wood.
Thitherward, again, he always turned his course; and any one who has
remarked the fondness of gipsies for a fire, even when they have no
apparent necessity for it, will little doubt that the smoke, or the
flame, serves them, on many occasions, for a signal or a guide.

As progression through thick bushes can never be very rapid, the
evening had faded nearly into twilight ere the gipsy reached the
encampment of his companions. The hearing of those whose safety often
depends upon the sharpness of their ears is, of course, sufficiently
acuminated by habit; and although his steps were, as we have shown,
stealthy enough, his approach did not escape the attention of the
party round the fire. We have seen that they had taken but little
apparent notice of the two travellers, who had passed them about a
quarter of an hour before; but the sound of quiet footsteps from the
side of the wood, the moving of the branches, and the slight rustle of
the autumn leaves, caused a far greater sensation. Two or three of the
stoutest started instantly on their feet, and watched the spot whence
those sounds proceeded, as if not quite sure what species of visiter
the trees might conceal. The moment after, however, the figure we have
described, emerging into the more open part of the wood, seemed to
satisfy his comrades that there was no cause for apprehension; and
those who had risen turned towards the others, saying, "It is
Pharold," in a tone which, without expressing much pleasure, at all
events announced no alarm.

Several of the young gipsies sprang up, shaking their many-coloured
rags--for, like the goddess of the painted bow, their clothing was
somewhat motley--and ran on to meet the new comer; while the elder
members of the respectable assemblage congregated under the oaks,
though they did not show the same alacrity, perhaps, as the younger
and more volatile of the party, received him with an air in which
reverence was mingled with a slight touch of sullenness.

"Who has passed since I left you, William?" was the first question of
the gipsy on his return, addressing one of the young men who had been
lying nearer than the others to the high-road, and by whose side
appeared, as he rose, a most portentous cudgel.

"A woman with eggs from the market; three labourers from the fields; a
gamekeeper, who damned us all, and said, if he had his will, he would
rid the country of us: and two gentlemen on horseback, who gave Leena
a shilling," was the accurate reply of the young gipsy, whose face, we
must remark, assumed not the most amiable expression that ever face
put on, as he recorded the comments of the gamekeeper upon his race
and profession. The other, who has been called Pharold, at first paid
no attention to any part of the account, except the apparition of the
two gentlemen on horseback; but in regard to them, he asked many a
question--were they old or young--what was their appearance--their
size--their apparent profession?

To all these inquiries he received such correct and minute replies, as
showed that the seeming indifference with which the gipsy had regarded
the two travellers was anything but real; and that every particular of
their dress and circumstances which eye could reach or inference
arrive at, had been carefully marked, and, as it were, written down on
memory.

The language which the gipsies spoke among themselves was a barbarous
compound of some foreign tongue, the origin and structure of which
has, and most likely ever will, baffle inquiry, and of English,
mingled with many a choice phrase from the very expressive jargon
called slang. Thus, when the gipsy spoke of gentlemen he called them
_raye_, when he spoke of the peasant, he termed him _gazo_: but as the
gipsy tongue may, probably, be not very edifying to the reader, the
conversation of our characters shall continue to be carried on in a
language which is more generally intelligible.

The account rendered by the young man, however, did not seem
satisfactory to the elder, who twice asked if that were all; and then
made some more particular inquiries concerning the gamekeeper who had
expressed such friendly sentiments towards his tribe.

"Keep a good watch, my boys," he said, after musing for a moment or
two on the answers he received; "keep a good watch. There is danger
stirring abroad; and I fear that we shall be obliged to lift our
tents, and quit this pleasant nook."

"The sooner we quit it the better, I say," cried the beldam who had
been tending the pot. "What the devil we do here at all, I don't know.
Why, we are wellnigh four miles from a farm yard, and five from the
village; and how you expect us to get food I don't understand."

"Are there not plenty of rabbits and hares in the wood?" said the
other, in reply; "I saw at least a hundred run as I crossed just now."

"But one cannot eat brown meat for ever," rejoined the dame; "and tiny
Dick was obliged to go five miles for the turkey in the pot; and then
had very near been caught in nimming it off the edge of the common."

"Well, give me the brown meat for my share," answered Pharold; "I will
eat none of the white things that they have fattened and fed up with
their hoarded corn, and have watched early and late, like a sick
child. Give me the free beast that runs wild, and by nature's law
belongs to no one but him who catches it."

"No, no, Pharold, you must have your share of turkey too," cried the
old lady; for although it may appear strange, yet as there is honour
among thieves, so there may be sometimes that sort of generosity among
gipsies which led the good dame who, on the present occasion, presided
over the pot--though, to judge by her size and proportions, and to
gauge her appetite by the Lavater standard of her mouth, she could
have eaten the whole turkey of which she spoke herself--which led her,
I say, to press Pharold to his food with hospitable care, declaring
that he was a "king of a fellow, though somewhat whimsical."

The gipsies now drew round their fire, and scouts being thrown out
on either side to guard against interruption, the pot was unswung
from the cross bars that sustained it, trenchers and knives were
produced, and, with nature's green robe for a table-cloth, a plentiful
supper of manifold good things was spread before the race of
wanderers. Nor was the meal unjoyous, nor were their figures--at all
times picturesque--without an appearance of loftier beauty and more
symmetrical grace, as, reclining on triclinia of nature's providing,
with the fire and the evening twilight casting strange lights upon
them, they fell into those free and easy attitudes which none but the
children of wild activity can assume. The women of the party had all
come forth from their huts, and among them were two or three lovely
creatures as any race ever produced, from the chosen Hebrew to the
beauty-dreaming Greek. In truth, there seemed more women than men of
the tribe, and there certainly were more children than either; but due
subordination was not wanting; and the urchins who were ranged behind
the backs of the rest, though they wanted not sufficient food,
intruded not upon the circle of their elders.

Scarcely, however, had the first mouthfuls been swallowed, and the cup
passed its round, when the farthest scout--a boy of about twelve years
of age--ran in, and whispered the mystical words, "A horse's feet!"

"One--or more than one?" was the instant question of Pharold, while
his companions busied themselves in shovelling away the principal
portions of their supper, and leaving nothing but what might pass for
very frugal fare indeed. "Only one!" replied the boy, running back to
his post; and the next instant another report was made to the effect,
that a single horseman was coming up the road at full speed, together
with such personal marks and appearances as the dim obscurity of the
hour permitted the scouts to observe. All this, be it remarked, was
carried on with both speed and quietude. The motions of the scouts
were all as stealthy as those of a cat over a dewy green, and their
words were all whispered; but their steps were quick, and their words
were few and rapid.

The motions of the horseman, however, were not less speedy; and ere
much counsel could be taken, he was upon the road, exactly abreast of
the spot where the gipsies' fire was lighted. There he drew in his
reins at once; and, springing to the ground, called aloud to one of
the boys, who was acting sentinel, bidding him hold his horse.

"It is he!" said Pharold, "it is he!" and, rising from the turf, he
turned to meet the stranger, who, on his part, approached directly to
the fire, and at once held out his hand to the gipsy. Pharold took it,
and wrung it hard, and then stood gazing upon the countenance of the
stranger, as the fitful firelight flashed upon it, while his visiter
fixed his eyes with equal intensity upon the dark features of the
gipsy; and each might be supposed to contemplate the effect of time's
blighting touch upon the face of the other, and apply the chilling
tidings such an examination always yields to his own heart.

It is probable, indeed, that such was really the case; for the first
words of the gipsy were, "Ay, we are both changed indeed!"

"We are so, truly, Pharold," replied the stranger; "so many years
cannot pass without change. But did my last letter reach you?"

"It did," replied the gipsy, "and I have done all that you required."

"Did you obtain a sight of him?" demanded the other, eagerly.

"I did," answered the gipsy, "in the park, as he walked alone--I
leaped the wall, and--"

Hitherto, all those first hurried feelings which crowd upon us, when,
after a long lapse of years, we meet again with some one whom
circumstances have connected closely with us in the past, had
prevented the gipsy and his companion from remarking--or rather from
remembering--the presence of so many witnesses. In the midst of what
he was saying, however, the eye of Pharold glanced for a moment from
the face of his companion to the circle by the fire, and he suddenly
stopped. The other understood his motive at once, and replied, "True,
true; let us come away for a moment, for I must hear it all."

"Of course," answered Pharold, "though you will hear much, perhaps,
that you would rather not hear. But come, let us go into the road; we
shall be farther there from human ears than anywhere else."

As they walked towards the highway both were silent; for there is not
such a dumb thing on the face of the earth as deep emotion; and for
some reason, which may, or may not, be explained hereafter, both the
stranger and the gipsy were more moved by their meeting in that spot
than many less firm spirits have been on occasions of more apparent
importance.

After thus walking on without a word for two or three hundred yards,
the gipsy abruptly resumed his speech. "Well, well," he said, "when we
are young we think of the future, and when we are old we think of the
past; and, by my fathers, there is no use of thinking of either! We
cannot change what is coming, nor mend what is gone; but, as I was
saying, I have seen him: I found that he walked every day in the park
by himself, and I watched his hour from behind the wall, and saw him
come up the long avenue that leads to the west gate--you remember it?"

"Well, well," answered the other; "but how did he look?--Tell me,
Pharold, how did he look?"

"Dark enough, and gloomy," answered the gipsy: "he came with his hands
behind his back, and his hat over his brows, and his eyes bent upon
the ground; and ever as he walked onward, his white teeth--for he has
fine teeth still--gnawed his under lip; and, for my part, if my
solitary walk were every day to be like that, I would not walk at all;
but would rather lie me down by the roadside and die at once. Well
then, often too as he came, he would stop and fix his eyes upon one
particular pebble in the gravel, and stare at it, as if it had been
enchanted; and then, with a great start, would look behind him to see
if there was anyone watching his gloomy ways; or would suddenly
whistle, as if for his dogs, though he had no dog with him."

His companion drew a deep sigh, and then asked, "But how seemed he in
health, Pharold? Is he much changed? He was once as strong a man as
any one could see--does he still seem vigorous and well?"

"You would not know him," replied the gipsy, and was going on, but the
other broke in vehemently.

"Not know him? That I would!" he exclaimed, "though age might have
whitened his hair and dimmed his eye--though suffering might have
shrivelled his flesh and bowed his stature--though death itself, and
corruption in its train, might have wrought for days upon him, I would
know him so long as the dust held together.--What, Pharold, not know
him?--_I_ not know _him?_"

"Well, well," answered the gipsy, "I meant that he was changed--far,
far more changed than you are--you were a young man when last we met,
at least in your prime of strength, and now you are an old one, that
is all. But he--he does not seem aged but blighted. It is not like a
flower that has blown, and bloomed, and withered, but one that with a
worm in its heart has shrunk, and shrivelled, and faded. He is
yellower than I am, though I gain my colour from a long race who
brought it centuries ago from a land of sunshine, and he has got it in
less than twenty years from the scorching of a heart on fire. He is
bent, too; and his features are as thin as a heron's bill."

"Sad--sad--sad," said his companion; "but how could it be otherwise?
Well, what more? Tell me what happened when you met him? Did he know
you?"

"At once," answered the gipsy; "no, no; I have seen one of my tribe
with a hot iron and an oaken board make painting of men's faces that
no water could wash out; and none should know better than you, that my
face has been burnt in upon his heart in such a way that it would take
a river of tears to sweep away the marks of it. But let me tell my
tale. When I saw that he was near, I sprang over the wall into the
walk, and stood before him at once. When first he saw me he started
back, as if it had been a snake that crossed him; but the moment
after, I could see him recollect himself; and I knew that he was
calculating whether to own he knew me, or to affect forgetfulness. He
chose the first, and asked mildly enough what I did there. 'I thought
you were out of the kingdom,' he said, 'and had promised Sir William
Ryder never to return.' I replied that he said true, and that I had
not returned till Sir William Ryder had told me to do so."

"What said he then?" asked the other, eagerly; "what said he to that?"

"He started," replied the gipsy, "and then muttered something about a
villain and betraying him; but the moment after, as you must have seen
him to do long ago, he gathered himself up, and looking as proud and
stern as if the lives of a whole world were at his disposal, he asked,
what was Sir William Ryder's motive in bidding me return. 'Some motive
of course, he has,' he added, looking at me bitterly. 'Does he intend
to play villain, or fool, or both,--for whatever folly his knavery may
tempt him to commit, he will only injure himself; for at this time of
day it is somewhat too late to try to injure _me_;' and as he spoke,"
continued the gipsy, "he nodded his head gravely but meaningly, as if
he would have said, 'You know that I speak truth.'"

The lip of the stranger curled as his companion related this part of a
conversation in which he seemed to take no slight interest; but as we
do not choose to know any thing of what was passing in his bosom, we
must leave that somewhat bitter smile to interpret itself.

"I told him," continued the gipsy, "as you directed me, that his
friend stood in some need of five thousand pounds, and trusting to his
lordship's kindness and generosity, had directed me to come back and
apply to him for that sum. So when he heard that, his face grew very
dark; and after thinking for a minute of two, he looked up two of the
walks, for he stood in the crossing, to see if he could see any of the
park-keepers, to give me into their hands--I know that was what he
wanted. However there was no one there; and he answered, looking at me
as if he would have withered me into dust, 'Tell Sir William Ryder,
wherever he is, that he shall ring no more from me. I have sent him
his thousand a year regularly, and if any of the packets missed him,
he should have let me know; but I will be no sponge to be squeezed by
any man's pleasure; nor do I care,' he went on, 'who conspires to
bring any false accusation against me. I am prepared to meet every
charge boldly, and to prove my innocence before the whole world, if
any one dare to accuse me.' He spoke very firmly," added the gipsy;
"and as long as he continued speaking I kept my eyes upon the ground,
though I felt that his were bent upon me: but the moment he had done,
I raised mine and looked full upon his face, and his lip quivered and
his eye fell in a moment."

"Did he hold his resolution of refusing?" demanded the other, over
whose countenance, as he listened, had been passing emotions as
various as those which the gipsy had depicted; "did he hold his
resolution to the end?"

"Firmly!" replied Pharold, "though he softened his tone a great deal
towards me. He said he was only angry with Sir William Ryder, not with
me, and asked where I had been during so many years; and when I told
him in Ireland, he replied, that it was a poor country: I could not
have made much money there; and then he talked of other days, when the
old lord took me to the hall because I was a handsome boy, and kept me
for two years and more, and would have had me educated; and he vowed I
did mighty wrong to run away and join my own people again; and he took
out his purse and gave me all that it contained, and was sorry that it
was no more; but if I would tell him, he said, where we were lying, he
would send me more, for old acquaintance sake; and all the while he
talked to me he looked up the walks to see if he could see the
park-keepers, to have me taken up, and to accuse me of robbing him, or
of some such thing. I could see it all in his eye; and so I told him
that we were lying five miles to the east; and took leave of him
civily, and came away, laughing that he should think I was fool enough
to fancy he and I could ever do anything but hate each other to our
dying day."

His companion mused for several minutes; and even when he did speak,
he took no notice either of the gipsy's suspicions or of the news he
gave him, but rather,--as one sometimes does when one wishes any thing
just heard to mature itself in the mind, ere further comment be made
upon it,--he linked on what he next said, to that part of Pharold's
speech which might have seemed the least interesting, namely, the
gipsy's own history; and yet, although he certainly did this, in order
to avoid, for the time, the most important parts of his narrative, he
did not do it with the commonplace tone of one who speaks of feelings
with which he has no sympathy: on the contrary, he spoke with warmth,
and kindness, and enthusiasm; and expressed profound regret that the
gipsy had, in his boyhood, thrown away advantages so seldom held out
to one of his tribe.

"Why? why?" cried the gipsy, "why should you grieve? I did but what
you have done yourself. I quitted a life of sloth, effeminacy, and
bondage, for one of ease, freedom, and activity. I left false forms,
unnatural restraints, enfeebling habits--ay! and sickness too, for the
customs of my fathers, for man's native mode of life, for a continual
existence in the bosom of beautiful nature, and for blessed health. We
know no sickness but that which carries us to our grave; we feel no
vapours; we know no nerves. Go, ask the multitude of doctors,--a curse
which man's own luxurious habits have brought upon him,--go, ask your
doctor's whether a gipsy be not to be envied, for his exemption from
the plagues that punish other men's effeminate habits."

"True, Pharold! true!" replied his companion; "but still, even the
short time that you lived in other scenes must have given your mind a
taste for very different enjoyments from those that you can now find.
You must have seen the beauty of law and order; you must have learned
to delight in mental pleasures; you must long for the society of those
of equal intellect and knowledge with yourself."

"And do I not find them?" cried the gipsy, warming in defence of his
race; "to be sure I do. Think not that we have none among us as
learned and as thoughtful as yourselves, though in another way. But
you cannot understand us. You think that it is in our habits alone
that we are different; but, remember, that when you speak to a true
gipsy, who follows exactly the path of his fathers, you speak to one
different in race, and creed, and mind, and feeling, and law, and
philosophy, from you and yours. You think us all ignorant, and either
bound as drudges to some low rejected trade, or plundering others,
because we do not comprehend the excellence of laws. But let me tell
you again, that there are men among us deeply read in sciences which
you know not; speaking well a language, for a hundred words of which
your schools have laboured long years in vain. Have we not laws, too,
of our own? laws better observed than your boasted codes? But you
choose to doubt that we have them, because we put you beyond our code,
as you put us beyond yours. When was ever justice shown to a gipsy?
and therefore we look upon you as things to pillage. You speak, too,
of the pleasures of the mind. Do you think my mind finds no exercise
in scenes like these? I walk hand in hand with the seasons through the
world. Winter, your enemy, is my friend and companion. Gladly do I see
him come, with his white mantle, through the bare woods and over the
brown hills. I watch the budding forth of spring, too, and her light
airs and changing skies, as I would the sports of a beloved child. I
hail the majestic summer, as if the God of my own land had come to
visit our race, even here; and in the yellow autumn, too, with the
rich fruit and the fading leaf, I have a comrade full of calmer
thoughts. The sunrise, and the sunset, and the midday, to me, are all
eloquence. The storm, the stream, the clouds, the wind, for me have
each a voice. I talk with the bright stars as they wander through the
deep sky, and I listen to the sun and moon, as they sing along their
lonely pilgrimage. Is not this enough? What need I more than nature?"

Perhaps his companion, whose mind was in no degree wanting in
acuteness, might imagine that in all the very enjoyments which the
gipsy enumerated, as well as in the tone he used, were to be traced
some remains of a better education than that of his race in general;
and might believe, that had that education been continued, every
pleasure that he felt would have been doubled by refinement. But all
this came upon his mind as impression rather than as thought; and the
reader will please to observe, that there is an immense difference
between the two. The truth was, that ever since the conversation had
turned to the gipsy himself, his companion had been doing what is
oftener done than the world imagines; that is to say, talking without
thinking, and listening without attending. In short, he was thinking
of other things; and yet, as we have said, he spoke with kindness, and
zeal, and real feeling; but the fact is, that the language he was
talking was memory. Years before, he had come to the same conclusions,
and held the same arguments in his own mind, regarding the very person
in whose company he was now once more; so that--having, in all the
news he had heard, greater calls upon present thought than he could
well satisfy,--as soon as the gipsy began to speak of gipsy-life, he
turned that topic over to memory, well knowing that she had a
plentiful stock of ideas prepared to supply any demand upon such a
subject; while intellect went on, quietly thinking of himself and of
the present. This plan, when skilfully executed, has a collateral
advantage, which, by-the-way, is often turned into a principal one;
namely, that while you let memory go on with the conversation--unless
she trips, or something of that kind--your companion does not perceive
that you are thinking at all; and thus the stranger, apparently
listened to, and took part in the gipsy's conversation about himself,
while his inner soul was busy, most busy, with the other tidings which
he had received. By the time that the enumeration of wild pleasures,
afforded by a wandering life was over, he had settled his plans in his
own mind; and, breaking off the subject there, demanded abruptly,--

"When, Pharold--tell me, when did you see him?"

He mentioned no name; and the gipsy, at once dropping the high and
enthusiastic tone in which he had been speaking, answered, as to a
common question, "It was but to-day--not four hours ago, or you had
not found me here."

"And why not?" demanded the other. "Whither would you go?"

"Far away," answered the gipsy, "far away! I love not his
neighbourhood; nor is it safe for me and mine. He thinks evil against
us, and he will not be long ere he tries to bring his thoughts to
pass."

"But he cannot injure you," replied the other; "in all the things
wherein you and he have borne a part, he has more cause to fear you
than you have to fear him."

"True! true!" said the gipsy; "and yet I love not his neighbourhood. I
may have done things in this land in my youth, when passion and
revenge were strong, and wisdom and forbearance weak, that I should
little like to have investigated in my middle age. Not that I fear for
myself; for, from the dark leap that all men must take, I have never
shrunk through life. But I fear the sorrow of those that would weep
for me, and the unjust mingling of the innocent with the guilty, for
which your laws are infamous."

His companion mused for a moment; and then, laying his hand upon the
arm of the gipsy, he replied, in a tone where kindness mingled with
authority: "Mark me, Pharold!" said he; "you know that I am not one
either to counsel you amiss, or to fall from you at a moment of need:
base, indeed, should I be, were I to do so, after all you have done
for me. But my resolutions are not yet fixed--my mind is not yet
made up; and I must hear more, and examine deeply, ere I execute my
half-formed purpose. Still you have no cause to fear; call upon me
whenever you need me; and, in the meantime, if you please, you can
remove from the spot where you now are, but not so far that I cannot
find you, for you must help me to the end of all this."

"To the common, at the back of Mrs. Falkland's woods?" asked the
gipsy: "they will hardly seek us there."

"As good a spot as any," replied his companion; "and in the case of
necessity, Pharold, here, I have written down where you may always
find me in this immediate neighbourhood; remembering, in the meantime,
all that you have promised."

"I have promised--I have promised!" replied the gipsy; "and you never
knew me break my word. But what is this you give me with the paper? I
want not gold--and from you, William."

"But your people may," replied the other; "take it, take it, Pharold;
it is never useless in such a life as yours."

"I will take it," answered the gipsy, "because it may give me more
control over my people; for although among our nation there are men
whose minds you little dream of, yet these I have here are not,
perhaps, of the best,--not that they are evil either; but wild, and
headstrong, and rash--as I was myself, when I was young."

They had already turned in their walk, and were now re-approaching the
fire, round which the gipsies were gathered. Their conversation had
not been without its share of interest to either, and each had much
matter for reflection: so that--as thought is not that which makes a
man speak, but that which keeps him silent--they advanced without
another word to the spot where the stranger's horse stood. It was a
fine powerful animal, of great bone and blood; but it was standing
like a lamb in the hands of a little boy, while the beautiful girl,
whom we have mentioned as accosting the other travellers, now stood
stroking his proud neck, and examining the accoutrements with a care
that some people might have thought suspicious. As Pharold and his
companion returned, however, she sprung away to the rest of her tribe
with a step as light as the moonshine on the sea.

"She is very beautiful," said the stranger, whose eye had rested on
her for a moment; "who is she, Pharold?"

"She is my wife!" replied the gipsy, abruptly.

His companion shook his head with a sigh, and putting his foot in the
stirrup, mounted his horse, and rode away.




                             CHAPTER III.


While such events as have just been described were passing in the
wood, the two travellers whom we first brought before the reader, and
to whom we must now return, rode on; but begging leave to pass over
all their farther journey, as it did not consist of more than half a
mile, we may bring them safe to the gate of the very house, whose
lights and shadows they had seen from the slope above the village.

By this time it was as dark as could well be desired. It was not
exactly Egyptian darkness, for there was nothing in it that could be
_felt_, but the sun was gone entirely; and the last fringe of his
golden robe had swept the sky some time. The moon was not yet up, so
that the stars had the sky all to themselves; but though they were
shining as brightly as they did many a thousand years ago, when they
were first sent glittering into the depths of space, they did very
little to show the travellers their way.

Edward de Vaux, indeed, had taken it into his head to go to the back
entrance of his aunt's house. But the truth is, he had worked himself
up, as he came along, into a belief that there might be some fuss made
upon his return, and had conjured up before his imagination everything
that might or could possibly occur, in which there was the least smack
of ridicule; although all the time he knew perfectly well that his
companion was of too generous and feeling a disposition even to dream
that anything was ridiculous which sprung from the heart. He well
knew, also, that those he was about to meet were by education, and
habit, and natural character, the last persons in the world to do or
say anything that was not graceful and _bienséant_. But still, as his
imagination was not the most tractable imagination in the world, but
roved hither and thither, whether he liked it or not, on all
occasions, he could not get the better of her in the present instance;
and therefore, in order that everything in the way of reception might
pass as quietly and as quickly as possible, he rode up to the gate of
the back court, and after feeling about for the bell for some time, he
rang for admittance.

After a little delay, a coachman with a powdered wig, and three rows
of curls round his ears, opened the gates with a lantern in his hand,
and demanded what the strangers wanted; but without other reply, De
Vaux rode into the yard with his companion, and springing to the
ground, exposed his well-known face to the glare of the lantern and
the wondering eyes of old Joseph, the immemorial coachman, who,
bursting forth into a loud exclamation, called vehemently to the
groom, and the helper, and the stable-boy. "The oaken doors returned a
brazen sound!" and not only those that the old curly-wigged official
of the hammercloth called to his aid appeared with ready promptitude,
but eke a footman emerged from the passage of the servants'-hall, and
two or three pippin-faced housemaids were seen "peeping from forth the
alleys green" beyond.

Thus, as usual, De Vaux's precaution in regard to not making a bustle
had, in fact, the very contrary effect in the house itself. But this
was not all: his method of proceeding had the very contrary effect
with his companion, also, to that which he had purposed. Colonel
Manners certainly did think, in the first instance, that such an
entrance was a somewhat strange one for the house he saw before him;
and when he found that it was in truth the stable-yard into which he
had been taken, he thought the conduct of his friend still stranger.
But by this time Charles Manners had known Edward de Vaux too long not
to have some slight insight into his character and into the weaknesses
thereof; and as they had ridden along together upon that day's
journey, various little traits, which might have escaped any but a
very keen and a very friendly eye, had given him the key of his
friend's feelings on his return--a key which he did not fail to apply
on the present occasion. The result was, that he soon comprehended the
general motives of De Vaux, though perhaps not all the little ins and
outs of the business--ins and outs, by-the-way, which depended as much
upon the plan and architecture of the house, and upon the fact of the
first landing of the grand staircase leading at once into the little
ante-room of the drawing-room, so that the voice and step of any one
ascending could be recognised instantly, as upon anything else in the
world.

A slight smile curled Colonel Manners's lip as he perceived what had
been passing in his friend's mind; but he would not have had that
smile seen for any recompense that could have been offered to him,
unless it had been that of curing his friend of a folly. But he knew
very well that De Vaux was not a man to be laughed out of anything on
earth; and that, with all his sensibility to ridicule, it was only so
long as the sneer was silent and suppressed that he cared anything
about it. The moment that the laugh was open, his pride took arms to
defend the position which he occupied, and every one knows that pride
would always rather blow up the place than capitulate.

Colonel Manners did, indeed, wish that his friend could be taught,
with the same sort of bold determination which he displayed in
opposing the loud laugh, to despise the silent sneer, which is as
often excited in the minds of the worldlings by traits of a good and
noble nature as by folly or by awkwardness: but he knew that the only
lessons he would receive upon the subject would be gentle ones, spoken
by the voice of friendship, without a touch of sarcasm.

"It is a pity, a great pity," thought he, "that De Vaux, who affects
to, and perhaps really does, despise the opinion of the general fool,
should thus, as it were, make himself a slave to the laugh of his own
fancy. I hope and trust that his fair future bride may have influence
enough to school him from these weaknesses."

Such was all his comment; and by the time it was made their horses
were in safe hands, and a footman, as antique as the coachman, was
leading the way up the back stairs towards the drawing-room.

De Vaux was somewhat uneasy at the back stairs, and at a distant
prospect of the kitchen, and the servants' hall, and the housekeeper's
room; but Manners, though he saw it all, appeared to see nothing,
rubbed his boot with his riding-whip, and talked of North America
with all the zeal and volubility of a Mohawk. His companion was
relieved; and following the fat legs and white stockings of the old
footman up the narrow staircase, they were soon in a small lobby which
led into the drawing-room. Soft Turkey carpets covered the floor of
the lobby; against each of the piers stood a small antique table of
tortoise-shell and brass; and in the deep recesses of the windows were
placed those immense and beautiful china jars which formed the glory
of our great-grandmothers. These again were filled with a composition
of all the sweet-scented leaves gathered from the garden during the
past year; and which, mingled with orris-root and many a fragrant
spice, diffused through the whole air a rich perfume of the eighteenth
century.

But there was music upon the air of this bower as well as perfume. It
was the music, however, of a sweet, low-toned woman's voice, speaking
some sentences of which nothing could be distinguished but the melody.
Nevertheless, it made the fitful colour come up for a moment in the
cheek of Edward de Vaux; and whether his heart beat more quickly, or
whether it maintained its even pulse, is a problem which we shall
leave others to solve; for, the next moment, the door was thrown open,
and the visiters all silently and unannounced entered the room.

It was a large handsome chamber, fitted up as unlike a modern
drawing-room as possible. There was nothing in it of the last
fashion, even of that day; but all was comfortable, and all bespoke
both taste and affluence. On the walls were a few cabinet pictures,
which at first appeared dark and dingy, but which, when any one
looked farther, turned out gems; and on the rich and massive marble
mantel-piece--which was itself nearly equal in size, and quite equal
in value, to a house in a modern square--were placed pagodas, and
feather fans, and screens, and many a little curiosity from different
parts of the world--bracelets that might have clasped the arm of
Cleopatra, and idols that had been acquainted with Captain Cook. The
room, like every clever room, had a great number of tables of all
sorts and sizes; and at two of these tables, not with hospitable cares
intent, but very busy with that sort of idleness which ladies call
work, sat two fair dames, who, in point of age, might divide between
them the apportioned years of man. The division of those seventy
years, however, was very unequal, as the one nearest the door had
monopolized at least forty-six of them to herself, and had left
her daughter--for such was the other lady--not much more than
twenty-three. They were both very handsome women nevertheless; the
mother feeling her years as light as a young king's crown, and the
daughter, in addition to a very beautiful person, and a face where all
that is fine was softened by all that is pleasing, having the advantage
of youth and all youth's graces. There was one peculiarity in her
countenance, which, as it had something to do with her mind, may
as well be noticed. It was one of those faces which love not
clouds--which smile where others frown; and as she sat with her eyes
bent upon a provoking knot in her work, which for the last ten minutes
had defied all her efforts to disentangle it, she was still
half-laughing at the perversity of the silk, which seemed to take a
pleasure in baffling her.

There was a third person in the drawing-room, younger than either, and
very different from both. As she lay upon a sofa at the other side of
the room, with a book in her hand, and her eyes bent upon the pages,
the light of the lamp falling at the same time from above upon her
clear fair forehead, on her beautiful eyelids with their long dark
eyelashes, and on the marble white chiselling of her nose and upper
lip, she did not appear to be more than eighteen; but her real age,
which we are bound to give, was twenty years, eleven months, and a few
days, the exact number of which is forgotten. Her form was light and
beautiful, and though those who did not love her might contend that
she was certainly not equal to the Medicean Venus, yet she was a great
deal more graceful than many another goddess, and as fair a specimen
of the fairest of earth's creatures as the eye of man has ever seen
since Eve's ill-fated experiment in Eden.

Her hair was of that glossy golden brown, which is so beautiful and so
seldom seen; and as the whole party had given up the expectation of
their visiters for that night, she had turned back the shining curls
which would have fallen into her eyes while reading; so that, with a
wavy line on either side, they left her fair forehead bare, and formed
a bunch of ringlets behind each ear, that might have defied the chisel
of a Chantry.

As the door which admitted De Vaux and his companion was that which
led to the back staircase, the party in the drawing-room concluded,
naturally enough, that it was opened by one of the domestics on some
of the many motives or pretexts upon which a servant can visit the
drawing-room. No one took any notice, no one looked up; and the fair
girl upon the sofa went on commenting upon the book in her hand,
without knowing that any one was listening to her gentle criticism.

Thus each of the two visiters had time to make their own observations,
if they chose it. A bright pleased smile lighted up the rough features
of Colonel Manners, as he was thus at once admitted, without the help
of an Asmodeous into the very heart of an English domestic circle, to
each member of which he was a stranger. To him it was a sight full of
pleasure and interest; it was a sight that he had seldom seen even
when in England, and which he had not seen at all for several years
while serving abroad: but it was one which fancy had often renewed for
him in his solitary wanderings, which had been painted to his eye in
the still night, and in the tented field on distant shores, which had
been to him a dream, whereunto imagination could cling without the
apprehension of disappointment; for he had ever thought of it as a
thing whereof he might be the spectator, but never a sharer in its
dearer ties.

As for Edward de Vaux, he _did not_ choose to make any observations on
the scene at all, for more fastidious in anticipation than in reality,
the moment he was in the midst of his domestic circle a host of bright
warm feelings rose up at once in his heart, and trampled every cold
calculation of Chesterfieldism beneath their feet. Passing the old
servant, who was himself amused to see the unconsciousness of the
party in the drawing-room, De Vaux at once advanced towards the fair
girl on the sofa. But there was a sound in his step different from
that of any of the servants, which only let him pass half across the
room ere her eyes were raised from the book and fell upon him. The
sight instantly called into them a gleam as bright as sunshine after a
storm, and the warm, eloquent blood rose into her cheek and brow,
while with a voice of unquestionable icy, she exclaimed, "Edward! My
dear aunt, here is Edward!"

The next moment, however, the light of her glance faded away, the
blood ebbed back from her cheek, and from that moment it was scarcely
perceivable that Edward de Vaux was anything more to her than an
intimate friend. It was all the work of an instant, and Colonel
Manners had only time to think, "This is all very odd!" ere the other
two ladies rose to welcome his companion and himself; while the one
who had spoken, gracefully but composedly drew her small foot from the
sofa to the ground, and advanced to meet her lover; contriving to
execute what is sometimes a difficult man[oe]uvre, without showing
half an inch of her ankle, though it might very well have borne the
display.

The elder lady now of course took the lead, and expressed her joy at
the return of her nephew, in a manner which showed how compatible real
dignity and grace are with every zealous and kindly feeling. "And
this," she said the next moment, "is of course Colonel Manners; though
you have not introduced him to me, Edward; but Colonel Manners indeed
requires no introduction here; for allow me to say, my dear sir, that
even were it not that you had saved the life of my nephew, and
rendered him so many inestimable services, the son of your mother, who
was my dear and early friend, would always be the most welcome of
guests at my fire-side."

Colonel Manners bowed, and replied, "I have been lucky enough to find
among my mother's papers, madam, the letters of the Honourable Mrs.
Falkland; and am aware how fortunate in a friend my parent was during
the greater part of her short life. Most proud shall I be if the son
may merit some portion of the same regard which you bestowed upon the
mother."

"You already command it, Colonel Manners," she replied:
"Isadore,--Marian--Colonel Manners! My daughter--my niece, Miss De
Vaux."

Now this introduction puzzled Colonel Manners a good deal, for reasons
which may as well be explained. He had heard long before, while
abroad, that his friend Edward de Vaux, the only son of Lord Dewry,
was affianced to his cousin, and that their marriage was to take place
as soon as the young heir of the barony could return to his native
country, provided that the lady were by that time of age. In the
course of their intimacy in other lands, De Vaux had often spoken of
his fair cousin Marian, and had indeed on their return besought
Colonel Manners to accompany him down to the house of his aunt, in
order to act the part of bridesman at his wedding, which was to take
place immediately. With this request we have seen that he complied;
but he had completely made up his mind to the belief that his friend
was about to be united to the daughter of Mrs. Falkland, and he was
now surprised to find a Miss De Vaux, towards whom the manner of
Edward de Vaux was not exactly that which men assume towards their
sisters. Besides, her name was Marian, that of his promised bride; and
although this discovery, leaping over the head of all his own
preconceptions, puzzled Colonel Manners for a moment, he soon set it
all to rights in his own mind, by supposing, what was in fact the
truth, that the fair girl we have described was the daughter of Lord
Dewry's brother.

All the while he was settling this to his own satisfaction, he was
going through the manual of politeness, and doing De Vaux the favour
of talking to Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, while the lover spoke in
a lower tone to the other fair cousin. Whatever he said, however,
seemed to have no very great effect upon her. She smiled, and seemed
to answer him kindly and affectionately; but she displayed no further
sign of that agitation which a girl in her situation might be expected
to feel on the return of her lover from a long and dangerous
expedition. Once, indeed, she laid her hand upon the table near her,
and Colonel Manners saw that, notwithstanding the general composure
which she seemed to feel, that hand trembled so much, that, as if
conscious its tremour might be perceived, she instantly withdrew it,
and suffered her arm to fall gracefully by her side.

Manners marked all this, for from their first acquaintance De Vaux had
interested him, as much perhaps by the contrast of the little foibles
of his character with the greater and nobler qualities it possessed,
as by any other circumstance: he had gradually suffered a deep regard
for him to rise up in his heart; he had permitted imagination to
indulge herself with bright pictures of his friend's domestic
happiness; and in every little trait connected therewith he had a sort
of personal feeling, which made him seek to discover all that he
wished might be.

After standing booted and spurred in the middle of the room for about
ten minutes, and having learned that their servants had arrived with
their baggage early in the morning of the same day, the two gentlemen
retired to cast off their travelling costume, and attire themselves in
apparel more suited to the drawing-room. Colonel Manners proceeded to
the task systematically; and although he knew that nothing on earth
could ever make him handsome, yet he took every reasonable pains with
his dress, and was soon ready to descend again, with that neat, clean,
soldier-like appearance for which he was particularly distinguished.
De Vaux acted differently, as may well be supposed, and giving his man
the keys of the trunk-mails, he cast himself on a chair; and, with his
arms leaning on the dressing-table, remained for full ten minutes in
deep and somewhat melancholy thought, while the servant continued to
torment him every other minute, with--"Sir, do you want this?" or,
"Sir, shall I do that?"

Into his private thoughts we shall not at present pry, although we
consider that we have a right to do so whenever the necessities of the
tale may demand it; but in this instance it is only requisite to give
the ending reflection of his revery, which may serve as a key to all
the rest. "How cold Manners must have thought her reception of me! and
yet her own lips, which never from her infancy spoke any thing but
truth, have given me the assurance of her love. Well, we cannot change
people's nature!--and yet she was very different as a child!"

Such were the last dying words of his meditation and then, starting
up, he proceeded hastily to dress himself, addressing the servant with
as much impatience as if the man had been dreaming instead of himself.
"There, give me that coat," he exclaimed. "Set down the dressing-case
here. Put those shoes on the other side of the table; and throw the
stockings over the back of the chair. How slow you are, William! Here
now, pull off these great boots, and then go and see that old Joseph
does not poison the horses with any of his nostrums." These various
commands the man obeyed with as much promptitude as possible; and
after he was gone, De Vaux proceeded to dress himself with all the
haste of one who is afraid of being detected in loitering away his
time. He was half-way through the operation, and was just arranging
his hair, when Manners, whose rooms were on the opposite side of the
corridor, rejoined him; and they descended together, without having
made any comment on the subject which was certainly next to the heart
of Edward de Vaux. He felt that in common delicacy he could not begin
it, though he would have given worlds, by any curious process of
distillation, to have extracted Colonel Manners's first impression of
her he loved; and Manners was resolved to see more and judge more
clearly, ere he ventured even the common nothings which are usually
said upon such occasions.

In the meanwhile, the ladies in the drawing-room had not, of course,
refrained from comment on the appearance and arrival of their
visiters. As the first object of all their affections was Edward de
Vaux, his appearance and health naturally occupied several moments ere
anything else was thought of.

"How very well he looks!" said Mrs. Falkland; "his health seems
greatly improved."

"I never saw him look so handsome," said Isadore Falkland, "though he
was wrapped in that horrid great coat."

Marian de Vaux said nothing, but she repaid her cousin for her praises
of her lover's looks by a smile as bright as an angel's, which
fluttered away in a warm blush, though it had nearly been drowned in
some sparkling drops that rose into her eyes. So she turned away, and
began playing with the seals on the writing-table.

"I am delighted that Edward has prevailed on Colonel Manners to come
down with him," said Mrs. Falkland; "for I have longed to see him on
his mother's account."

"And I, because he saved Edward's life," said Marian de Vaux.

"And I am delighted too," said Isadore Falkland, "because he seems a
very agreeable gentlemanly man, though certainly a very ugly one--I
think as ugly a man as I ever saw."

"His face is certainly not handsome," replied her mother; "but his
figure seems remarkably fine. His mother was as beautiful a woman as
ever lived; and I have heard that till he was twenty he was equally
good looking."

"Poor fellow!" cried Isadore; "he has been very unfortunate, then; for
it is better to be born ugly than to become so afterward."

"I did not think him ugly at all," said Marian de Vaux.

"That was because you only saw the man that saved Edward's life,"
replied Isadore, laughing; "but he is not beautiful, I can assure you,
Marian."

"Happy are they, my dear Isadore," replied her mother, "who can 'see
Othello's visage in his mind;' and I do not think you, my dear girl,
are one either, to value any one for their personal appearance."

"No, no, no, mamma! I am not," answered Miss Falkland; "but still,
some sensible old gentleman has said that a good countenance is
the best letter of recommendation; and now, had it not been that you
had known Colonel Manners's mother, or that he had saved Edward's
life--yet, notwithstanding--" she added, breaking off her sentence
abruptly--"after all, perhaps, his face is just the one from which we
should expect a man to save people's lives, and do a great many brave
and noble things."

"I think so, certainly," answered Mrs. Falkland. "However ugly it may
be, I have seldom seen a face through which a fine mind shone out so
distinctly."

Such was the tenour of the conversation that went on in the
drawing-room till the two gentlemen returned, and by their presence
took themselves out of the range of topics. Other subjects were soon
started, and filled the hours till supper-time. Edward de Vaux
naturally took the place he loved best; and what passed between him
and his fair cousin was not always loud enough in its tone, or general
enough in its nature, to be very distinct to the rest of the party, or
very interesting to the reader. Manners, who knew as well as any one
how to effect a diversion in favour of a friend, placed himself near
the other ladies, and displayed such stores of varied information as
well occupied their attention. Those stores were somewhat desultory,
perhaps, but they were gained from every source. Man, and all the fine
and all the amusing traits of his character; countries, and all their
beauties and their disadvantages; the history of other times, the
varied events of the present; matters of taste and of science, the
light wit of a playful imagination, and the choice knowledge procured
by very extensive reading; all seemed to come within the scope of his
mind. All too, had been refined and ornamented by judgment and good
feeling, and his conversation had still the peculiar charm of
appearing far less profound than it really was. It was all light, and
playful, and gay; and yet, on rising from it, one felt improved and
instructed, without well knowing how or in what. His memory, too, was
excellent, and stored with a number of little anecdotes and beautiful
scraps of poetry; and, without ever seeming to intrude them, he knew
how to mingle them in the general current of what was passing, with
tact almost as skilful as that of the greatest writer and most amiable
man that centuries have witnessed upon earth--Sir Walter Scott.

So extensive, indeed, seemed to have been the reading of their new
acquaintance, that Mrs. Falkland wondered thereat in silence; while
Isadore, well knowing that there is scarcely any question on the face
of the earth that a young and pretty woman may not ask of a man under
forty with perfect _bienséance_ and propriety, looked up with a smile,
and said--"Pray tell me, Colonel Manners, where you have found time,
while you have been defeating the king's enemies night and day, to
read everything of every kind that is worth reading."

"Oh, madam," he replied, "I am afraid I have read but little as
compared with what I might have done. A soldier's life is the most
favourable of all others for general reading; though, perhaps, not for
pursuing steadily any particular study. He is for a few days full of
active employment, and then for many more has hardly anything to do;
and if he gives one half of his spare time to reading, he will, I
believe, read more than many a philosopher. The only difficulty is in
procuring books that are worth the trouble of poring over."

In such conversation passed the hours till supper; for those were days
of supper,--that most pleasant and sociable of all ways of acquiring
the nightmare. When the meal was announced, it of course caused some
derangement in the local position of the parties; and Edward de Vaux
being brought for a moment nearer to his aunt than his other
occupations had hitherto permitted, she took the opportunity of
saying,--"I hope, Edward, your father will not be at all offended at
your coming here first. He is sometimes a little _ombrageux_, you
know; and I would advise you to ride over tomorrow as early as
possible."

"Oh! no fear of his being offended, my dear aunt," he replied. "In the
first place, he wrote to give me that assurance. In the next place, as
we chose to ride our own two best horses down, rather than trust them
to two break-neck grooms, we could not have gone seventeen miles
farther to-night: and in the last place," he added, in a lower tone,
"you know that his lordship never likes visiters to take him by
surprise; and as the invitation to Manners was yours, not his, of
course I could not have brought him to the hall without writing, which
I had no time to do. There is nothing he hates so much as any one
taking him by surprise."

Almost as he spoke, the old servant Peter, who had retired after
announcing supper, once more threw the door open with a portentous
swing, and proclaimed, in a loud voice, "Lord Dewry!" Something like a
smile glanced upon Mrs. Falkland's lip, as the sudden and unexpected
arrival of her brother contrasted somewhat strangely with what her
nephew had just been saying. She paused in her progress to the
supper-room, however; and, in a moment after, with a slow step, which
was languid without being feeble, Lord Dewry entered the ante-room,
and came forward towards them.

While he is in the act of doing so, let us paint him to the reader--at
least, as far as the outward man is concerned. Of the inward man more
must be said hereafter. He was tall--perhaps six feet high, or very
near it--and well made, though not excessively thin. His frame was
broad, and had been very powerful; his shoulders wide, his chest
expansive, and his waist remarkably small. In feature, too, it could
be still discerned that he had once been a very handsome man; but his
face was now thin and sharp, and his complexion extremely sallow. His
eyes, however, were still fine, and his teeth of a dazzling whiteness.
He might have numbered sixty years, but he looked somewhat older,
although he had taken a good deal of pains with his dress, and lay
under considerable obligations to his valet-de-chambre. The first
impression produced on the mind of a stranger by the appearance of
Lord Dewry was imposing but not pleasing; and, unfortunately, the
unpleasant effect did not wear off. He looked very much the peer and
the man of consequence, but there was a gloomy cloud upon his brow
which was not melancholy, and a curl of the lip which was not a smile,
and both prepared the mind of all who approached him, for not the most
agreeable man in the world. His general expression, too, was cold, he
had a look like the easterly wind, at once chilling and piercing; and
though report said that he had been a very fascinating man in his
youth, and had not always made the best use of his powers of pleasing,
he did not seem at present to consider it at all necessary to use any
effort to render himself agreeable, farther than the common forms of
society and what was due to his own station required.

"Well, my lord," said Mrs. Falkland, as he came forward, "I am happy
to see you come to welcome our wanderer back again."

As she spoke, Edward advanced to his father, who grasped his hand
eagerly, while a smile of unfeigned pleasure for a single instant
spread a finer expression over the worn features of the baron.
"Welcome back, Edward!" he said; "welcome back! you look remarkably
well! I have to apologize, Maria," he added, turning to his sister
after this brief salutation bestowed upon his son, "I have to
apologize for coming thus, without notice; but I have some business
to-morrow, down at the park-house, of which I knew nothing till this
morning; and I also wished to see Edward, whose devoirs here," and he
turned towards Marian, "I knew must first be paid, according to all
the rules of gallantry. How are you, my fair niece? You look a little
pale. How are you, Isadore?" And the peer, without waiting to hear how
any one was, cast his eyes upon the ground, and fixing upon a spot in
the carpet, seemed calculating geometrically the precise measurement
of all its strange angles.

"We were just going to supper, my lord," said Mrs. Falkland; "will you
come with us? But first let me introduce you to Colonel Manners." Lord
Dewry acknowledged the introduction by a cold bow, while Manners said
some words of course; and the question of supper being renewed, the
nobleman agreed to go down with the party to the table, though he
bestowed a word or two of heavy censure on the meal they were about to
take.

"It is, nevertheless," said Colonel Manners, "from its very hour, the
most sociable one of the whole day; for by this time, in general, all
the cares, and annoyances, and labours of the busy daylight are over;
and, as is justly observed--I forget where--'nothing remains for us
but enjoyment and repose.'"

"Eating and sleep!" muttered Lord Dewry; "the delights of a hog and a
squirrel;" but as what he said did not seem intended to be heard,
Colonel Manners made no reply, though he did hear it; and the party
seated themselves round the supper-table, in walking towards which
these few sentences had passed. For some time the presence of the peer
seemed destined to cast a gloom over the society in which he had so
suddenly appeared. His manner even here, in the midst of his nearest
relations, and by the side of his newly-returned son, was cold, stern,
and gloomy, only broken by some flash of cynical scorn for things that
other people valued, or by some biting sneer at the follies and
weaknesses of his fellow-creatures.

To his niece Marian de Vaux, however, his conduct was very different.
At table he placed himself by her side; made an evident effort to
render himself agreeable to her; and whenever he spoke to her softened
his tone, and endeavoured to call up a smile. Such was his conduct on
the present evening; but it maybe necessary also to stretch our view
over the past, for his behaviour to his niece had always formed a
strange contrast to his conduct towards others. The first effect of
her presence, when he had not seen her for some time, was almost
always to throw him into a fit of deep gloom; and those who watched
him narrowly might have remarked his lip move, as if he were speaking
to himself, though no sound was heard. From this fit of abstraction he
generally roused himself soon, but it was evidently at the cost of
great efforts; and then he would speak to his niece with a degree of
tenderness which bordered on timidity, and treat her with attention
approaching to gallantry. Any one who saw him in conversation with her
might easily conceive him to have been the fascinating and courtly man
that report had represented him in his younger days; and there was a
kindness and gentleness in his whole demeanour towards her, which,
together with the family name that she bore, had often caused her to
be taken for his daughter. Nevertheless, even across the moments when
he seemed exerting himself to please her, would break occasionally the
same fits of gloom, called up by apparently the least calculated to
produce any such effect. They were then always brief, however; and a
seemed that the original exertion to conquer the dark feelings which
the first sight of his niece appeared to arouse, was sufficient to
hold all the rest in check.

It was only to her, however, that he was thus gentle. Her presence
made no difference in his conduct towards others; and the moment his
attention or his speech was called from the conversation with his
niece, he seemed to become a different being,--dark, stern, and
overbearing.

Such a demeanour, of course, was not calculated to promote any thing
like cheerful conversation; and the atmosphere of his gloom would have
affected all those by whom he was surrounded, and extinguished every
thing like pleasure for that night, had it not been for the
counteracting influence of Colonel Manners. He, without the slightest
touch of obtrusiveness or self-conceit, by a just estimation of
himself and others, was always in possession of his own powers of
mind; and never suffered the presence of any other individual--unless,
indeed, it was that of one whom he could at once admire and love--to
give a tone to his behaviour, to restrain him in what he chose to say,
or to frighten him from what he chose to do.

He took the tone of his conversation from his own heart, and from its
feelings at the time; and, guarded by fine sensibilities, good taste,
knowledge of the world, and a refined education, there was not the
slightest fear that he would ever give pain to any one whose
approbation he valued. Of all this he was himself well aware; and,
after a few moments given to something like wonder at the character of
Lord Dewry, he proceeded in the same manner as if such a person had
not been in existence.

Isadore Falkland, as soon as she found that such powerful support was
prepared for her, boldly resisted the influence of her uncle's
presence also. Mrs. Falkland, whose naturally strong mind was not
unfitted to cope with her brother, held on the even tenour of her way;
and Edward de Vaux joining in, the conversation soon became once more
general and cheerful. It had taken another turn, however; and the
subject had become the mutual adventures of Colonel Manners and Edward
de Vaux, in the war which was then raging between France and England
in North America. Many was the wild enterprise, many the curious
particular, that they had to speak of; "hair's breadth escapes and
perils imminent"--scenes and persons quite fresh and strange to
Europeans; a new world, and all that a new world contained, with a
system of warfare totally different from any thing that had ever been
seen on the older continents. At that time, neither a barbarous policy
nor a criminal negligence had produced any of those lamentable results
which are rapidly exterminating the Indian nations of America: but, at
the same time, a most barbarous policy had--instead of endeavouring to
civilize and soften the dusky natives of the woods, the real lords of
the land--had engaged them, with all their fierce and horrid modes of
warfare, in the contention between the two great bands of European
robbers, who were struggling for the country that really belonged to
the savage. Of these Indian nations, and of their wild habits, both
Manners and De Vaux spoke at large; and many a strange scene had they
witnessed together among the uncultivated woods and untamed people of
the transatlantic world.

Often, too, Manners, with kind and friendly zeal, would make Edward de
Vaux the hero of his tale; and while he related, as if he were
speaking of ordinary events, some gallant exploit or some noble
action, would suffer his eye to glance for a single instant,
unperceived, to the countenance of Marian de Vaux; it was generally
calm and tranquil--beautiful, but still; yet occasionally, when the
moment of danger or of interest came, and when Edward extricated
himself gallantly from some difficult or dangerous situation, there
was a bright light beamed up in her eyes, a long-drawn breath, and a
flickering colour, which satisfied Manners that all was well.

Nevertheless, Manners could not, of course, speak of his friend's
adventures without a little delicate man[oe]uvring, in order to make
the tale appear more a general than a personal one; nor could he
continue the subject long. Often, therefore, he returned to the
Indians, and often to the state of America in general, while Mrs.
Falkland and her daughter gave him, by manifold questions and
observations, full opportunity of varying the subject _ad libitum_.
They sought to know, among other facts, what link of connection could
possibly have sprung up between the Indians and the Europeans so
strong as to make the savage nations have any feeling of regard or
interest towards either of the countries which only struggled to
monopolize the means of plundering and destroying them.

"Oh, you must not think, my dear madam," answered Colonel Manners,
"that all persons who visit America are actuated by one selfish
motive, or pursue one system of fraud and oppression towards the
Indians. On the contrary, there are many who go over there with the
philanthropic motive of civilizing and benefiting the savage tribes
themselves; and who, in the endeavour to effect this object, display a
degree of wisdom, perseverance, judgment, and courage, that is quite
astonishing. Nor are these qualities without the most immense effect
upon the wild aborigines of the land, who look up to such men almost
as they would to a god. De Vaux and I know a very remarkable instance
of the kind, in one of the most noble-spirited and excellent of human
beings, to whom we are both under no small obligations. He nursed me
through a long and severe fever, when my senses were quite gone; and
afterward enabled me, by his influence with the Indians, to render
your nephew some small service--which, however, was entirely
attributable to his exertions."

"Nay, nay, Manners," replied De Vaux; "to yours as much as his, and
more; for had you not ventured, at the head of a party of Indians, two
hundred miles into a hostile country, not a step of which you knew--"

"Well, well, De Vaux," answered his friend, "you must own that he went
with me, though he did not know you, and I did. You must not take away
from the merit of my hero, for such I intend to make him in these
ladies' eyes. I know not, however, how you will like a hero of sixty,
Miss Falkland; but such, I must confess, he is at least. He has now
lived for many years, upon the very borders of civilization, or rather
beyond it, for his house is surrounded by forests and Indian wigwams.
He has never taken any part in the contentions of the tribes, and
seems equally venerated by all, showering good and blessings upon the
heads of every one who approaches him. He is deeply versed in the laws
and the manners of the natives, too; and, though a finished and
elegant scholar and gentleman, conforms when necessary, to their
usages, in a manner that is at once amusing and admirable. He is, at
the same time, the most skilful and indefatigable hunter that the
world, perhaps, ever produced,--an accomplishment which renders him
still more venerable in the eyes of the Indians, who, on account of
all these qualities, have named him 'The White Father.'"[2]


---------------------

[Footnote 2: We need hardly point out to the reader, that though the
name Has been changed, the character of a well-known individual is not
here overdrawn.]

---------------------


"Delightful creature!" exclaimed Miss Falkland, with her beautiful
eyes sparkling like diamonds; "but tell me, Colonel Manners, tell me,
what is he like? Mamma, if you have no objection, I will go out and
marry him."

"None in the world, my love!" answered Mrs. Falkland; "but, perhaps,
it may be better, first, to send over and ask whether he will marry
you."

"That he will of course," answered she: "but, Colonel Manners, you
have not told me what he is like--in person I mean."

"Oh, he is fresh and hale as a life of exercise and a heart at rest
can make him," replied Manners. "Indeed, he is as handsome a man as
ever I saw."

"Oh, that will do exactly!" cried Miss Falkland, laughing. Colonel
Manners smiled too; but there was a tinge of melancholy in his smile;
for, however much he might have made up his mind to the fact, that
personal beauty is an indispensable requisite to obtain woman's love,
yet every little trait which served to confirm that opinion touched a
gloomy chord in his bosom, which again called forth the tone of many a
harmonizing feeling, and made somewhat sad music within.

"And pray, Colonel Manners," said Lord Dewry, with the cold, if not
supercilious tone which he generally employed, "what may be the name
of the wonderful person who does all these wonderful things?"

"The name, my lord," replied Colonel Manners coolly, "the name of the
gentleman who went two hundred miles into the Indian country to save
your son, Captain de Vaux from the tomahawk, without ever having seen
him, is one known throughout the greater part of America,--Sir William
Ryder."

Lord Dewry turned suddenly still paler than he was before; and then as
red as fire. Whether it was that some feelings had been excited by
that name with which he did not choose to trust his lips, or whether
his emotion proceeded from temporary illness, did not appear; but he
replied nothing; and Colonel Manners, by whom the peer's agitation had
not been totally unmarked, went on. "If I remember right," he said, "I
heard Sir William Ryder ask after your lordship's health from De Vaux,
and say that he had known you many years ago in England."

"I once knew, sir," replied Lord Dewry, drawing himself up, "I once
knew an unworthy blackguard of that name, who is now I believe, in
America; but he has no right to claim acquaintance with me."

De Vaux looked at his father with astonishment, and then turned his
eyes towards Manners, as if to pray him patience; but his friend was
perfectly calm, and replied:--"Your lordship must allude to some
different person, as the description does not at all correspond with
him of whom I speak."

"No, no, sir," answered the baron, reddening, "I speak of the same
person,--there can be no doubt of it,--a gambling beggar!"

"If you do speak of the same person, Lord Dewry," replied Colonel
Manners, quite calmly, "I must beg of you to remember, that you speak
of my friend; and in the presence of one who does not like to hear his
friend's character assailed."

"Indeed, sir, indeed!" exclaimed Lord Dewry, rising; "do you kindly
wish to dictate to me, in my sister's house, what I am to say of a
person, who it seems, has formed an unfortunate intimacy with my own
son; and is, as I said, a gambling beggar?"

Manners paused a moment. He and De Vaux were alike under deep
obligations to the man of whom Lord Dewry spoke; and he felt that the
language used by the peer was not only a gross personal insult to both
of them, but especially to himself, who had been the means of
introducing him to his companion, and who had the moment before
bestowed such high and unqualified praise on the very person whom he
now heard reviled. He remembered Lord Dewry's age and situation,
however, and his own particular position, and endeavoured to moderate
his reply as much as possible; though to pass the matter over in
silence, or to leave the charges of the peer without direct
contradiction, he felt to be impossible, as an officer, a man of
honour, or the friend of Sir William Ryder.

"Your personal opinion, my lord," he answered, "you may, of course,
express to your own son, or your own family whenever you like,
provided it be not injurious to any friend of mine. In which last case
I shall, as before, beg your lordship to refrain in my presence, for I
am not a man to hear a friend calumniated in silence."

"Calumniated, sir! calumniated!" exclaimed Lord Dewry.

"Yes, sir, such was the word I made use of," replied Colonel Manners,
"because the expressions you applied to Sir William Ryder were
calumnious, if applied to my friend, whom a long life of noble actions
raises above suspicion; but I trust and believe we are speaking of
different persons."

"'Tis well, sir; 'tis very well!" replied Lord Dewry, appearing to
grow somewhat cooler; "'tis extremely well!--I trust it is as you say.
Give me a glass of soda-water. Maria, I shall now retire to rest;
I am somewhat fatigued: my apartments are, I think, opposite the
drawing-room. Good-night!--Colonel Manners, I wish you good-night!"
And, bowing with low and bitter courtesy, he left the room.

Colonel Manners, whatever might be his feelings, and whatever might be
his intentions, took no notice of what had passed after Lord Dewry
left the room, although he could not but feel that he had been
insulted by a man whose age protected him; but both Mrs. Falkland and
De Vaux spoke upon the subject, after a moment's painful pause. The
first apologized with dignified mildness for the occurrence, and
assuring her visiter that something strange and extraordinary must
have irritated her brother during the course of the day, or that he
would not so far have forgot his usual _bienséance_; and the latter
pressed his friend with kindly earnestness to forget what had
occurred, and not to suffer it to affect his conduct, or abridge his
stay.

Colonel Manners smiled, and suffered himself to be overcome: "You
know, De Vaux, that I am not one to be driven from my position by the
first fire," he said; "and as I suppose that Lord Dewry and myself
will not meet very frequently after the present time, we shall have
but few opportunities of being as agreeable to each other as we have
been to-night."

Thus ended the conversation, and soon after the party separated, each
grieving not a little that the harmony of the evening had been so
unfortunately interrupted, when there was no reason to expect such an
event.




                             CHAPTER IV.


The mind of man is a curious thing, in some respects not at all unlike
an old Gothic castle, full of turnings and windings, long dark
passages, spiral staircases, and secret corners. Among all these
architectural involutions, too, the ideas go wandering about,
generally very much at random, often get astray, often go into a wrong
room and fancy it their own; and often, too, it happens that, when one
of them is tripping along quite quietly, thinking that all is right,
open flies a door; out comes another, and turns the first back
again--sometimes rudely, blowing her candle out, and leaving her in
the dark,--and sometimes taking her delicately by the tips of the
fingers, and leading her to the very spot whence she set out at first.

Colonel Manners, retiring to his bedchamber, though he seldom, if
ever, indulged in reveries of happiness which were never to be
realized, could not help sitting down to think over the events
of the evening, and the circle to which he had been introduced.
In the first place, he took great care to turn the idea of Lord Dewry
and his rudeness out of the castle, being a great economizer of
pleasant thoughts; and then, with somewhat of a sigh (the sort of
semi-singultus which people give to something irremediable in their
own fate, while contemplating the state of another), he thought, "De
Vaux is a very happy man! and yet," he continued, "though she is very
beautiful, too, and evidently has deeper feelings beneath that calm
exterior, yet, had I had to choose between the two cousins, I would
have fixed upon the other." As he thus went on thinking, Colonel
Manners began to remember that his thoughts might be treading upon
dangerous ground: he did not know even that they might not be drawn
into an ambuscade of dreams and wishes which he had long, as he
fancied, defeated for ever; and, therefore, he hastily beat the
general, and marched the whole detachment off to join his own
regiment. What we mean is, that he turned his mind to military
affairs, and would very fain have thought no more either of Mrs.
Falkland's domestic circle, or of the future happiness of his friend;
or, at least, he would have schooled himself, if he did think of such
things at all, not to extract any personal feelings therefrom, but to
let them be to him as matters in which he had no further share than as
in a passing pageant of a pretty device, through which he was to move
as he would have done through a minuet, forgetting it all as soon as
the music ceased. Still, however, as he went on thinking, open flew
some of the doors of association, and ever and anon out started some
fresh idea, which brought him back to the happiness of his friend, and
the delight of seeing a family circle of one's own, and looks of
affection, and a joyful welcome after toil, and exertion, and danger
were over.

As sleep, however, is a strong fortress against the attack of
dangerous thoughts, he resolved to take refuge there from a force that
was too powerful for him; and, going to bed, he was soon within the
gates of slumber. But fancy turned traitor within his fortress, and,
ere long, whole troops of dreams poured in, laying his heart prostrate
before imaginations which he had repelled with veteran courage for
more than fourteen years. There was, of course, no resisting under
such circumstances: the garrison threw down their arms, and he went on
dreaming of love and domestic happiness all night. It did him no harm,
however, for one of the most curious phenomena which take place in
regard to those wild visitants, dreams, occurred in this case. The
visions that had come to him had all been as vivid as reality: he had
felt more and more acutely than he had, perhaps, ever felt in life;
there had been pleasures and pains, intense and varying; events and
feelings which, had they occurred in waking existence, he would have
remembered till the last hour of his life; and yet, when he awoke, he
had forgotten the whole. It was as if some after-sleep, with a sponge
dipped in Lethe, had passed by, and wiped out from the tablet of
memory all but a few rough scratches, sufficient to show the dreams
had been there.

The day was yet young when he awoke; but Manners was habitually an
early riser--a habit that generally springs from two causes--vigorous
health, a frame without languor, and easily refreshed; or from a
refined heart, at ease within itself. When he had prayed--for all
noble-minded beings pray; and the only truly great pride is the pride
with which one owns one's self the servant of God: it is the soldier
pointing to the colours under which he serves--when he had prayed, he
dressed himself, somewhat slowly, gazing from time to time out of the
window over the rich landscape sparkling with dew and morning; and
then, opening his door, went out with the purpose of breathing the
fresh air of the early day. The windows at either end of the corridor
were still closed, for it had scarcely struck six, but the skylight
over the staircase gave light enough; and Colonel Manners, descending,
found a housemaid, with unbought roses on her cheeks, and blue arms,
busily washing the marble hall and the steps that went out into the
garden, which, stretching away to the south-west, was separated from
the park in which the house stood, by a haw-haw and a light fence.

Give me a flower-garden, in the early morning, with its dry
gravel-walks shining in the fresh sunbeams, and all the thousands of
flowers which man's care and God's bounty have raised to beautify our
dwellings, expanding their refreshed petals to the young light. The
garden into which Colonel Manners now went forth was an old-fashioned
one, with manifold beds, arranged in as many mathematical figures.
Each bed, fringed with its close-cut green border of box, was full of
as many flowers as it would hold, and as the season afforded; and
though of late many a foreign land has been ransacked to procure new
exotics for our grounds, yet even then the garden was not without its
rich assortment of flowering shrubs; some still bearing the blossom,
some fallen into the fruit. Between the beds--and, as the gardens were
of very great extent, the beds were not very close together--were
spaces of soft green turf, sometimes flanked with holly, or hedged
with yew, so as to make a sort of little bowling-green; sometimes wide
open to the gay sunshine, and full of innumerable thrushes and
blackbirds, hopping along, with their fine shanks sunk amid the blades
of grass. Here and there, too, was an arbour covered with clematis;
and hothouses and green-houses now and then peeped out from behind the
shrubberies, on the sunny side of the garden.

Colonel Manners took his way along a walk that flanked the enclosure
to the east, and which, running by the side of the haw-haw, a little
elevated above the park and surrounding country, gave, on the one
side, an extensive prospect over a rich and smiling landscape, with
the deer bounding over the grass, and the cattle lowing along the
distant upland; and, on the other, showed the garden--somewhat formal,
perhaps, but neat, and beautiful, and sparkling. He was a soldier, and
a man of the world, and he loved books, and he did not dislike
society; but, perhaps, there never was a man upon earth who more
thoroughly enjoyed a solitary morning walk amid flowers and beautiful
scenery--scenery in which one can pause and fill one's eye with fair
sights, while the ideas springing from each particular blossom, or
from the whole general view, can ramble out into a world of indistinct
loveliness, wherein one can scarcely be said to think, but rather to
live in a sensation of happiness which approaches near to heaven.

Although, as we have observed, one can scarcely be said to think, yet
there is no situation on the earth--or very few--in which a man so
little likes to have his thoughts interrupted, and his fine
imaginations forcibly called back to the dull ground. Colonel Manners,
therefore, was not very well pleased, when, after following the walk
which he had chosen to the end, he heard footsteps beyond the bushes,
round which the path now swept.

Had these footsteps, indeed, possessed that light peculiar sound which
is produced by a small and pretty foot, Colonel Manners, who never
objected to see the beautiful things of nature enhanced by the
presence of the most beautiful, might not have thought his reveries
unworthily disturbed. In the present instance, however, the sound was
very different: it was the dull, heavy, determined step of a foot that
takes a firm hold of the ground; and, as he went on, he was not
surprised to meet with Lord Dewry at the turning of the walk.

Colonel Manners, if he had not forgot all about their discussion of
the preceding evening, had remembered it as little as possible; and,
being one of those happy men who never suffer any annoyance of such a
nature to rankle at the heart, he had settled the matter in his own
mind by thinking that the old gentleman had the toothache, or
some of those corporal pangs and infirmities which cause and excuse
ill-temper, and sometimes even rudeness, at that period of life when
the passing away of those mighty blessings, vigour and health, is in
itself matter enough for irritation. As, however, he never liked to
subject himself to occasions for commanding his temper, he proposed,
in the present instance, merely to give the peer "Good-morning," and
pass on upon his walk.

This purpose he was not permitted to execute; as no sooner did Lord
Dewry come opposite to him, than he stopped abruptly, and answered
Colonel Manners's salutation by a cold and haughty bow. "Colonel
Manners," he said, "I saw you come into the garden from the windows of
my room, and I have done myself the honour of seeking you."

The peer spoke slowly and calmly; but Manners, who doubted not that
his intention was to apologize, was both somewhat surprised that so
proud a man should do so at all, and likewise somewhat puzzled by a
sneering curl of the nostril and a slight twinkling of the eyelid,
which seemed to betray a spirit not quite so tranquil as his tone
would have indicated. "Your lordship does me honour," he replied;
"what are your commands?"

"Simply as follows, Colonel Manners," replied Lord Dewry: "I think you
last night made use of the term _calumny_, as applied to part of my
discourse; and as I am not in the habit of being insulted without
taking measures to redress myself, I have followed you hither for the
purpose of arranging the necessary result."

Colonel Manners felt inclined to smile, but he refrained, and replied,
seriously, "My lord, I wish to heaven you would forget this business.
You thought fit to apply the strongest terms of injury to a gentleman
for whom I had expressed my friendship and gratitude; and I pronounced
such terms to be calumnious in regard to my friend, but expressed, at
the same time, my belief that we were speaking of different persons.
For Heaven's sake, let the matter rest where it does: I meant no
personal insult to you; I trust you meant none to me. I came down here
the friend of your son, on a joyful occasion, and it would pain me not
a little to go away the enemy of his father."

The lip of Lord Dewry curled with a bitter and galling sneer. "Colonel
Manners," he said, "I believe that you wear a sword."

"I do, sir," replied Manners, reddening; "but I should be unworthy to
wear one, did I draw it against a man old enough to be my father."

Lord Dewry, too, reddened. "If, as I perceive, sir," he said, "you
intend to make my age your protection, I trust you have calculated the
consequences to your reputation, and will understand the light in
which I view you. When I am willing, sir, to waive all respect of age,
I do not see what you have to do with it."

"Much, my lord," answered Colonel Manners; "much have my own
conscience and my own honour to do with it."

"Do not let an officer who is refusing to fight talk of honour, sir,"
replied Lord Dewry.

"You cannot provoke me to forget myself, Lord Dewry," answered the
other; "I hold all duelling in abhorrence, and as any thing but a
proof of courage but when the encounter is to be between a young and
active man, and one of your lordship's age and probable habits, it is
murder outright. Your lordship will excuse me for saying that I think
the business a very foolish one, and that I must insist upon its being
dropped."

"I shall drop it as far as regards the endeavour to make a man fight
who is not disposed to do so," replied Lord Dewry, with an angry and
disappointed, rather than a contemptuous, smile, for which he intended
it to be; "but, as a matter of course, I shall make generally known
the fact that you have refused to draw your sword when called upon."

Colonel Manners laughed. "My lord," he answered, "I have drawn it in
eleven different battles in his majesty's service; I have been wounded
nine times, and I am quite satisfied with a certain degree of
reputation obtained in these affairs, without seeking to increase it
by the encounter to which your lordship would provoke me."

Lord Dewry stood and gazed at him for a moment or two with a heavy
lowering brow, as if contemplating how he might lash his adversary to
the course he sought to bring him to pursue; but the calm and
confident courage and cool determination of Colonel Manners foiled him
even in his own thoughts; and, after glaring at him thus while one
might count twenty, he exclaimed, "You shall repent it, sir! you shall
repent it!"

"I do not think it, my lord," replied Manners: "I wish you
good-morning;" and he turned calmly on his heel, retreading, with slow
steps, the path he had followed from the house.

In the mean time, the pace of Lord Dewry was much more rapid; but for
a moment we must pause ourselves, and seize this opportunity of
looking into his bosom, and seeing some of the motives which, like
Cyclops in the cave of Vulcan, were busy forging all those hot
thunderbolts that he was dealing about so liberally--_some_, we only
say some; for were we to look at all, we should have a catalogue too
long for recapitulation here. The fact, then, was, that Lord Dewry had
been greatly irritated on the previous day, by a conversation of not
the most pleasant kind, concerning the very Sir William Ryder of whom
he was destined to hear such high praises the moment he set his foot
within his sister's doors. Now, for various reasons, unto himself best
known, the noble lord hated this Sir William Ryder with a most
reverent and solicitous hatred, and would willingly have given a
thousand pounds to any one who would have brought him proof positive
that he was dead and safely deposited in that earthy chancery, the
archives of which, though they contain many a treasured secret, can
never meet the searching eye of this inquisitive world. What, then,
were his feelings, when he heard that this very man, in regard to whom
his darkest passions had been stirred up that very day, and towards
whom he had nourished an evergreen animosity for many years--when he
heard that, through the instrumentality of Colonel Manners, this man
had been made intimate with his only son!

This, then, was Manners's offence; but had it been likely to end
there, Lord Dewry might even have forgiven it. Such, however, was not
the case: Lord Dewry had some reason to believe that the object of his
hatred might visit England; and imagination instantly set up before
him the picture of his son, Colonel Manners, and Sir William Ryder
meeting, and discussing many things that would be better let alone.
Now he trusted and believed that, as far as his ancient enemy was
concerned, he could manage his son, and cause him to break off a
connection which had not been of long duration; but at the same time
he judged it necessary to place a barrier between him and Colonel
Manners himself, so as to cut off every link of communication between
Edward de Vaux and Sir William Ryder; and for this purpose he at once
determined to quarrel with his son's friend; which, in his own
irritable and irritated state of mind, he found it not at all
difficult to accomplish. On the preceding night he had begun,
therefore, with real good-will; and as he was a man totally devoid of
any thing like personal fear, and remembered that he had once been a
remarkably good swordsman, while he forgot that he was sixty, he was
really pleased when Manners made use of a term which promised to give
him an opportunity of bringing their dispute to such an issue as must
absolutely put an end to the intimacy between his son and Colonel
Manners forever. "Even should I receive a wound," he thought, "so much
the better;" and, strange as it is to say, had Lord Dewry even
contemplated being killed in the encounter he sought, he would have
looked upon it with less apprehension than might be supposed, when
thereunto was attached the certainty of his son being separated for
ever from Charles Manners and from Sir William Ryder; so much less
terrible does it often appear to our contradictory nature to meet the
eye of God than to encounter the scrutiny of beings like ourselves.

Frustrated by the coolness and firmness of his opponent in the grand
object of his morning's walk, he now turned towards the house,
animated with a strong desire of accomplishing his purpose by other
means. The peer now determined, as it was impossible to make Colonel
Manners the aggressor, to induce his own family to take the
initiative, and break with the object of his dislike or of his
apprehension--for perhaps there might be a little of both at the
bottom of his heart; and, with a resolution which was the more
imperious and domineering from having seldom suffered contradiction,
he sought the apartment of his son.

Edward de Vaux was just up, and was in the act of putting on, one
after another, the different parts of his apparel. As this act of
clothing one's person, however much pleasure people may take in it
habitually, is in itself a laborious and troublesome operation, De
Vaux's servant was helping him therein; but the appearance of Lord
Dewry, and a hint not to be mistaken, sent the man out of the room,
while the noble lord betook him to a chair; and his son, seeing that
there was not a little thunder in the dark cloud upon his father's
brow, sat, expectant and half-dressed, wondering what was to come
next.

"Edward," said his father, in a tone which was intended at once to
express parental affection, some slight touch of sadness, and firm
relying confidence upon his son's good feelings, but which, in truth,
did not succeed in expressing much except a great deal of irritation
and heat--"Edward, I have come to speak with you upon last night's
unfortunate business, and to give you, in a few words, my opinion upon
the subject, in order that you may choose your part at once."

Edward de Vaux, who knew his father well--though he knew not all his
motives in the present instance--prepared himself to resist; for he
divined, almost immediately from the beginning of Lord Dewry's
discourse, what would be the end; being well aware, though he did not
choose to put it exactly in such terms to his own heart, that a
certain combination of vanity, pride, selfishness, and remorselessness
in the bosom of his worthy parent, made him the exact person to resent
highly even a slight offence, and to treasure long hatred for a casual
word. But Edward de Vaux knew also that he himself stood in a position
towards his father different from that in which any other person
stood: he knew that the ties of nature, long habit, and irreproachable
conduct rendered him the only real object of Lord Dewry's love--the
only being who possessed any influence over a mind which never through
life, in any other case than his own, had yielded to either persuasion
or opposition. He himself, however, had found from experience, that he
could resist with success when the ground of resistance was such as
satisfied his own heart; and he now, therefore, prepared to practise,
upon an occasion of more importance, a behaviour he had sometimes
displayed in regard to trifles. He was aware, at the same time, from
his soldierly habits, that it was advantageous sometimes to be the
attacking party; and when his father paused, a little out of breath
with climbing the stairs faster than necessary, and with speaking more
vehemently than was becoming, he instantly replied, "Oh, my lord, if
you mean the business with Manners, do not think of it any more!
Manners is extremely good-humoured, and will forget it at once, I am
sure. No further apology is necessary."

"Apology, sir!" exclaimed Lord Dewry; "what do you mean? I have made
no apology!"

"No, my lord," replied De Vaux; "but, considering that Manners was my
friend, that he saved my life at the risk of his own, that he came
down here at my invitation, and that he was a guest in my aunt's
house, I thought it necessary to apologize for the manner in which my
father had treated him, saying that I was sure you were irritated by
some other cause;" and adding--"I felt sure you would--that you would
be sorry for having expressed yourself so bitterly, when you reflected
upon the circumstances."

"You did, sir!" said Lord Dewry, "you did!--then I have only to tell
you that you said what was not the case;" De Vaux reddened; "that you
took a great and unwarrantable liberty with my name," continued Lord
Dewry, whose passion had quite overcome every restraint; "and that,
had you considered your father as much as this new friend, you would
have seen that _I_ was the insulted person--that _I_ had a right to
demand apology, and you would have broken off all connection with a
person who would show so little respect to your parent; and this,
sir,--this is what I command you now to do, or to take the
consequences of your disobedience."

"My lord," answered De Vaux, cooling himself down as far as
possible,--"my lord, as you must already have seen, we view the matter
in a very different light. It grieves me bitterly that we should
disagree so severely on the very day after my return; but if you wish
me to break off my acquaintance with Colonel Manners, because you have
thought fit to treat him with some rudeness, I must tell you, at once,
such an idea could never be entertained by me for a moment. As to the
consequences which your lordship speaks of, I am at a loss to conceive
what you mean. A disagreement with your lordship is--"

"The consequences, Captain De Vaux," interrupted his father, with a
small red spot glowing in the middle of his sallow cheek--"the
consequences may be more bitter than you think. You believe that the
estates of the barony, being entailed, must descend to you; but let me
tell you, young man--let me tell you," he repeated, approaching nearer
to his son, and lowering his voice in tone, but not in emphasis,--"let
me tell you, you could be deprived of them by a word. But no more of
that," he added, raising his head, and resuming his usual air of
dignity, which had been a good deal lost during that morning, "no more
of that; the consequences to which I alluded, and to which I now
allude, are the displeasure of your father, and the knowledge that you
remain the friend of a man who has insulted him."

"Could I see, my dear sir," replied De Vaux, "that Manners had insulted
you--"

"It is sufficient, sir, that I see it," interrupted his father,
hastily, "it is sufficient that I see it; and I hold myself aggrieved
that my son should see it otherwise. But do as you will, Edward de
Vaux--do as you will. If you are lost to a sense of filial duty, and
refuse to obey my positive injunction to break with this man, you may
act as you think fit."

"I shall never, my lord, even dream of breaking with him," replied De
Vaux; "as it appears to me, that to do so would render me an
accomplice in an act of notable injustice."

"You are dutiful, sir--you are respectful," said Lord Dewry, setting
his teeth hard; "but do as you please--do as you please: I wish you
good-morning;" and, turning on his heel, he quitted the apartment.

"This is mighty disagreeable," thought De Vaux, as he rang the bell to
bring back his servant; "this is mighty disagreeable and mighty
absurd, it seems to me; but the worst part of all will be the meeting
at breakfast. However, all these things must be encountered as they
come, in this good pleasant world of ours;" and he returned to his
toilet.

In the mean time the noble lord, his father, proceeded to his own
apartments, laid his hand upon the bell, and rang in such a manner as
to show that he was in a passion, not only to his own servant, but to
the whole house. His own servant, however, a thin, dark, saturnine
person, well calculated by constitutional frigidity to cope with an
irritable master, was not in the least alarmed by any sign of his
lord's angry mood, to which he was wont to oppose, on all occasions, a
dull, obtuse silence, that left him without any remedy but patience.
He accordingly proceeded slowly to Lord Dewry's apartment; received
the objurgation for his tardiness with profound and unmoved
taciturnity; listened to his lordship's orders to pack up all his
dressing things, and order the horses to the carriage directly, in the
same automatonical manner, and then went to take his breakfast, not at
all approving of his master's purpose of setting out without
refreshment. Lord Dewry, fondly fancying that he had gone to order the
horses to be put to, waited in his bedroom very patiently for five
minutes, then began to get angry during five minutes more, and then
rang the bell for at least the same space of time. At the end of that
period the man again made his appearance, and, with a face of dull
unconsciousness, asked if his lordship had rung, although he had heard
every succeeding stroke of the bell.

Lord Dewry stamped with rage; but, finding that it had no effect, he
left the man alone to arrange his dressing things, while, for the
purpose of waiting till the carriage was ready, he went down to the
library, calculating, of course, upon its being, as usual, the most
solitary room in the whole house. If he expected to find it empty,
however, he was mistaken: for Mrs. Falkland was seated at the table,
writing a note; and, as there was no person, in or out of his own
family, for whom his lordship entertained so great a respect--which
would have been a little, perhaps, approaching to fear, if he could
have feared any thing--there was no one consequently whom he less
wished to meet, at a moment when he was acting in a manner which
needed the full excitement of passion and pride to appear, even in his
own opinion, either dignified or gentlemanly. He was drawing back, but
Mrs. Falkland raised her eyes; and his lordship, conscious that he had
been wishing to retreat, advanced, of course, with a greater degree of
boldness, and asked whether he interrupted her by his presence.

"Not in the least--not in the least," replied Mrs. Falkland; "but you
seem prepared for travelling, my lord. You are not thinking of setting
out before breakfast?"

"Most assuredly I shall, Maria," replied the peer. "You do not suppose
that I am going to subject myself to the pain of meeting again, in
your house, a person by whom I have been so grossly insulted as this
Colonel Manners?"

"Whom you have so grossly insulted, I suppose, your lordship means,"
replied Mrs. Falkland. "My lord, I am your sister, and consequently am
not disposed to see faults; but I tell you sincerely, that you equally
owe an apology to me and to Colonel Manners for your behaviour last
night. The one to myself I will, of course, dispense with; but, if you
do right, you will go to Colonel Manners, and tell him that something
had occurred in the course of yesterday to irritate and vex you, and
that you are extremely sorry that your irritation vented itself upon
him." Mrs. Falkland spoke with infinite calmness; and, when she had
done, wrote another sentence of her note, leaving her brother the
while to pause on the somewhat bitter matter of her discourse.

His lordship employed the time in remembering that it was a lady and
his sister to whom he was opposed, and in subduing the wrath of his
heart into the quieter form of sneer; although he still continued to
gaze on her, while she wrote, with eyes in which his anger still
maintained its ground, like a solitary post left behind a retreating
army.

"Do you know, Mrs. Falkland," he replied, with a curling lip, "in such
pleasant little discussions as these, we gentlemen have hardly fair
play when opposed to female antagonists; for, under shelter of your
sex, you women dare say things to us that it would be ungentlemanly to
retort, and which are very difficult to bear."

"Truth, my lord, I am afraid, is often difficult to bear," replied
Mrs. Falkland; "and perhaps, on such occasions, you may hear it in a
more unqualified manner from a woman than from one of your own sex."

"As the matter is a difference of opinion, Maria, between you and me,"
said Lord Dewry, "it is rather like begging the question to assume
that it is truth that gives me offence. You have forgot your logic, my
good sister."

"If I ever possessed any, my lord," rejoined Mrs. Falkland, "I
certainly should not be disposed to try it upon you, in order to
induce you either to make an apology, which is alike due to yourself
and to Colonel Manners, or to stay here without making it."

"I understand you, my dear sister, I understand you!" exclaimed Lord
Dewry; "but do not be in a hurry. My carriage is ordered, and cannot
be many minutes ere it delivers you from my presence. In the mean
time, I will not interrupt you further.--Good-morning, Mrs. Falkland!"

"Good-morning," she replied; and her brother walked towards the door.
As he laid his hand upon the lock, he turned for a single glance at
his sister; but Mrs. Falkland was writing on, with a rapid and easy
pen, in the clear and running movements of which there was evidently
not the slightest impediment from one extraneous thought in reference
to the conversation which had just passed between them. Anger, hatred,
malice, even active scorn itself, man can bear or retort; but utter
indifference is more galling still. So Lord Dewry found it; and
throwing open the door with a degree of force that made sundry of
the smaller articles of furniture dance about the room, he issued
forth in search of his carriage, with wounded pride and diminished
self-importance.

Gliding gracefully down the corridor towards the breakfast-room was,
at that very moment, Marian de Vaux, his niece; and the sight of her
beautiful face and form, with its calm and easy movements, was well
calculated to tranquillize and sooth. But Lord Dewry had never been
famous for being easily soothed. Dr. Johnson is said to have liked a
"good hater;" and had he carried the predilection a little further,
the peer was just the man to merit that sort of approbation. He was
not only a good hater, but he was, and always had been, the man of all
others to nourish his anger, and render it both stout and permanent.
Now, during the early part of the preceding evening, before he found
"mettle more attractive" in his quarrel with Colonel Manners, the
noble lord had, as he always did, paid very great attention to Marian
de Vaux. He had sat by her, he had talked to her, he had exerted
himself to be agreeable to her, when it was very evident that he was
not much disposed to be agreeable to any one. But now, as Marian
approached, gave her hand, and wished him good-morning, he let her
hand drop as soon as he had taken it, and answered her salutation by
telling her he was in haste.

Somewhat surprised at the cloud upon her uncle's brow, his flashing
eye, and abrupt manner, Marian drew back, in order to let him pass,
and Lord Dewry took two steps more along the passage. Then
recollecting himself, however, and remembering how strange his conduct
might appear, he turned, and made the whole seem stranger than ever,
as all people do when, with a heart very full of feelings which they
are afraid or ashamed to picture in their nakedness, they attempt to
explain the strange behaviour to which those feelings have prompted
them.

"I am obliged to quit the house, Marian," he said, in a quick and
agitated manner; "disagreeable occurrences have taken place, which
compel me, in justice to myself, to withdraw: the whole business is an
unfortunate one, and I am afraid it may be some time before we meet
again; but I will write--I will write, and explain myself fully.
Good-by! I hear the carriage!" And with a rapid step he walked on,
leaving Marian de Vaux not a little confounded by all that had passed,
and entirely misconstruing the few abrupt and unsatisfactory sentences
which her uncle had pronounced.

She heard his step sound along the passage, down the stairs, and
through the hall; listened to his voice giving some directions to his
servant, and then to the closing of the carriage-door, and the grating
roll of the wheels over the gravel before the house. Then mentally
exclaiming, "This is all very strange, and very unfortunate!" she went
on towards the breakfast-room, into which a servant had just carried
the urn, without closing the door behind him. The sound of her cousin
Isadore's voice, speaking gayly with Colonel Manners, issued forth as
she approached; but Marian de Vaux was agitated and alarmed; and
feeling that she must have time to think over her uncle's words, and
to compose her mind, ere she mingled with any society, she turned to
the music-room, and had entered it before she was aware that any one
was there.




                              CHAPTER V.


It was a beautiful idea of Plato, and not at all an unchristian idea,
that the sins which people have committed during life, and which in
this case were termed _manes_, had an existence after death, and were
the instruments for punishing those who had committed them--the worm
that dieth not, and the fire that cannot be quenched. But had Plato
seen into the bosom of Lord Dewry, he would have perceived that his
theory might be carried a little further; and that the sins and
passions do not wait till we are dead in order to torment their
authors, but punish them even in this world, not alone in their
consequences, but by their very existence. After having laboured
_manibus pedibusque_ to render every member of his sister's household
as uncomfortable as possible, the noble lord sunk back in his
carriage, with his frame exhausted and his whole heart on fire
with that flaming up of painful memories and violent passions
which the occurrences we have related had excited. Unfortunately,
however, it happens in the wonderful arrangement of this our earthly
dwelling-place, that here our evil qualities not only torment
ourselves, but others also; and the noble lord might have consoled
himself with the certainty that he had, for the time at least,
destroyed much tranquillity, and turned joy into bitterness.

Of all who suffered on the occasion, Marian de Vaux perhaps suffered
most. Mrs. Falkland, for her part, had been very much offended, but
she respected her brother too little to permit his ill temper or
rudeness to produce any lasting effect upon her. Edward de Vaux
believed that his father's present mood would not be long ere it
yielded to circumstances; and Colonel Manners, though of course
considerably annoyed by what had taken place between Lord Dewry and
himself, was not aware of what had passed afterward; and consequently
did not enter, as he would otherwise have done most feelingly, into
the uncomforts of Mrs. Falkland and his friend De Vaux. But with
Marian the matter was different. She knew nothing of all the
occurrences of the morning: she had seen her uncle retire on the
preceding night, apparently dropping his dispute with Colonel Manners;
and she never, for a moment, connected his extraordinary conduct of
that day with the disagreement of the preceding evening.

In almost all cases of apprehension and uncertainty, the human mind
has a natural tendency to connect the occurrence of the moment,
whatever it may be, with the principal object of our wishes and our
feelings at the time. It matters not whether the two things be as
distinct and distant as the sun is from the moon; association in an
instant spins a thousand gossamer threads between them, forming a
glistening sort of spider-like bridge, scarcely discernible to other
people's eyes, but fully strong enough for fancy to run backwards and
forwards upon for ever.

Thus, then, was it with poor Marian de Vaux. It had been settled that
her marriage with her cousin was to take place on the day she became
of age--that is to say, in about three weeks. Now, whether she was
pleased with the arrangement or not, we do not at all intend to say;
but she had made up her mind to it completely; and the first thing
that Lord Dewry's broken sentences suggested to her mind was, that
some difficulty had occurred in regard to her union with Edward, and
that his father had withdrawn the consent he had been before so
willing to give.

When Lord Dewry left her, she was as pale as death; and though before
she reached the breakfast-room the colour had come back into her
cheek, yet all her former ideas were so completely scattered to the
four winds of heaven, that she felt it would be absolutely necessary
to think what her own conduct, under such circumstances, ought to be,
before she met any of the party; and especially before she met her
cousin Edward, as towards him, of course, the regulation of her
behaviour was most important. She turned, then, as we have before
said, to the music-room, and entering it ere she perceived that any
one was in it, found herself there alone with no other than Edward de
Vaux.

Whether he had gone there purposely or accidentally--from a habit
which some people have, of returning to take a look at places where
they have spent happy moments, or from a sort of presentiment that he
might find Marian there, we have no means of judging; but on her part
the meeting certainly was unexpected, and being such, it would hardly
be fair to look narrowly into her manner of receiving her lover's
first salutation, which salutation was sufficiently warm.

As soon as she recollected herself, however, she turned at once to the
subject of her thoughts. "But, Edward," she said, "this is a most
unfortunate occurrence--in regard to your father, I mean."

"Most unfortunate, indeed!" replied De Vaux, looking grave
immediately.

"But tell me what it is all about, Edward," rejoined his cousin. "I do
not understand your father's conduct. Do explain it to me!"

"I do not understand it either, my dear Marian," answered De Vaux;
"his conduct is quite inexplicable."

The tears would fain have run away over Marian de Vaux's cheeks; but
she shut the gates in time, and only one straggler made its escape
into the court of her eyes, unable to get farther. Her cousin did not
see one-half of what was going on in the fair tabernacle of her bosom;
but he saw that she was much distressed, and endeavoured to sooth her
with the same assurances wherewith he made his own mind easy in regard
to his father's conduct. "Nay, nay, dearest Marian!" he said, "do not
distress yourself about this business, unfortunate as it is. The
principal part of my father's present heat in the affair will pass
away, for a great share is mere passion. I cannot however flatter
myself into believing that his dislike will ever entirely subside,
because, as you know, he is not a man who changes easily in such
matters; but all his violence and his threatenings will die away and
end in nothing."

Marian, who had now recovered from her first emotion, paused, and
looked pensively upon the ground; but while her bosom seemed as calm
as monumental marble, there was a sad struggle going on within.
"Edward!" said she, at length, "we cannot tell what may be your
father's ultimate conduct; but, indeed, I think, that while his
present objection--or, as you call it, dislike--continues, we ought
certainly to delay our marriage."

"Good God, Marian!" exclaimed Edward de Vaux, in utter astonishment:
"in the name of heaven, my beloved, what has my father's dislike to
Colonel Manners to do with our union?"

"His dislike to Colonel Manners!" said Marian, blushing a good deal as
she began to perceive her mistake, and comprehended at a glance that
the clearing up of the matter might make an _exposé_ of her inmost
thoughts that for reasons of her own she did not desire. "His dislike
to Colonel Manners! Oh, is that all! His words and conduct towards me
just now, made me think that his dislike was to me, Edward, and to our
union."

"And did the thought give you so much pain, Marian?" said De Vaux,
somewhat anxiously.

But Marian de Vaux had by this time completely mastered her agitation,
and she answered in her usual quiet sweet tone: "Of course it gave me
great pain, Edward, to think that I had lost my uncle's regard, and
great pain to think that the consequences might pain you. But tell me,
was it really nothing more than his dispute with Colonel Manners which
made your father's conduct so very strange?"

"Nothing more, I can assure you," answered her lover; "but you know
that my father, when he bursts forth into one of these fits of
passion, is like Don Quixote at the puppet-show, and deals his blows
to the right and left upon all things, whether they have offended him
or not."

"Hush, hush, Edward!" cried Marian, "he is your father, remember."

De Vaux coloured slightly, and indeed he had not got to the end of his
speech ere he had found that he had better have left it unsaid; for,
notwithstanding his general fastidiousness, and a certain degree of
bitter that mingled with his views of other people, he had too much
taste to find any pleasure in pointing out the faults or follies of
his near relations. He might feel them a little too sensitively, it is
true; but he seldom made them the subject of his conversation; and he
was now vexed, both that he had done so at all, and that Marian had
been the person to whom he had done it.

Thus, Edward de Vaux was a little out of humour with himself, and, as
a matter of course, he soon found cause to be dissatisfied with
others; for the human mind--to which nothing is so burdensome as
self-reproach of any kind--is always glad to cast a part of its load
upon the shoulders of other people. The first thing, then, that, upon
reflecting rapidly over the moments just passed, Edward de Vaux found
to be discontented with, was the manner in which Marian had spoken of
delaying their union; and once having started this idea, he hunted it
up and down through all the chambers and passages of his mind, like a
boy after a mouse. "Their marriage seemed to her a matter of great
indifference," he thought; and then he went onto persuade himself that
her love for him was of a very calm and tranquil character compared
with his for her. Indeed, it seemed little more than indifference, he
fancied, or at best _sisterly affection_; and at the very thought of
such a thing as _sisterly affection_, the spirit of Edward de Vaux
sprang up as if a serpent had crossed his path, although his person
remained perfectly calm, with his arm resting on the harpsichord, and
his fingers twisting some of the strings of the harp. One of the
strings breaking, with a sharp twang, called the spirit suddenly back
again; and he found himself standing abstractedly before his fair
cousin; while she looked upon him with a smile, which seemed to say,
"I could triumph, if I would! but it is not in my nature."

Now, Edward de Vaux, though he read the smile, and read it aright,
which is not always done in that difficult language of which it was
one of the hieroglyphics, was all the more puzzled when he had done.
But the fact is, that women's eyes, in matters of love, seem to be not
eyes but microscopes; and Marian had traced the whole fine progress of
Edward's thoughts and feelings, through every turning and winding, as
accurately as if he had laid them all open before her with his own
free will. Then, connecting the result with some foregone conclusions
in her own mind, the combination produced a smile, being, as we before
said, the equivalent sign, in the language mentioned, of the words, "I
could triumph, if I would! but it is not in my nature." There was,
however, a little mental reservation, perhaps, in regard to the
triumph, inasmuch as she reserved unto herself entire right and
privilege of triumphing hereafter, in case she should find it
necessary and expedient to do so.

The time occupied in reading the smile, together with the beauty of
the smile itself, and the exceeding loveliness of the lips on which it
rested, all tended to get the better of the demon in the heart of De
Vaux, and to make him feel, that as he loved her beyond anything on
earth, he must try to content himself with obtaining her upon her own
terms. Having come to this conclusion, it was natural enough that he
should seek to linger out the time with her alone; but Marian felt
that if she did stay at that moment, she might be obliged to triumph
in the way she wished not to do, or to explain her smile without
triumphing at all, which was still more disagreeable. She therefore
determined to retreat to the breakfast-room, in which she was sure of
finding allies; and which--as her apprehensions in regard to Lord
Dewry's disapprobation, and the consequent emotion, had now been
dissipated--she was no longer afraid of entering.

De Vaux would fain have detained her, pleading that he had had no
opportunity of conversing with her alone since his return, and urging
all those little arguments which we leave to imagination. Marian,
however, resisted with fortitude; and her lover, forced to content
himself with a promise to take a long ramble with him after breakfast,
as they had done in the days of their early youth, led her to the
breakfast-room, where they found the rest of the party assembled, and
conversing with as much ease and cheerfulness as if nothing had
occurred to disturb the tranquillity of the morning.

"Well, Edward," said Mrs. Falkland, "your father would not stay
longer; and I forbore to press him," she added, with a little
pardonable hypocrisy, "as I know that he has a good deal of business
on his hands; and when he is determined on any point, it is vain to
try to move him." As she spoke, she looked for an instant towards
Colonel Manners, to give more meaning to her words in her nephew's
ears than the words themselves imported.

"I saw my father myself, my dear aunt," replied De Vaux: "he was with
me in my room for half an hour, and explained the necessity of his
departure."

Colonel Manners could have smiled; but he thought it best to follow
the lead that had been given, and to appear ignorant of anything else
having taken place, though, of course, he felt internally convinced
that his unfortunate dispute with De Vaux's father had been the cause
of that nobleman's sudden and abrupt departure. "I think your father
mentioned last night," he said, in pursuance of this plan, "that he
was going to Dimden, did he not, De Vaux? Does it belong to your
family?"

"It always has done so," replied his friend: "it is here, very
near--but a few miles off; but it is not kept up as I think it should
be. My father always resides at the other house; and seems to have so
strong an aversion to Dimden, that, not contented with not living
there, he lets it fall somewhat to decay."

"I must make you take me there some morning," answered Colonel
Manners; "I have heard that it contains a fine collection of
pictures."

"Fine, I believe, but small," answered De Vaux, delighted to fancy
that his friend had totally forgotten the dispute of the night before,
and was ignorant of any fresh discomfort which had been produced by
that morning; "fine, I believe, but small--but I do not understand
anything about pictures."

"Nay, nay, Edward, do not say that," exclaimed Miss Falkland. "Do you
not love everything that is beautiful and fine in nature? have you not
an eye to mark every shade and every line that is worth looking at in
a landscape? and do you call that not understanding pictures? I have
seen you and Marian find out a thousand beautiful little tints and
touches, and lights and shades, in a view that I had generalized most
vulgarly."

Colonel Manners and Mrs. Falkland smiled; and perhaps both might have
said, had they spoken their thoughts, "It was because your two cousins
were in love, fair lady, and you were not!" They left the matter
unexplained, however, contenting themselves with thinking that Isadore
might, some time, learn the secret of finding out new beauties in a
view; and De Vaux answered in his own style, "Still, Isadore, I know
nothing about pictures, depend upon it. I cannot talk of _breadth_,
and _handling_ and _chiar' oscuro_, and _juice_, and _ordonnance_."

"Except when you mean a park of artillery, De Vaux," said Colonel
Manners; "but, if I understand you rightly, you can see and feel the
beauties of a picture as well as any one, though you cannot talk the
jargon of a connoisseur about it."

"Perhaps that is what I do mean," answered his friend; "but I believe
the truth is, Manners, that you and I are both far behind in the
elegant charlatanism of dilettanteship. Why, I have heard a man go on
by the hour with the _copia fandi_ of a Cicero about a picture, the
beauties of which he no more understood than the frame in which it was
placed. These men's minds are like a yard measure, a thing on which a
multitude of figures are written down, without the slightest use till
they are properly applied by some one else. When I am seeing anything
fine, heaven deliver me from the proximity of a walking dictionary of
technical terms!"

"They are very useful things in their way, Edward," answered Isadore;
"and only think, if these men can be so eloquent about things that
they do not feel, solely upon the strength of their jargon, how much
more eloquent you, who do feel them, would be, if you had the jargon
too."

She spoke jestingly; but De Vaux, whose spleen had been somewhat
excited, answered quickly, "I do not know, Isadore--I do not know. I
very often think that a great acquaintance with the jargon of art
tends to destroy the feeling for it. I have heard of a great critic,
who, on viewing the Apollo of Belvidere, declared that had the lip
been a hair's breadth longer, the god would have been lost. This was
all very connoisseurish and very true, no doubt; but, depend upon it,
that man felt the beauties of the immortal statue a thousand times
more, whose only exclamation on seeing it was, 'Good God!' I would
rather have the fresh feelings of even ignorance itself than the
tutored and mechanical taste that measures the cheek-bones of a Venus,
gauges the depth of colour in a Claude, or feels the edges of a book
instead of looking into the inside."

"Yes, but consider, Edward," said Marian, who since she entered the
room had been sitting silent at the breakfast-table, "it surely does
not follow that because we understand a thing well, we lose our first
and natural taste for it. If I could paint like Claude or Poussin, I
surely should not take less pleasure in a beautiful landscape."

"NO, Marian," exclaimed Miss Falkland, well knowing that De Vaux would
not support his sarcasms very vigorously against his cousin, "no; but,
depend upon it, no one who could paint like Claude or Poussin would
talk like a connoisseur."

"Perhaps," said Colonel Manners, "knowledge of all kinds may be like
the fabled cup, whose influence entirely depended upon those who drank
from it--to some it was death, to others immortal life; wisdom to
some, and foolishness to others. And thus I should think a great
acquaintance with any art, in some instances--where the taste was good
and the mind was strong--would refine the taste and give humility to
the mind, by showing what an unfathomable mine of undiscovered things
every study presents; while in other cases--where the taste was null
and the mind weak--the result would be the vanity of ill-digested
knowledge, and an idle gabble of unmeaning terms."

"And how often would the latter be the case when compared with the
former?" said De Vaux. "Answer me, my dear colonel."

"I am afraid, indeed, nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a
thousand," replied Colonel Manners: "and what, I must confess, is
worse still, the proportion of those who would bow to the vanity of
ill-digested knowledge, and give implicit credit to the gabble of
unmeaning terms, would be still greater; while taste, and genius, and
mind would be forced to content themselves with the poor thousandth
part of those whom they addressed."

"Then how is it, Colonel Manners," said Marian, "that we are told that
what is really good has always ultimate success, notwithstanding this
terrific array of folly against it?"

"Because truth is permanent in its very essence; and falsehood--of
every kind, as well false tastes as false statements--is evanescent,"
replied Colonel Manners. "Such is, I suppose, the broad reason; but,
to examine it more curiously, we shall find the progress of the thing
somewhat amusing: for even the ultimate establishment of truth and
wisdom is, in a great measure, owing to the voice of the false and
foolish. Here is a fine picture or a fine statue, of that chaste but
not attractive kind which ensures the admiration of those who can feel
beauty, but does not win the attention of the crowd. A man without
taste sees a man of taste gazing at it; hears him praise its beauties;
and, as there is nothing so servile or so vain as folly, instantly
affects to perceive the beauties which he never saw, and goes forth
to trumpet them as things of his own discovery. Others come to see,
and, as one fool will never be outdone by another, each sings its
praises in the same vociferous tone, each gains his little stock of
self-complacency from praising what others praise, and the reputation
of the thing is established."

"Unless," said De Vaux, "one of the learned fools we were talking
of should step in; and as his vanity is always of the pugnacious
kind--the vanity that will lead, instead of being led--he of course
condemns what others have been praising; declares that the statue has
no contour--that the picture wants breadth, force, chiar' oscuro. All
the others cry out that it is evident it does so; wonder they could
have admired it; and poor patient merit is kicked back into the
shade."

"But still, the same process takes place again," rejoined Colonel
Manners. "The learned fool and his generation die off; but still, the
merit of the thing remains till some one again rescues it from
oblivion, and its reputation is finally established."

"Indeed, now, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, "I think that you
have admitted Marian's maxim with too little limitation. That what is
really good may always have ultimate success, is true, undoubtedly,
when spoken of transcendent merit or of superexcellent qualities; but
this transcendent merit only appears once, perhaps, in a century;
and the world shows that, in the great mass of worldly things, the
every-day virtues, the every-day exertions, the every-day characters
which surround us in this busy existence, virtue and merit are not
always ultimately successful. The religious, the political, the
scientific charlatan often carries all before him; while the man of
modest talent and unassuming virtue plods on his way unnoticed, and
dies forgotten. So much, indeed, is this the case, that do not we
daily see that many a shrewd man of real talent feels obliged to mix a
little charlatanism with his other qualities for the sake of ensuring
success? If Marian had said that things which are intrinsically
immortal--which have in themselves inherent permanence--must have
ultimate success when they are really good, and condemnation when
they are bad, I would have granted it at once; but in all lesser
things--and the world is made up of them--I sincerely believe that
success depends upon accident or impudence."

Colonel Manners smiled, and abandoned, or at least modified, his
theory, admitting that Mrs. Falkland was right; for he was one of
those men who, having generally reason on their side, can be candid
without fear. But there was also something more than this in his
candour: it sprung from his heart--it was a part of his character; and
though it may seem unnatural to the greater part of mankind, it is no
less a fact, that he was so great a lover of truth that, when once he
was convinced, he never dreamed of contending against his conviction.
He therefore gave up the position, that merit would always be
ultimately successful, limiting it according to Mrs. Falkland's
showing.

Isadore added, that she thought it must be so, and would be sorry to
believe it otherwise, as the occasional separation of virtue and
success in this world afforded to her mind one of the strongest
corroborative assurances of a future state. De Vaux laughed at her,
and called her a little philosopher, and the conversation branched off
to other things.

Breakfast is a meal at which one loves to linger. The daylight and the
wide world have all, more or less, an idea of labour attached to them;
and though that labour be of the lightest kind, there is still a
feeling in going forth after breakfast that we are about to take our
share of the original curse; which feeling inclines man naturally to
linger over the tea and coffee, and saunter to the window, or look
into the fire, or play with the knife and fork for a few minutes more
than is positively required. What between one oral occupation or
another, then, the party at Mrs. Falkland's breakfast-table contrived
to pass an hour very pleasantly. Colonel Manners, when all had risen,
bestowed five minutes more upon the long window--while Isadore and her
mother, De Vaux and Marian, held separate councils on the future
proceedings of the day--and then retired to his own room, to write a
note of business to some of his people in London. He had not long been
gone when the fat and venerable servant, whom we have called Peter,
entered the room, bearing a note, which, with much respectful
ceremony, he delivered over to the hands of Miss De Vaux. Marian
turned a little red and a little pale; and, had a jealous husband seen
her receive that billet, he might have begun to suspect one whose
every thought was pure; but the truth was, that poor Marian had
instantly recognised her uncle's hand; and as her last ideas in
respect to him had not been very pleasant, she was afraid that the new
ones about to be called up by his note might be still more
disagreeable. Without pausing to examine the scrawl upon the back,
which implied her name, she broke the seal, and read. As she did so, a
gentle smile and a softer suffusion stole over her face; but then she
became more grave, then looked vexed, and then handed the paper to
Mrs. Falkland, saying, "Do read it, my dear aunt; my uncle is both
very kind and very unkind; but, indeed, it concerns you and Edward a
great deal more than it does me."

Mrs. Falkland took the letter and read it, the substance of which was
to the following effect:--In the first place, the noble lord began by
expressing more affection for Marian de Vaux than he had ever been
known to express for man, woman, or child before in his existence. He
next went on to say, that there was nothing on earth which had ever
given him so much pleasure as the prospect of his son's marriage with
her on whom he had been showering such praises: it was the solacing
idea of his old age, he said, and the compensating joy for many a past
sorrow. He then declared that he had hoped to be much with Edward and
Marian during the days that were to intervene ere their marriage could
be celebrated, and to have witnessed the ceremony as the most joyful
and satisfactory one that he could ever behold; and next came the real
object and substance-matter of the whole; for he concluded by
expressing his bitter disappointment at not being able to do so, from
the circumstance of a man who had so grossly insulted him as Colonel
Manners had done, continuing in his sister's house, as her honoured
guest and his son's bosom friend. Marian would understand, he said,
that it was impossible for him to present himself again at
Morley-house while Colonel Manners was there, without loss of dignity
and honour; but he nevertheless besought her to let every thing
proceed as if he were present; and he added a desire to see her as
soon after her marriage as possible.

While Mrs. Falkland, and then Edward de Vaux, read the letter in turn,
Marian kept her eyes fixed on the ground. The fact is, however, that
there was much in her uncle's letter to pain her, as well as to
gratify her; and she would even willingly have sacrificed the
gratifying part, if by so doing she could have done away the painful.
It was very unpleasant, in the first place, to be pressed by
assurances of affection and kindness to commit a gross injustice for
the gratification of the person expressing that affection; and it was
not a little disagreeable to think of her marriage to Lord Dewry's son
taking place without his father's presence and countenance. Women of
the finest minds and the justest feelings will think of what the world
will say; and God forbid they ever should not. Marian de Vaux,
therefore, thought of what the world would say, in regard to Lord
Dewry being absent from her wedding; and she could not help feeling
that the comments of all her kind acquaintances would be painful,
both to her pride and her delicacy. All this was passing in her mind,
while her eyes were busy with a pair of nondescripts on the damask
table-cloth: but let it be clearly understood, that she never did
Colonel Manners the wrong to wish that he should go, on account of any
pain that she herself might suffer. She wished, indeed, that her uncle
would be more just, more placable, more generous; but she felt clearly
where the fault lay, and she never turned her eyes in the other
direction. Mrs. Falkland appreciated Marian's feelings in almost all
cases; but at present she estimated to the full all that would be
distressing to her niece in the conduct of her brother, and thought,
perhaps, that Marian might be more affected by it than she really
was. "My dear Marian," she said, "this is very disagreeable for us
all, and must be very painful to you, my sweet girl, in particular.
Nevertheless we must do justice to ourselves. Were it any thing like a
sacrifice of mere pleasure, we might and would willingly do a great
deal to satisfy your uncle, and remove the unpleasant load he casts
upon us; but this is a matter of right and wrong, in which he is
decidedly in the wrong; and to yield to him would not only be
dishonourable to ourselves, but seems to me quite impossible. The
demeanour of Colonel Manners to me and mine has been every thing
that I could desire, and is in every respect accordant with his
well-established character, as a most gallant soldier and accomplished
gentleman; and I can neither suffer the whims nor the ill-temper of
any person, however near the relationship, to alter my conduct in such
a case. What do you say, Edward?

"I agree with you entirely, my dear aunt," he replied, "and so I told
my father this morning. Holding Manners, as I do, to be most nobly in
the right, I cannot suffer either my opinion of him, or my behaviour
towards him, to be changed by the sudden dislike of even my parent."

"And let me say, Edward, a most capricious and Lord Dewry-ish dislike
it is--though he be your father and my uncle," added Miss Falkland.
"What can he find to dislike in Colonel Manners? He is not beautiful,
it is true: but he saved your life at the risk of his own; he nursed
you in sickness; he was your companion in danger, and your friend at
all times; so that if any one loved him, it should be your father.
Besides, could any one have made himself more agreeable than he has
done since he has been here? What pretence does Lord Dewry think mamma
could have for turning such a man out of her house, when she had so
lately invited him in the most pressing terms?"

"Oh, of course, that is quite out of the question," said Mrs.
Falkland, smiling at her fair daughter's enthusiasm; "though I cannot
help thinking, Edward, that your father's design, in that letter, was
to make us do so, by rendering the contrary so disagreeable to us."

"If it were so, he will alter his behaviour," replied De Vaux, "when
he finds that we cannot follow such a course; and I am sure you think
with me, my dear aunt, that the only plan we can pursue is, to do as
he bids us in his note, and proceed as if he were present."

"Most certainly," replied Mrs. Falkland: "do you not think so too,
Marian?"

"Oh yes, Marian does," cried Isadore Falkland; "I am sure she does."

"I am afraid we must do so," answered Marian, smiling somewhat sadly;
"but, at all events, my dear aunt, I had better write to my uncle, and
I will try to persuade him to change his determination."

"Do so, my dear girl," replied her aunt; "though I am afraid you will
find it in vain."

Marian sat down and wrote, and put as much gentle sweetness into her
note as would have gone far to soften any other man upon earth. She
said not a word in regard to Colonel Manners, his quarrel with her
uncle, or her own feelings on the subject: but she expressed to Lord
Dewry how deeply gratified she was by his tenderness and affection;
how ardently she hoped to retain it when she should become the wife of
his son. She then went on to tell him, in language that came rushing
from her heart, how bitterly painful it would be to her, if he
continued the same determination of not being present at her marriage;
and she entreated, with persuasions that none but woman could have
written, that he would yield his resolution in this respect. In the
whole course of her letter--though it was as artless as any collection
of words that ever was penned--there was not one syllable that could
offend the pride, or the vanity, or the feelings of her uncle--not one
that could afford anger or irritation the least footing to rest upon.
Had it been calculated upon the most experienced view of all the
follies and passions of human nature, it could not have been better
constructed; and yet, as we have said, it was as artless a composition
as ever was penned: but the secret was, that it came from a fine, a
gentle, and a sensitive mind.

And now, while she folds, seals, and addresses it, with neat and
careful hand, and gives it to the servant to be sent off immediately,
we shall take the liberty of turning to another part of the subject,
and treating of the person whose presence was the point of difficulty.




                             CHAPTER VI.


When Lord Dewry quitted Colonel Manners at the end of the
flower-garden, as we have shown in a preceding chapter, the gallant
soldier had turned back towards the house, but with steps much less
rapid than those of the peer, from the simple fact of no violent
passion moving in his breast. In truth, it would seem, after all, that
man, notwithstanding his great pretensions, his reasonings about his
own existence, and his conceit in his painted jacket, is not at all
unlike one of those figures that children buy at fairs, with his arms
and legs, and even his head, hung on by wires; and with the passions
to pull the string at the back, not only without his volition, but
often against his will. Wrath pulls, and he kicks; revenge pulls, and
he strikes; jealousy pulls, and he writhes; fear pulls, and he runs;
love pulls, and he dances; and, as no one of these passions was behind
Colonel Manners at the time, he had walked on slowly and deliberately
towards the house, sometimes turning to look at the landscape,
sometimes trifling with a flower, but doing neither one nor the other,
perhaps, quite so often as when he set out that day upon his morning's
walk.

Still, it is not to be supposed that, though no very violent affection
of the mind followed Lord Dewry's departure, Colonel Manners remained
perfectly indifferent to what had occurred: on the contrary, it threw
him into a fit of musing, if not of deep thought, and produced
reflections which ended in resolutions, such as Colonel Manners might
be expected to form. At the peer's wrath he laughed, and laughed at
his menaces equally, secure in that calm, self-confident courage,
which, not knowing what fear is, never dreams that it can be
attributed to us; but at the uncomfort that his dispute with De Vaux's
father might and would produce in the family he had come to visit,
Colonel Manners did not laugh. He had assented on the preceding night,
in words which, with him, amounted to a promise, to forget the baron's
rudeness, and not to suffer it to abridge his stay; but, at present,
new provocation had been given, and he had every reason to believe
that his visit could not be prolonged to the period he had at first
proposed, without material uncomfort to the family at Morley House,
however strongly their kindness or their politeness might urge his
stay.

"Doubtless," thought Colonel Manners,--for we must put his
private cogitations into the form of that necessary folly, a
soliloquy,--"doubtless, the worthy peer will not go and expose himself
so much to his own family, as to tell them what has occurred between
us this morning; but equally, without doubt, he will contrive, by his
demeanour towards me, to render the house, not only very unpleasant to
me, but also to all its occupants; and, therefore, as this is a field
where honour is neither to be gained nor supported, I must even beat a
retreat. Yet De Vaux will, I know, feel very much mortified, if he
fancies that his father is the cause of my departure; and therefore I
suppose that the best plan be, to wait a day or two, and then, with
the first letters that arrive,--and I must receive some soon, to plead
important business, and set out. I suppose I must bear with this
ill-tempered old gentleman's behaviour as best I may for eight and
forty hours, though I am afraid it will be a struggle to avoid
retorting a little of his bitterness upon himself."

Such had been the substance of Colonel Manners' thoughts upon this
subject, as he walked back, and such the determination he formed; but
as he did form them, there was something like a sigh escaped from his
bosom. The reception he had met with from Mrs. Falkland and her
family, on his first arrival, had been so warm and kind, that all the
best feelings of his heart had been enlisted on their side. He had
completely made up his mind to spend a happy three weeks with people
who seemed, in every respect, so amiable; and although he felt that it
might be a little dangerous,--by making him feel more acutely, from
comparison, the want of domestic ties and comforts,--although he felt
it might be a little dangerous, yet he had experienced a pleasure at
the idea of thus dwelling, even for a short space, in the midst of a
true old English family, that made him bitterly regret the necessity
of foregoing what he had set his heart upon. As he thought of going
forth again alone, it seemed as if it were the voice of fate that
forbade him to expose himself to the sight of feelings and enjoyments
that he was never to know personally, and sent him back imperiously to
the solitary state of existence which was to be his portion; and
although Colonel Manners was accustomed to the contemplation, and had
nerved his mind, not only to bear the uncomforts of his lot, but to
resist every thought that would teach him to repine, yet there were
times--and this was one--when he could not but feel the chill wind of
solitude blow from the dreary prospect of the future, and blight even
the enjoyment of the present. A dissertation on the moral and physical
nature of man might be given to prove to a demonstration, that
domestic ties are a necessity of his existence: and let any man gaze
forward into future years, and fancy that some cold barrier is placed
between him and domestic affection; that no kindred eye is to brighten
at his presence, no affectionate lip smile at his happiness, no tear
of sympathy to wash away one half of his griefs, no cheerful voice to
dispel the thoughts of care, no assiduous hand to smooth the pillow of
sickness, and close the eye of death,--let him picture his being
solitary, his joys unshared, his sorrows undivided, his misfortunes
unaided but by general compassion, his sickness tended by the slow
hand of mercenaries, and his eyes closed, while the light has scarce
departed, by the rude touch of some weary and indifferent menial,--let
him fancy all this, and then he will feel, indeed, that domestic ties
are a necessity of our existence; at least, if he be not either drunk
with licentious passions, or a mere calculating machine.

We do not mean to say that all these ideas, or any one of them,
presented themselves to the mind of Colonel Manners. Far be it from us
to insinuate that he was foolish enough to give a vivid form and
painful minuteness to the evils of a state that he believed he could
not avoid. He struggled even against the general impression; but, as
we have said, there were moments in his life--and this was one--when,
notwithstanding reason and resolution, he would feel bitterly that it
is sad and sorrowful to pass through life alone, to spend one's days
in solitude, and to go down into the grave without a tie. The
impression was so strongly raised, and clung so firmly to his mind, at
the moment we speak of, that he took a turn of a hundred yards back
upon the walk, to give the thoughts full range. Then remembering
himself, he broke out into an involuntary exclamation of, "This is
folly!" and turned quickly back to the house.

In the breakfast-room he found Miss Falkland alone, and was not sorry
so to find her; for there was in her conversation a pleasant and
good-humoured sparkling, a frank and fearless liveliness, which amused
and interested him. Besides, Colonel Manners was by no means a man to
object to the society of a very beautiful girl: on that score he was
quite fearless; for he had so guarded his heart by rampart, and
bastion, and half-moon, that he feared no attack, either by siege or
storm. The thing that he feared was, the sight of a state of happiness
which he coveted, but did not hope for; and therefore he could enjoy
the gay conversation and pleasing presence of Isadore Falkland without
alloy, though he might apprehend that a lengthened stay, in the midst
of a cheerful family circle, might deepen his regret at his own
loneliness.

Now, although the house of Mrs. Falkland, like most other houses of
its date, had a certain ramblingness of construction, midway between
the Gothic of Henry the Seventh's and the anomalous architecture of
the nineteenth century, yet the rooms were sufficiently proximate to
allow Colonel Manners to hear every now and then, as the servant
opened and shut the door of the breakfast-room, the voice of Lord
Dewry, in tones more sharp than was becoming. Nor was he slack in
attributing the acerbity of the sounds he heard to their right cause;
so that, as we have before shown, when Mrs. Falkland and her nephew
spoke of the departure of the noble lord as a thing that had taken
place in the ordinary course of affairs, Manners had very nearly
smiled.

However, having taken his determination in regard to his proceedings,
and, seeing no better plan that he could pursue, he suffered the
matter to pass quietly, well knowing that real delicacy never makes a
noise. To say the truth, he was not at all sorry to find that Lord
Dewry had taken his departure; for he had every inclination to make
himself both comfortable and agreeable while he did stay, neither of
which objects are very attainable in the same house with a man who
wants to fight a duel with you. After breakfast, as Manners was too
much of a general to leave any thing to chance, he retired to his own
apartments, in order to write such letters to London as would ensure
immediate replies of the kind that would afford him a fair excuse for
breaking through his engagement with De Vaux, without rendering the
matter painful to his friend by any direct reference to his father;
and, when this was accomplished, he returned to the rest of the party,
whom he found in the act of seeing the footman leave the room with
Marian's note to her uncle.

"We propose to take a walk, Manners," said De Vaux, as he entered; "I
must show you the beauties of our county; and I think we will go upon
the path which leads across the hill, and brings us through the wood
to within a few hundred yards of the spot where we saw the gipsies. We
call it Marian's Walk, as she might always be found there when we were
but little boys and girls."

"It might have been called Edward's Walk as well, then," answered
Isadore, gayly; "for I am sure she was never there without you,
Edward. At all events, if you did not go with her, you were not long
before you found her."

"And can Miss de Vaux venture on so long a walk?" asked Colonel
Manners, "in the present day, when the extent of a lady's morning
promenade is twice round the room and once round the garden--when
shoemakers stare, I am told, at the name of walking shoes, and declare
that they never heard of such things?"

Marian smiled. "You are severe upon us, Colonel Manners," she said;
"but this walk is not so far either--though it is a little steep."

"It seemed to me nearly six miles," replied Colonel Manners; "six
miles, at least, from this spot to the place De Vaux mentions."

"Oh, that was because you came by the road," replied Isadore: "if you
had come over the hill, you would have shortened the way by one
half--but I forgot; you would have met with some accident also, as it
was dark, and you were on horseback. It is not much more than two
miles to the place where the path again joins the high-road after
passing through Morley wood."

"If you find it so short, I trust you are to be of the party, Miss
Falkland," said Colonel Manners.

"Oh, most certainly," she replied. "It was all very well for Edward
and Marian to wander through the woods together when they were boys
and girls; but now propriety, you know, Colonel Manners, requires a
sedate and aged chaperon; and besides, I could not leave the party of
such an odd and unfortunate number as three: I should be afraid of
some accident happening to you by the way."

"But three is a fortunate number, my gay cousin," replied De Vaux,
smiling, "not an unfortunate one, by every rule of cabalistic
science."

"In figures, but not in love, Edward," answered his cousin, with a gay
laugh. "At least, I have read as much in your face, more than once,
when I happened to be the unfortunate third--"

"Hush, hush, Isadore," cried Marian. "Come, let us dress ourselves to
go;" and taking her cousin's arm, she hurried her away. Now Marian de
Vaux, who knew her cousin well, was quite sure that Isadore would not
push her raillery of her lover one step too far; but still she was not
sorry to break off Isadore's discourse; for love is one of those
things that people may talk about a great deal when they feel it not,
but which they bury deep in the heart's innermost tabernacle as soon
as they know its value, and, like misers, tremble even when their
treasure is named.

Every one was soon ready to set out; and strolling through the garden
separately, they proceeded to what was called the little gate, which
gave them exit upon the road of which they were in search. By
separately, I mean that neither of the gentlemen offered an arm to
their female companions so long as they were within rows of box-wood
bordering and upon gravel walks. There would have been something
ridiculous in it; although, perhaps, the quality of walking arm-in-arm
is to be looked upon as one of the peculiar privileges of humanity,
which as much distinguishes man from other animals, as any other
quality of his mind or body. He has been called, by those who strove
to define him, "a forked radish, fantastically cut," "a viviparous
biped, without feathers," "a cooking animal," and many another name.
But had they called him "the animal that walks arm-in-arm,"
philosophers might have come nearer to his distinctive quality; for
not only is it a thing that no other animal does, but it also gives at
once the idea of many of the finer qualities of man's mind, and is, in
fact, a sort of living hieroglyphic of affection and sympathy, and
mutual assistance and support.

Now Colonel Manners and Edward de Vaux, looking upon the privilege of
walking arm-in-arm in its true light, might consider it with too much
reverence to enter upon it lightly, and therefore not offer to
exercise it towards their fair companions, till the steepness of the
way and the openness of the country seemed to render it necessary for
their convenience and protection. There might, indeed, be another
reason, which was, that in issuing forth from the house, a little
derangement in the natural order of things had taken place--some stray
glove, or wandering stick, or something of the kind, had been
forgotten, so as to throw out the order of the march; and Colonel
Manners found himself walking beside Marian de Vaux, while De Vaux was
at the elbow of his cousin Isadore. Colonel Manners, in agreeing to go
out upon this expedition, had perfectly well understood the part he
was held to play; and De Vaux had the most firm and implicit reliance
upon his friend's tact in the business; so that by a tacit convention
it was arranged between them, that the long ramble which Marian had
promised to take with her lover was to be as completely solitary and
agreeable as if they had not a friend or relation upon the face of the
earth. But the derangement which had taken place in the position of
the forces of course rendered a counter movement on the part of De
Vaux and his friend necessary; and yet, as the walk they followed was
narrow, and did not admit of the advance of more than two abreast, the
desired evolution could not be performed without rendering the object
unpleasantly obvious, till some little accident came to their aid.
Colonel Manners, however, had been out in the morning, as we have
already seen, to reconnoitre the ground; and as soon as he saw the
difficulty, he instantly laid out the plan of the evolutions, and
fixed upon the exact position, walking on still by the side of Marian
de Vaux, and talking of _les mouches qui volent_.

But to proceed. Colonel Manners and Marian reached the little gate
first, and unlocked it, and then Colonel Manners halted till Miss de
Vaux and Miss Falkland had passed. The two ladies immediately halted
on the bank of the little road facing the gate, with Marian on the
right hand and Isadore on the left. Colonel Manners then resigned the
command of the gate to Edward de Vaux; but, in marching out, while the
other locked the door and brought the key, Manners took up a position
upon the extreme left. De Vaux then advanced to the right of the line,
and, wheeling about, gave his arm to Marian; Colonel Manners offered
his to Miss Falkland, and led the way up the road to the left. This
detail is given as an exemplification of Manners' military skill,--a
quality which, unfortunately, we shall have no other opportunity of
displaying throughout this book. Nor was Isadore Falkland's knowledge
of strategy less marked, in taking up the position to the left, as it
entirely commanded the road up which they were about to proceed; and
as people in love in general walk a great deal slower than people not
in love, it was necessary that she and Colonel Manners should lead the
way, in order at once to give Edward and Marian de Vaux the protection
of their presence and the benefit of their absence.

Colonel Manners and Miss Falkland did not lose much time in silence,
for they were both people who could talk very pleasantly; and,
whatever they might think in regard to themselves, they each felt that
it was so in regard to the other. They spoke of many things; and
Isadore's conversation, as she became better acquainted with her
companion, and discovered that there were stores of feeling and
kindness at his heart which would prevent him from laughing at her own
enthusiasms, poured forth more of the deeper stream of her character,
over which the rippling current of gay and sparkling jest that she
usually displayed, flowed as much to conceal the depth, as for any
other purpose. Besides, she was happy and young; and where was ever
the stream, however profound, that did not sparkle when the sun shone
full upon it?

Their first topic, as perhaps might be expected, was De Vaux and
Marian; a topic which, under some circumstances, might have been
dangerous; but Manners and Miss Falkland felt themselves perfectly
secure. Still it was a delicate one: for however deep and true Colonel
Manners' friendship might be for De Vaux, and however warm and
enthusiastic might be the love of Isadore for her cousin Marian, there
were, of course, a thousand little circumstances and feelings, upon
which neither could enter, out of respect for the very friendship and
affection which they felt for the two lovers. Nevertheless, perhaps,
this very _retenue_, with the sort of faint and misty allusions which
they were obliged to make to their friends' love and their friends'
hopes and prospects, and the graceful circumlocutions and explicative
figures that it obliged them to seek, were not without charms in
themselves. Colonel Manners, for his part, felt very sure that, under
Marian de Vaux's calm and tranquil manners were very deep and powerful
feelings; but, at the same time, he wished--if consistently with
delicacy it were possible--to find out from Miss Falkland whether his
opinions were fully justified; and Isadore longed to know--with all a
woman's yearnings to prove to her own heart the substantial existence
of real, pure, permanent, unswerving love--whether her cousin had
retained, during his long absence, all that tender, devoted, undivided
attachment which he displayed towards Marian when present. Not at all
did she wish to know whether Edward de Vaux had made love to, or
flirted with, or talked sweet nonsense to any other woman. Do not let
it be misunderstood; she never suspected such a thing, nor would have
believed it had it been told her: but she would have given a great
deal to find out, whether in the bosom of her cousin, the one thought
of his affection had ever been paramount; whether the world, and
ambition, and other scenes, and absence, and danger, and excitement
had never banished the image of Marian from the bosom of Edward de
Vaux; and, in short, she would have willingly heard it proved, in his
instance, that love can exist in the bosom of man, under prolonged
absence and varying circumstances. In all this, she was as
disinterested as a woman ever can be in regard to an affair of love;
but, the truth is, no woman can be totally so. The whole of that
bright race are, in this respect, but a joint-stock company--to borrow
a figure from familiar things--and love is their capital, in which all
have an interest, and all a share.

However, it will be easily conceived that, under these circumstances,
the conversation between Miss Falkland and Colonel Manners was as
nice, and delicate, and difficult an encounter of their wits as ever
was practised. Colonel Manners was soon satisfied; for, in answer to
some complimentary observation upon her cousin's manners and
appearance, which went to praise their tranquillity as well as their
elegance, Isadore answered frankly, and smiling as she did so, "Oh,
Marian is often more _commoto dentro_ than you think." Miss Falkland's
researches, however, were less easily pursued, and they led her, like
a child hunting a butterfly, through a world of flowers. One time, she
would put her problem generally, and wonder whether any man ever did
feel, and continue to feel, as she wished to believe Edward had done
towards Marian; and then she would put it particularly, and say, that
she thought such an attachment as his must have been a wonderful
solace and delight to him; an inexhaustible fund of sweet feelings and
hope, throughout all that he had been obliged to endure. But still
Colonel Manners, who very clearly understood what she meant, hung back
a little in his explanations; pleased, in truth, to watch the feelings
that prompted her and the path she pursued; pleased with all the
graces that the subject called up in her countenance and her manner;
the beaming smile, the sparkling eye, and sometimes the sudden stop
and passing blush, when she became uncertain of the next step and
dared not advance.

After he had amused himself a little, and saw that she might
misconstrue his backwardness into something disadvantageous to his
friend, he caught at the next sentence, and replied, "Yes, indeed, I
look upon De Vaux's attachment, and his engagement to your fair
cousin, before he went to America, as one of the greatest blessings
that could have happened to him; especially for a man whose heart was
calculated to make it his happiness and his safeguard, and his leading
star wherever he went."

Isadore blushed warmly; and perhaps there was a little mingling of
emotions in her blush; for, in the first place, the full confirmation
of what she had wished and hoped, made her cheek glow; and, in the
next place, Colonel Manners' words were so exactly a reply to the
questions which had been lurking unspoken in her heart, that she
almost suspected he had seen deeper into her thoughts than she had
anticipated. A slight smile that followed upon his lip she considered
as excessively malicious; but she was one who never suffered wrath to
rankle in her bosom, but, in her way, revenged herself always on the
spot. "You speak so feelingly, Colonel Manners," said she, just
suffering a single ray of laughing light to gleam out of her fine dark
eyes; "you speak so feelingly, that I doubt not you have been guarded
and led in the same manner."

Let it be clearly kept in mind, that Isadore Falkland had only known
Colonel Charles Manners fourteen hours and a half, or she would not
have said what she did for the world. It may be thought that the case
ought to have been quite the contrary, and that she might have
ventured more had she been more intimate. But such would be an
erroneous view of the matter. Isadore Falkland well knew that fourteen
hours and a half was not a sufficient space of time for any rational
man either to feel or to affect love for the most enchanting being
that ever the world beheld, and, consequently, that she might say a
sportive thing in regard to Colonel Manners' heart, without any chance
of a retort which might have been disagreeable--unless he had been a
fool or a coxcomb, which she knew him not to be. Had she known him a
fortnight, he might have made the retort, as a jest, which would have
been disagreeable enough; or as a compliment, which would have been
still more disagreeable; or as a serious fact, which would have been
most disagreeable; and therefore, under such circumstances, she would
never have thought of talking about the heart of one of the company,
when there were but two in it. Had she known, too, that the subject
was a painful one to Colonel Manners, she would as little have thought
of touching upon it; and, indeed, a feeling that he was not handsome,
and a vague misty sort of consciousness that that fact might have
something to do with his remaining unmarried, did make her regret that
she had said such words, almost as soon as they were beyond recall.

"No, indeed," said Colonel Manners, with a touch of melancholy in his
manner that could not wholly be banished; "no, indeed, I have not been
so fortunate as either to have guardian angel or leading star;" and he
smiled at the triteness of his own figures of speech, but with a smile
that did not counteract, to the mind of Miss Falkland, the sadness of
his tone. She was vexed with herself, and would have done anything on
earth, in a reasonable way, to efface whatever painful feelings she
might have awakened: but though she was generally skilful enough in
putting an end to a difficulty where others were concerned, she found
it not so easy to disentangle the affair when she herself was the
culprit.

Whether Colonel Manners perceived that Miss Falkland felt she had
given pain, and was vexed with herself, or whether he likewise wished
to get rid of the subject, matters little; but he now changed the
topic somewhat abruptly; and looking round upon the woods, into the
very heart of which they were plunging, he said, "I wonder that you
fair ladies are not somewhat afraid of walking through these solitudes
by yourselves."

"There is no danger," she replied; "we have none but very orderly,
peaceable people in our part of the world: though, in truth," she
added, after a moment's thought, "we are the last family that should
say there is no danger; but I have never heard of any very serious
offence being committed in our neighbourhood since the murder of my
poor uncle, which, as it is long ago, of course I do not recollect.

"I remember having heard something of that event," replied Colonel
Manners, "but do not recollect the particulars. Was he killed by
highwaymen?"

"I believe so," answered Miss Falkland, "though I know too little
about it to tell you exactly what happened. But--oh, yes!--he was
robbed and murdered, I remember; for it was proved that he had a large
sum of money upon his person when he went out--several thousand
pounds--and it was supposed that some one who knew the fact had either
waylaid him, or had informed the murderers of the booty they might
obtain."

"He was, I think, your uncle by the side of Mrs. Falkland," said
Colonel Manners, who of course felt an interest in the matter in
proportion to the little difficulties of obtaining information.

"Yes, my mother's brother," replied Isadore; "Marian's father. You may
easily imagine that such a story rendered her an object of double
interest to all her family--of redoubled tenderness, I believe I
should say, and even my uncle, who is not very scrupulous in regard to
what he says to any one, is more kind and considerate towards Marian
than towards any other human being. That great and horrible crime,
however--I mean the murder--seems to have frightened others from our
neighbourhood; and though we occasionally hear of a little poaching,
the people round us are uniformly well-behaved and peaceable."

"Can you say as much for the gipsies towards whose encampment, if I
understood De Vaux right, we are bending our way?" asked Colonel
Manners. "They are, in general, very troublesome and unquiet
neighbours."

"I had not heard of their being here," replied Miss Falkland: "we are
very seldom so honoured, I can assure you. I do not remember having
seen gipsies here more than once; and that was not in this wood, but
on a large common up yonder at the top of that hill, behind the house.
They are a strange race!"

"They are, indeed," answered her companion; "and De Vaux and I, as we
passed their encampment, could not help marvelling that no government
had ever thought it worth its while to pay some attention to them,
either for the purpose of reclaiming them to civilized life, or, if
that were judged impossible, for the purpose of obtaining those traces
of knowledge which are waning from among them every day, but which
some of their better men are said still to retain."

"Do you mean their astrological knowledge?" asked Miss Falkland, with
a look of no slight interest in the question.

"O, no!" answered Colonel Manners, with a smile; "I mean the knowledge
of their real history, of their original country, of their former
laws, of their language in its purity, and of many facts of great
interest, which, though with them they are merely traditionary, yet
might be confirmed or invalidated by other testimony in our own
possession."

"They are a strange people, indeed!" said Miss Falkland. "Do you know,
Colonel Manners, that the separate existence of these gipsies and of
the Jews--coming down, as it were, two distinct streams, amid all the
whirling confusion of an ocean of other nations--keeping their
identity among wars, and battles, and changes, and the overturning of
all things but themselves; retaining their habits, and their thoughts,
and their national character apart, in spite both of sudden and
violent revolutions in society, and of the slow, but even more
powerful efforts of gradual improvement and civilization. Do you know,
whenever I think of this, it gives me a strange feeling of mysterious
awe that I cannot describe? It seems as if I saw more distinctly than
in the common course of things the workings of the particular will of
the Almighty; for I cannot understand how these facts can be accounted
for by any of the common motives in existence; as, in both instances,
interest, ambition, policy, and pleasure, with almost every inducement
that could be enumerated, would have produced exactly the opposite
result."

"I shall not attempt to reason against you, Miss Falkland," replied
Colonel Manners, with a smile; "and, indeed, I very much agree with
you in opinion, though perhaps not in your wonder; for being a
complete believer in a special providence, I only see the same hand in
this that I think is discernible throughout creation."

"But tell me, Colonel Manners," said Isadore, "have you any belief in
the fortune-telling powers of the gipsies?"

"None whatever," answered Colonel Manners.

"Nor perhaps have I," said Isadore; "but at the same time it is
strange that in all ages and in all countries, as far as I can
understand, these gipsies have pretended to this particular science,
and have been very generally believed. At all events, it shows that
they have an immemorial tradition of such a power having been
possessed by their ancestors; and if it were possessed by their
ancestors, why not by themselves?"

"But we have no reason to believe that it was possessed by their
ancestors," replied Colonel Manners, "except, indeed, their own
tradition, which, as you say, is evidently very ancient."

"Nay, nay, but I think we have other proofs," replied Isadore, "and
very strong ones, it appears to me. It is evident from the historical
part of the Bible that the most ancient Egyptians had various means of
divination, and even a magical influence, the reality and power of
which is admitted by the sacred writers most distinctly; and
consequently, when these facts are joined to an immemorial tradition
of the descendants of the same nation, it seems that there is strong
reason for believing that these powers existed even after the period
to which the sacred volume refers."

"I am inclined, indeed, to believe," replied Colonel Manners,
"that the gipsies are descendants from some Egyptian tribe, although
the fact has been contested strongly, and the French call them
Bohemians--unreasonably enough. In regard to the powers of divination
attributed to the ancient Egyptians, too, I believe them to have
existed, because I believe the Bible not only as an inspired record,
but as the best-authenticated history, without any exception, that
exists; and at the same time I cannot suppose that men who had so
grand, so comprehensive, and also so philosophical an idea of the
Divinity, that four thousand years have not been able to produce the
slightest enlargement of it, as displayed in many passages of Holy
Writ--I cannot suppose that such men would have recorded as facts
anything substantially inconsistent with the majesty of that Being
whom they alone knew in the age when they wrote. But you must remember
that these powers, though permitted then for reasons we know not, may
have ceased now, like the powers of prophecy, and many other things of
the same kind; and did the gipsies possess such powers at present,
depend upon it, we should find them clothed in purple in the closets
of kings, instead of wandering upon bare heaths, and stealing for a
livelihood."

"You are right, I know," replied Miss Falkland, with a smile, at the
lingerings of credulity that still haunted her own bosom, "and I have
convinced myself, and been convinced by others over and over again,
that it is all nonsense; and yet,--"

She paused, and Manners rejoined, "One of our old humorous poets says,


             'A man convinced against his will,
              Is of the same opinion still.'"


"And perhaps you think the verses still more applicable to a woman,
Colonel Manners," replied Miss Falkland; "but that is not exactly the
case with me. My weakness extends no farther than this:--were a gipsy
to predict any great evil for my future life, it would make me very
uneasy, however much I might struggle against the impression; and, on
that account, I would not have my fortune told, as they call it, for
the world! Would you?"

"Without the slightest apprehension," answered Colonel Manners,
laughing. "They may try their chiromancy on me, when they please, and
do me all the harm they can for half a crown, which is, I believe, the
stipulated sum."

"That is, because you are a man and a hero," replied Miss Falkland, in
the same gay tone, "and you are bound by honour and profession to be
afraid of nothing; but remember, I look upon it as an agreement--you
are to have your fortune told this very day, and that will do for the
whole party; for I will not have mine told, and I am sure Marian shall
not, if I can prevent it."

"Oh, I will be the scape-goat, with all my heart," he replied; "but I
suppose we cannot be far from their encampment, if your computation of
miles be correct."

"We are close to the high-road," answered Miss Falkland; "but how far
up the hill they are, you best know. However, let us wait for Edward
and Marian. We must not make the babes in the wood of them; and of
course they are a good way behind. Now, I dare say, while you and
Edward were in America, you heard of Marian de Vaux till you were
tired--was it not so, Colonel Manners?"

"No, indeed," he answered, smiling; "far from it, I can assure you.
Although I long ago found out by various infallible signs that De Vaux
was in love; yet, never till circumstances had produced esteem and
friendship, and friendship had become intimacy, did he ever mention
his engagement, or the object of his attachment."

"And then he doubtless painted her in very glowing colours," added
Isadore, trying strenuously to while away the time till her cousins
came up, they having lingered behind farther than she had expected.

"Oh, of course, all lovers are like the old painter Arellius,"
answered Colonel Manners, "and always paint the objects of their love
as goddesses. But I will not gratify your malice, Miss Falkland; De
Vaux has too fine a sense of the ridiculous ever to render himself so
by exaggerating any feeling."

"He has, indeed, too fine a sense of the ridiculous," answered
Isadore; "it is his worst fault, Colonel Manners; and I fear that,
like all the rest of our faults, it may some day prove his own bane;
but here they come! Now, Colonel Manners, prepare to hear your fate.
Edward, here is your friend going to have his fortune told."

"You mean going to give half a crown to a gipsy," said De Vaux; "but if
you are serious, Manners, I will, of course, stand by you to the last,
as if you were going to fight a duel, or any other unreasonable thing.
Turn to the left and you will see the appointed place, as the
newspapers call it, before you."

In this expectation, however, De Vaux was mistaken; for the gipsies
and their accompaniments, men, women, and children, pots, kettles, and
tents, had all disappeared. It must not be said, indeed, that they had
left no vestige of their abode behind them, for half a dozen black
spots burnt in the turf, and more than one pile of white wood ashes,
attested the extent of their encampment; but nothing else was to be
seen in the green wood, except the old oaks, and the yellow sunshine
streaming through the rugged boughs, with a squirrel balancing itself
on the branch of a fir, and two noisy jays screaming from tree to
tree.

"This is a very Robin Hood like scene," said Colonel Manners, as he
looked around, "and less gloomy in the broad daylight than at
eventide. But here are no gipsies, Miss Falkland; and I am afraid that
you must put off hearing the future fate and fortunes of Charles
Manners till another time."

"I am very much mortified, indeed," replied Isadore, "and I see that
you only laugh at me, Colonel Manners, without sympathizing in the
least with disappointed curiosity; which,--as no one believes more
fully than yourself,--is a very serious event in a woman's case.
However, I shall hold you bound by your promise, and look upon you
engaged as a man of honour to have your fortune told the very first
time you meet with a party of gipsies,--nay, more, to let me know the
result also."

She spoke with playful seriousness; and Colonel Manners replied, "With
all my heart, Miss Falkland; and, indeed, you shall find that your
commands are so lightly borne by me, that I will take other
obligations upon myself, and even seek out your favourites, the
gipsies; for these protegées of yours seldom move far at a time,
unless, indeed, all the poultry in the neighbourhood happens to be
exhausted."

"Oh, that is not the case here," answered Isadore; "there is plenty
yet remaining in every farm-yard, and I dare say you will find them on
the common."

"I will go to-morrow, then, without fail," he answered, "for--" and he
had nearly added words which would have betrayed his meditated
departure; but he turned his speech another way; and all parties, well
satisfied with their ramble, returned by the same path to the house.

Nothing occurred during the rest of the day to disturb the
tranquillity of the party. The evening passed away in conversation,
generally light enough, but of which we have given a specimen above,
fully sufficient to show its nature and quality. Sometimes it touched,
indeed, upon deeper feelings, without ever becoming grave; and
sometimes it ventured farther into the realms of learning, without
approaching pedantry. The annoyance of Lord Dewry's behaviour on the
preceding night had at the time reconciled Colonel Manners in some
degree to the idea of quitting a circle in which he found much to
please and interest him; but no such annoyance interrupted the course
of this evening, and he experienced more pain than he liked to
acknowledge, when he thought of leaving behind him for ever, a scene
in which the hours passed so pleasantly. He felt, however, that the
annoyance might soon be renewed, or that even if it were not, he had
no right by his presence to shut out De Vaux's father from Mrs.
Falkland's house; and he resolved still to adhere to his purpose, and
set out for London on the day after that which was just about to
follow.




                             CHAPTER VII.


The ordinary and too well-deserved lamentation over the fragility of
human resolutions was not in general applicable to the determinations
of Charles Manners, who was usually very rigid in his adherence to his
purposes, whether they were of great or small importance. But it must
not be supposed that this pertinacity, if it may so be called, in
pursuit of designs he had already formed, proceeded from what the
world calls obstinacy. Obstinacy maybe defined the act of persisting
in error; and the rectitude and precision of his judgment generally
kept him from being in error at first, so that he had rarely a
legitimate cause for breaking his resolution. Nor was he either of
such a hard and tenacious nature as to resist all persuasion, and,
like the cement of the Romans, only to grow the stiffer by the action
of external things. Far from it; he was always very willing to
sacrifice his purposes--where no moral sacrifice was implied--to the
wishes and solicitations of those he loved or esteemed. Nor is there
any contradiction in this statement, though it may be inquired, how,
then, did he break his resolutions less frequently than other people?
The secret was this, and it is worth while to burden memory with it:
he never formed his resolutions without thought, which saved at least
one-third from fracture; and though he broke them sometimes at the
entreaty of others, he never sacrificed them to any whim of his own,
which saved _very nearly_ two-thirds more; for we may depend upon it
that the determinations which we abandon, either from a change of
circumstances, or from the persuasions of our friends, form but a very
minute fraction, when compared with those that we give up, either from
original error or after caprice.

It has seemed necessary to give this lecture upon resolutions, because
Colonel Manners very speedily found cause to abandon the determination
which he formed so vigorously on the day we spoke of in the last
chapter; and, that he might not be charged with inconsistency, it
became requisite to enter into all those strict definitions and
explanations that generally leave us as many loopholes for escape and
evasion, as a treaty of peace or a deed of settlement.

One resolution, however, and one promise, Colonel Manners certainly
did keep, as soon as it was possible, which was, to inquire whether
the gipsies were still in the neighbourhood, and to seek them out,
with the full purpose of having his fortune told. Now, it may be
supposed that here was a little weakness on the part of Colonel
Manners--that he did give some credit to gipsy chiromancy; nay, the
reader may even push his conjectures farther, and imagine him dreaming
of Isadore Falkland's beautiful eyes, and all their varieties of
expression, from the deep and soft to the gayest sparkle that ever
twinkled through two rows of long silky eyelashes. But the simple fact
was, that he had promised to go, and that he went; and though he might
think Miss Falkland extremely beautiful and extremely pleasing, as
every man who had been two minutes in her company must have thought,
he no more dreamed of the possibility of so fair a creature, courted
and loved as he knew she must be, ever uniting herself to so ugly a
man as himself--and as he sat and shaved himself that morning he
thought himself uglier than ever--than Napoleon Bonaparte, in the
plenitude of power and the majesty of victory, thought of a low grave
beneath a willow on a rock in the Atlantic.

In regard to any belief in the gipsies' fortune-telling, there were
little use of investigating closely, whether some thin fibre of the
root of superstition had or had not been left in the bosom of Charles
Manners. If any particle thereof did remain, it went no farther than
to excite, perhaps, a slight degree of curiosity in regard to what the
people would predict, more, perhaps, from feeling that it must be
absurd, than from expecting any point of coincidence with his real
fate; and certain it is that, whatever the gipsies might have told to
Colonel Manners, he would have thought no more of after the immediate
moment, except as a matter for jest, than he would of any other kind
of _sortes_, whether drawn from Virgil or Joe Miller.

It was just a quarter to six on the morning after that which had seen
the walk in Morley Wood, when Manners, who was, as we have said, an
early riser, gave some orders to his servant concerning his horses,
and went out into the new wakened world. Having observed on the
preceding day, for the purpose of carrying on the jest, the exact
position of the hill on which Miss Falkland conjectured that the
gipsies might have quartered themselves, he took his way across the
park from that side which formed, in fact, the back of Morley House;
and, having assured himself beforehand that he could find means of
egress in that direction, he was soon beyond the walls, and winding up
a small cart-road towards the summit.

The hill itself was somewhat singular in form; and as it is rather
characteristic of that particular county, we may as well endeavour to
give the reader some idea of its appearance. It formed a portion of
that steep range of upland which we have before described as
principally covered with fine wood; but this particular point,
projecting towards the river in the form of very nearly a right angle,
seemed to have cast behind it the mass of forest which still continued
over the ridge of the other hills. Vestiges of the wood, too, hung in
broken patches on the flanks of even this protuberance, but the summit
offered nothing but a bare, open plain, full of pits and ravines, and
only further diversified by a few stunted hawthorns, and one single
group of tall beeches, gathered together upon a tumulus, which covered
the bodies of some of those invading warriors to whom our island was
once a prey. The ascent to this plain from the small gate in the park
wall, by which Colonel Manners issued forth, was in length somewhat
more than a mile; but it consisted of two distinct grades, or steps,
the first of which was formed by a little peninsula, jutting out from
the salient angle of the main hill, and completely surrounded by the
river on all sides except the one which served to unite it, by a
narrow neck not above three hundred yards in breadth, to the high
ground we have mentioned. This small peninsula, which was itself
covered with wood, rose in a rocky bank to the height of about a
hundred and fifty yards above the stream; and over the narrow isthmus
was carried the road which passed the park; while the wall of the park
itself, just excluding the wooded banks from the grounds of Morley
House, was lowered in that part, so as to leave a full view of the
picturesque little promontory from the windows of the mansion. Let the
reader remember all this, for his memory may be taxed hereafter.

Branching off from the right of the high-road lay the path up which
Colonel Manners took his way, and which passed over a track upon the
side of the hill, partly hedged in and cultivated, and partly left to
its own ungrateful sterility. It was steep also, but Manners was a
good climber; and, knowing that Mrs. Falkland's breakfast hour was
half-past nine, he did not linger by the way, but soon found himself
at the summit of the hill, and on the piece of waste ground which will
be found in the county map under the name of Morley Common, or Morley
Down. A good deal of dew had fallen in the night; and as the sun, who
had not yet pursued his bright course far up the arch of heaven,
poured the flood of his morning light upon the short blades of grass
covering the common, the whole would have seemed crisp with hoarfrost,
had not, every here and there, a tuft of longer leaves caught the rays
more fully, and twinkled as if sprinkled with living diamonds, as the
early air moved it gently in the beams. In different directions across
the common might be seen a hundred small foot-roads, winding in that
tortuous and unsteady manner which is sure to mark a path trodden out
by man's unguided feet, and which offers no bad comment on his
uncertain and roundabout way of arriving at his object; but, as the
ground comprised many hundred acres, Colonel Manners might have been
puzzled which way to take, had not his military habits at once sent
him to the small planted tumulus which we have mentioned, in order to
obtain a general view of the place.

Climbing up the sides of the little mound, therefore, he gazed round
him; but neither gipsies nor tents were visible; and he might have
returned to Mrs. Falkland's, satisfied that they were not there, had
not a small column of faint blue smoke, rising from behind some
bushes, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, marked the
presence of human beings in that direction, and shown that the bushes,
though apparently not higher than a man's hat, masked some fall in the
ground where the fire was kindled. Thither, then, Manners turned his
steps, and soon perceived that another old sand-pit, with some bushes
climbing up one of the sides, had given shelter to those of whom he
was now in search.

Before he could even discover so much, he became aware, by two low
whistles, that his own approach had been perceived; and, as he was
advancing directly towards the sand-pit, where a number of the gipsies
had paused in their various occupations to watch him, he saw a man
issue forth from one of the huts, put something hastily into the bosom
of his long wrapping coat, and then come forward to meet him. The
gipsy, as he came nearer, gazed at him from head to foot, with a clear
dark eye, which had in it nothing either of the dogged sullenness or
cunning stealthiness that sometimes marks the male part of the
race,--often the fruit both of their own vices and the world's
harshness. There was something in the air and manner of the man, that
to so accurate an observer as Manners, spoke a great difference
between him and the general class of his people; but, to save a
repetition of description, it may be as well to say at once, that the
gipsy who now appeared was the same whom we have designated Pharold.

"Good-morning!" said Colonel Manners, as the other came near; "you
have hid your tents very completely here."

"Good-morning!" replied the gipsy, slightly knitting his brow, as he
saw the soldier's eye running over every part of their encampment with
some degree of curiosity; "Good-morning! It seems you were seeking me
or mine."

"I was so," replied Manners, still gazing with some interest upon the
old sand-pit and its picturesque tenants, with their blazing fire of
sticks, and its white smoke curling through the broken ground and amid
the scattered bushes.

"And what did you want with us, then?" asked Pharold, somewhat
impatiently; "you wanted something, or you would not have come here."

"I wish to have my fortune told," replied Manners with a smile,
excited equally by the impatience of the gipsy's tone, and by the
nature of his own errand.

The gipsy looked at him steadily, and then shook his head. "No, no,
no," said he; "you did not come for that. Never tell me, that you
would get out of your bed by daybreak, and climb a high hill, and seek
a bare common, at this hour, to have your fortune told--never tell me
that, Colonel Manners."

Manners started at hearing his own name pronounced familiarly by the
gipsy, though he knew the world, and all the tricks that accident and
confederacy can put upon us, too well to suppose that he who is
emphatically termed in Scripture "the prince of the power of the air"
had taken the trouble to send an account of his name and quality to a
gipsy on a common. Still, as it was unexpected, he was surprised, and
expressed it; but not in such a way as to make the gipsy believe more
fully than he had done at first, that he really gave credit to the
supernatural pretensions of his nation, and came there for the purpose
of consulting them upon his destiny.

"Pray how did you become acquainted with my name?" demanded Colonel
Manners, calmly. "I do not know that I ever saw you before?"

"Perhaps not," replied the gipsy; "but if you believe that I can tell
you what you will become hereafter, why should you be surprised that I
know what you are now?"

"I never said that I would believe what you told me," answered
Manners; "but I know that, as I have been scarcely two days in this
country, you must have been very expeditious in gaining my name.
However, it is a matter of small consequence: I came, as I said, to
have my fortune told according to your method. Will you do it?"

"It shall be done," said the gipsy, still gazing at him inquiringly.
"It shall de done, if you really desire it; but I know you men of the
world, and I cannot help thinking you came not on that errand alone. I
should think that Lord Dewry had sent you, did I not know that he went
away yesterday morning to Dimden, and then before midday back to the
hall."

"You are a very singular person," said Colonel Manners, with a smile,
"not only because you know every thing that is going on in the place,
as well as a village gossip, but because you will not believe the
truth when it is told you. Once more, then, my good friend, let me
assure you, that nobody sent me; and that my sole purpose is to have
my fortune told: nor should I stay here any longer, even for that
purpose, had I not promised another person to submit to the
infliction.

"So, so," said the gipsy; "so the fair lady you were walking with
yesterday in Morley Wood is more wise, or, as you would call it, more
credulous than you are. But do not look angry, gentleman. I will tell
you your fortune presently, and will tell it truly, if you will do me
a piece of service, of which I stand in need too--something that I
have promised to do, though not for a lady with dark eyes; and you
seem sent here on purpose to aid in it."

Now Manners was half amused and half angry; but it is probable the
anger would have got the better of the other feeling, had not his
curiosity been excited also by the language, the manners, and the
request of the gipsy, whose whole demeanour was something quite new to
him. He replied, however, "I never undertake to do any thing without
knowing the precise nature thereof; but if you will tell me what you
desire, and I find it reasonable, I will not, of course, refuse."

"Yes, yes! you shall hear what it is," answered the gipsy; "nor will
you find the request unreasonable. But come hither a little away from
the people, for they need not know it." Thus speaking, he led the way
towards the mound from which Manners had made his reconnoissance of
the common; and, as he went, he kept his right hand in his bosom, but
spoke not a word. At length, when they were fully out of earshot,
Manners himself stopped, thinking that he had humoured his companion's
caprices far enough.

"Now, my good fellow," he said, "nobody can either see or hear, unless
they follow for the purpose. Pray what is it you wish me to do for
you?"

"You are a friend of Mr. De Vaux, are you not?" said the gipsy
abruptly, stopping and turning round as Manners spoke.

"As far as esteeming him highly, and desiring to serve him with all my
heart, can make me so," answered Manners, now more particularly
surprised, "I believe I may call myself his dear friend: but what if I
be so?"

"If you be really a friend of Mr. Edward de Vaux," said the gipsy,
"you will not object to take a letter to him."

"Why," answered Manners, "although I am not exactly either a private
courier or a postman, yet if your request stops there, I can have no
objection to do as you desire; reserving to myself, of course, the
right of telling him where I got the letter, and the circumstances
that attended my receiving it."

"That you will do, if you please," replied the gipsy; "but the request
does not stop there. There are conditions in regard to the delivery of
the letter which you must observe, and that punctually."

Manners smiled. "This is all very extraordinary," he said; "you speak
in somewhat of a dictatorial tone, my good friend; and it is not easy
for me to comprehend what business one of your class and nation can
have with my friend De Vaux, so soon after his return from other
lands."

"Trouble not yourself with that, Colonel Manners," answered the gipsy;
and then added, seeing that something like a cloud was gathering on
his auditor's brow, "if I have offended you, sir, I am sorry: such was
not my purpose; and, believe me, I may know what is due both to you
and myself better than you think. You are the commander of one of the
King of England's regiments, and I am a poor gipsy; but you come to
make a request to me, for granting which--as every thing is barter or
robbery in this world--for granting which I require something of you.
So far we are as much equals as in the enjoyment of the free air, and
yonder bright sunshine, and this piece of common ground. Whether there
be any other difference between us, in point of higher or lower, God
knows, and he alone. Thus, then, hear me patiently, while I tell you
the conditions of my bargain; and afterward I will do your bidding
concerning your future fortunes--whether you esteem my skill or not,
being your business, and not mine, as you seek it without my offering
it."

"I believe you are right," replied Colonel Manners, beginning more
fully to appreciate the character of him with whom he spoke; "go on,
and let me hear your conditions in regard to the delivery of this
letter, which is, I suppose, the object that you hold in your bosom."

"It is not a pistol," said the gipsy, producing the letter.

"I did not suppose that it was," replied Colonel Manners; "and had it
been so, it would have been a matter of much indifference to me: but
now for your conditions."

"They are few and simple," answered the gipsy; "I require, or request,
you to give this into Mr. De Vaux's own hand, and to choose a moment
when he is not only alone, but when he is likely to have an
opportunity of reading it in private; and though you may tell him when
and how you received it, and add what comments you like, you must not
indulge in the same tattle to other people; but must keep silence on
all concerning it."

"Your conditions are not very difficult," replied Colonel Manners; "I
will undertake them. Give me the letter. Upon my honour," he added,
seeing that Pharold hesitated, "I will do exactly as you have
desired."

The man gave him the letter, which was cleaner, neater, and, as far as
the address went, better written than the hands from which it came
would have led one to anticipate. The moment he had done so, Pharold
uttered a long, loud whistle, which brought a little yellow urchin of
ten years old to their side, as fast as a pair of bare feet could
carry him. "Thou mayst go," said the gipsy; "and make haste." The boy
set off like lightning on the road which led to the river, and the
gipsy again turned to Colonel Manners. "Give me your hand, sir," he
said.

Colonel Manners did as he desired, smiling while he did so at a
certain lurking feeling of the ridicule of his situation, which he
could not repress. "If any of my old fellow-soldiers were to see me
here," he thought, "taking counsel with a gipsy upon my future fate
and prospects, they would certainly think Charles Manners mad." The
gipsy, however, gazed seriously upon his hand, and then raised his
eyes to the other's face, without the slightest expression in his own
countenance which could raise a suspicion that he was seeking to play
upon credulity.

"Colonel Manners," said Pharold, "before I tell you what I read here,
listen to me for one moment. Most people who come to us on such an
errand smile as they give us their hand; some because they believe us
thoroughly, and affect by a laugh to show they do not believe at all;
while some, who really do not believe, smile out of vain conceit in
their own superior strength of mind: but do you remember that this
that we practise is, when properly practised, a science in which we
have ourselves the most confident faith. We never inquire afterward
whether what we have predicted has proved true or not, for we are
always sure that it must do so: but, at all events, such confidence in
our own knowledge cannot spring from nothing."

Manners could have easily found a reply in favour of his own side of
the question, but he did not think it worth while to argue logically
upon chiromancy with a gipsy, although that gipsy might be somewhat
superior to others of his tribe; and, therefore, without answering the
arguments of Pharold, he remained in silence, while the other again
turned a very steadfast glance upon his extended hand.

"Colonel Manners," said the gipsy at length, "if I read right, you
have been a fortunate man."

"And, in some respects, an unfortunate one," rejoined his auditor,
"though, in truth, I have no great reason to complain."

"Far more fortunate than unfortunate," answered the gipsy. "Here are
but three crosses in all your life as yet; two so near the beginning,
that you could not have felt them; and one--a deep one--much more
lately."

Colonel Manners smiled. "In the past you are certainly not far wrong:
but it is the future I wish to hear: what of it?"

"You mock us, sir," said the gipsy, eying him. "However, you shall
hear your fate as it is. You shall be fortunate and unfortunate."

"That is the common lot of human nature," rejoined Colonel Manners.

"But herein does your fate differ from the common lot of human
nature," replied the gipsy: "you shall be no longer fortunate in those
things wherein you have hitherto found success; for you shall do all
that you think you will not do; and prosper where you neither hope nor
strive."

"That is certainly a strange fate," answered Manners; "for I have ever
found that success is a coy goddess, who needs all our efforts to
obtain her smiles, and even then gives them but sparingly."

"It _is_ a strange fate, and yet, in some sense, it is not," answered
the gipsy; "your painters rightly represent Fortune as a woman, though
they might as well have left her eyes unbandaged; for it is neither
new nor marvellous to see woman fly from those that pursue her, and
cast herself into the arms of those who care not for her smiles. And
yet the fate written on that hand is strange, too; for it speaks of
fortunes as fair without effort, for the future, as those of the past
have been rendered by toil and exertion. It is a strange fate; but,
nevertheless it shall be yours: and now, forget not my words, but,
when you find them verified, remember him that spoke them."

"But are you going to tell me no more?" demanded Colonel Manners: "I
would fain have you come a little more to particulars, my good friend.
One can make but little of these broad generalities."

"One can make nothing to laugh at," answered the gipsy, "and therefore
I shall keep to them, though, perhaps, I could tell you more. Remember
them, however, and, as you will soon find them true, lay them to your
heart, sir, and let them teach you to believe, that a thing is not
false because you do not understand it; that there may be truths
without the range either of your knowledge or of your faculties--some
that you cannot comprehend, because they have not been explained to
you; and some that, if they were explained to you a thousand times,
your mind is too narrow to conceive--and yet they are."

"I wish, my good friend, that I could send you to converse with
Voltaire," said Colonel Manners. "Who is he?" demanded Pharold; "I do
not know him."

"No," replied Manners; "I dare say not: but he is a famous wit, who
dabbles in philosophy, and seems inclined to teach the world, by his
example, if not by his precepts, that man should credit nothing that
he cannot understand."

"And what should I do with him'?" demanded the gipsy, frowning: "I
think you are mocking me--is it not so?"

"No, on my honour," replied Colonel Manners; "I am not mocking you. On
the contrary, I think you a very extraordinary person, and fitted for
a different station from that in which I find you. Whether you
yourself believe that which you have told me concerning my future
fortune, or not, I thank you for having gratified me; and, at all
events, I have derived from your conversation more that I shall
remember long, than I anticipated when I came here. Will you accept of
that?"

Colonel Manners offered him one of those beautiful golden pieces which
are now, I fear me, lost to the world for ever, and which were then
called guineas. But the gipsy put it away. "No," he said; "you have
undertaken to fulfil my request, and I have complied with yours. We
owe each other nothing, then. Farewell!" and, turning on his heel, he
left Colonel Manners to descend the hill, thinking him more
extraordinary than ever, from the last very ungipsy-like act, by which
he had terminated their conversation.

The sun was now much higher than when Manners had trod that path
before; for, according to his usual custom, the gracious luminary
seemed to have run more quickly at his first rising than he does after
having climbed the steep hill of heaven; and the wayfarer began to
think that he might be late at Mrs. Falkland's breakfast-table, where
cold eggs and lukewarm coffee were the just punishments of those who
linger long abed. As he had closed the park gate, however, and had not
the key, he was obliged to go round and enter by the other side of the
house; but this proceeding, at all events, tended to solve one mystery
connected with his late interview. In the hall the first object he
beheld was the little gipsy boy whom he had seen with Pharold on the
hill; and he now found him in conversation with Mrs. Falkland herself,
who appeared to be asking after some of the Egyptian fraternity who
were ill. Old Peter stood behind, keeping a wary eye upon the boy,
whom he justly considered a very promising élève in no inferior school
of petty larceny; and as Colonel Manners approached, Mrs. Falkland
terminated her inquiries, and made over her little companion to the
care of the footman, with orders to give him something and send him
away; an order, the latter part of which was complied with in a more
summary manner than she anticipated, as soon as her back was turned.

"Good-morning, Colonel Manners," she said, as they walked towards the
breakfast-room; "you find me with a curious little companion: but the
fact is, that, while you were all out walking yesterday, a poor gipsy
woman accidentally fell down from the high bank close by the house,
and was brought in here, completely stunned. The village apothecary
was away; and, as I endeavour to enact my Lady Bountiful, I did what I
could for the poor creature, who soon recovered. We had half a dozen
of her tribe in the servant's hall, however; and, much to the butler's
and Peter's surprise--and, I must confess, to my own also--when they
went away, nothing was missing. According to a promise made by one of
them, they have sent me down that little boy this morning to tell me
that the poor woman is now quite well. I wished to have despatched the
apothecary to her, and offered to do so as soon as he returned; but
they seemed to have an invincible repugnance to all the professors of
the healing art."

"All people, I believe, who enjoy very good health," replied Colonel
Manners, "feel the same towards the learned doctors--the very sight of
one reminds us of losing one of the best blessings of Heaven. However,
the meeting with that little gipsy gentleman here explains something
which I might have made a mystery of, had I not heard your account of
your yesterday's interview; for this morning I had a long conversation
with a gipsy on the hill--a very singular person--who addressed me at
once by name, and seemed perfectly well acquainted with my being at
your house."

"Oh, your servant was present yesterday," replied Mrs. Falkland, "and,
with all the dexterity of an old soldier, gave us very great
assistance in bringing the poor woman to herself. I remarked, too,
that her gipsy companions did but little, and contented themselves
with standing round, asking irrelevant questions of the servants,
which, of course, in that temple of tittle-tattle, a servant's hall,
they found somebody willing to answer; so that I dare say there was
nothing supernatural in your name being known on the hill. But how
came you, Colonel Manners," she added, with a smile, "how came you in
such deep consultation with a gipsy at this hour of the morning? You
surely have not been having your fortune told?"

"I must plead guilty, I am afraid," replied Colonel Manners; "but if
the fault be a very grievous one, I must lay the blame upon Miss
Falkland, as it was under her special injunctions that I went."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Falkland; "and to answer what object?"

"Oh, if you mean Miss Falkland's object, I really cannot tell," he
replied; "and my object was certainly a very foolish one, but one that
leads many a man to do a still more foolish thing: I mean, it was to
prove that I was not afraid."

"And pray, what was the result?" demanded Mrs. Falkland; but by this
time they were at the breakfast-room door, and Colonel Manners
declared that he would not communicate his fate to any one before he
revealed it to Miss Falkland in general consistory. This he had soon
an opportunity of doing: and the whole business was laughed at gayly
enough. It is wonderful how light a little merriment soon makes every
thing appear; and this is the reason why, in moments of mirth and
cheerfulness, so many secrets are revealed that one would often give
worlds to shut up again in the casket of one's own breast. Let wise
diplomatists keep far from merriment; for a light laugh or a gay
witticism, whose idle wings seemed hardly strong enough to flutter it
across the table, has often taken a weighty secret on its back, and
flown away with it, never to return. Now, the letter that the gipsy
had given Colonel Manners for his friend he had believed might be of
some importance, as long as he was alone; but every gay word that was
spoken on the subject of gipsies and fortune-telling took away
something from its weight in his estimation; and had he been only
restrained by a sense of its importance, he might have delivered the
letter before breakfast was over, and made a jest of it. It has never
been said that Colonel Manners was perfect; and though his mind was
strong, it certainly was not without a full share of human weaknesses.
Colonel Manners, however, was restrained by something besides a sense
of the letter's importance--he had given his word to deliver it in a
particular manner; and, whatever else he might do in the way of
frailties, he never forgot a promise, though, in the present instance,
it was long ere he found an opportunity of fulfilling the one he had
made the gipsy on the hill.




                            CHAPTER VIII.


Any one who has tried to speak with another for five minutes in
private, without the pomp and circumstance of demanding an interview,
will know that it is almost impossible to find the opportunity,
unless the person be one's own wife. There is always something comes
in the way just at the very moment--something unforeseen and
unlikely,--especially if one be very anxious upon the subject. If the
matter be of no importance, the opportunity presents itself at every
turn; but if one be very, very desirous to unburden a full heart, or
tell a tale of love, or give a valuable hint, or plead the cause of
one's self, or any one else, without the freezing influence of a
formal conference, one may wait hours and days--nay, weeks and months,
sometimes--without finding five minutes open in the whole day.

As soon as breakfast was over, Edward de Vaux followed Marian into the
music-room; and when Marian left him, he came to tell his friend and
Isadore that they proposed making a riding party to see something in
the neighbourhood. Manners went up in his room to prepare; and, as he
found himself on the stairs alone with De Vaux, he had his hand in his
pocket to produce the letter, when Miss Falkland's step sounded close
by them, and her voice invited her cousin to come with her, and see a
little present she had bought for Marian's birthday. As soon as
Manners was equipped for riding, he went to De Vaux's room,
calculating--as he usually dressed in half the time that his friend
expended on such exertions--that he would find him there: but no one
was in the apartment but a servant, who told him that Mr. De Vaux had
gone down. As he passed along one of the corridors, he saw De Vaux
sauntering across the lawn towards the gates of the stable-yard; but
ere he could catch him, his friend was surrounded by grooms and
servants, receiving his orders concerning the horses; and as they
turned again towards the house. Marian and Miss Falkland were standing
in their riding dresses on the steps.

"Well, I must wait," thought Manners, reflecting sagely on the
difficulties of executing punctually even so simple a commission as
that which he had undertaken. "Well, I must wait till we go to dress
for dinner; then I am sure to find my opportunity."

He was not destined, however, to remain burdened with his secret so
long. The ride was pleasant, but did not extend far; and on the return
of the party, while Manners and De Vaux stood looking at their boots
in the hall, Miss Falkland and her cousin retired to change their
dress, and the opportunity was not lost.

"Now we are alone," said Manners, "let me execute a commission with
which I am charged towards you, De Vaux, and which has teased me all
the morning."

"Not a challenge, I hope," replied the other; "for it seems a solemn
embassy."

"No, no, nothing of the kind," answered his friend; "but the fact
is--"

"Please, sir," said Colonel Manners' servant, opening the glass doors,
"I believe the young mare is throwing out a splint; and I did not like
to--"

"Well, well," said Manners, somewhat impatiently, "I will come and see
her myself, presently--I am engaged just now." The man withdrew; and
resuming his discourse at the precise point where he had left off,
Manners continued, "The fact is, that gipsy, of whom I was speaking
this morning, charged me with a letter to you, which I promised to
deliver in private, and when you were likely to be able to read it
without interruption."

"A gipsy!" said De Vaux, knitting his brows; "the circle of my
acquaintance has extended itself farther than I thought, and in a
class, also, equally beyond my wishes and anticipations: but are you
sure there is no mistake? does he really mean me?"

"There is the letter," replied Manners, "with your titles, _nomen
and cognomen_, as clearly superscribed as ever I saw them
written:--Captain the Honourable Edward de Vaux, with many et
cæteras."

"And in a good hand, and on tolerably clean paper," said De Vaux,
taking the letter, and gazing on the back. "Why, this gipsy of yours
must be a miracle, Manners."

"He is a very extraordinary person, certainly," answered his
companion, "both in his ideas and his deportment, which are equally
above his class."

"Nay, he must be a miracle--a complete miracle!" said De Vaux,
laughing, "if he can mend kettles and write such an address as that,
with the same good right hand. But this must be a begging letter."

"I think not," replied Manners: "it would not surprise me to find that
he knows more of you than you imagine; but, at all events, read the
letter."

De Vaux turned the letter, looked at the seal, which offered a very
good impression, though one with which he was not acquainted, and
then, tearing open the paper, read the contents. The very first words
made his eye strain eagerly upon the page; a few lines more rendered
him deadly pale; and though, as he went on, his agitation did not
increase, yet the intensity of his gaze upon the sheet before him was
not at all diminished; and when he had concluded it, after staring
vacantly in his companion's face for a moment, he again turned to the
letter, and read it attentively over once more.

"I am afraid I have brought you evil tidings, De Vaux," said Colonel
Manners, who had watched with some anxiety the changes upon the
countenance of his friend: "if so, can I serve you? You know Charles
Manners; and I need scarcely say how much pleasure it will give me to
do any thing for you."

"I must think, Manners--I must think," replied De Vaux: "these are
strange tidings indeed, and vouched boldly too; but I doubt whether I
have a right to communicate them to any one but the person they affect
next to myself. However, I must think ere I act at all. Forgive me for
not making you a sharer of them; and excuse me now, for I am much
agitated, and hardly well."

"Let me be no restraint upon you, De Vaux," answered his friend. "If I
can serve you, tell me; if I can alleviate any thing you suffer by
sympathy, let me share in what you feel; but do not suppose for a
moment that I even desire to hear any thing that it may be proper to
keep to your own bosom. Leave me now, without ceremony: but take care
how you act, De Vaux; for I see there is matter of much importance in
your mind; and you are, sometimes at least, in military affairs, a
little hasty."

"I will be as cool and thoughtful as yourself, my friend," replied De
Vaux; "but I am agitated, and the best place for me is my own room."

Thus saying, he left his friend, not a little surprised, indeed, that
such a letter from such a person should have had the power to produce
on the mind of a man like De Vaux the extreme agitation which he had
just witnessed. De Vaux, he well knew, was not one to give credence to
any thing lightly, or to yield to any slight feeling which a first
impression might produce; but, in the present instance, it was evident
that his friend had received a shock from some tidings which had been
totally unexpected, but which must have been probable, as well as
unpleasant, to produce such an effect. The extraordinary fact,
however, that news of such importance should be left to the
transmission of such a man as the gipsy--so separated by station, and
state, and circumstances, from the person whom they concerned--was of
course a matter of much astonishment to Colonel Manners; and surprise
divided his bosom with anxiety and sympathy for his friend.

It is a very disagreeable thing to have any two feelings thus making a
shuttlecock of our attention; or, when they are very eager, struggling
for it with mutual pertinacity; but the only way to act under such
circumstances is, to treat them like two quarrelsome boys; and,
shutting them up together, leave them to fight it out without
interruption. Such was the plan which Colonel Manners now proposed to
pursue; and, consequently, quitting the hall where his conversation
with De Vaux had taken place, he walked straight to the library, and
opened the door.

What happened next was not without its importance; but as the mind may
be at this moment more anxious concerning De Vaux than concerning his
companion, we will follow him up the staircase as lightly as possible;
enter his chamber, lay our hand upon his bosom, draw the curtain, and
show the reader the scene within. But it may be as well first to look
at that letter upon the table before which he is sitting, with his
left hand upon his brow, and his right partly covering the sheet of
paper which had so disturbed him. If one can draw it gently out from
underneath his fingers, while his eyes are shut and his thoughts are
busy, one may read what follows:--

"To Captain Edward de Vaux." Here, be it remarked, that there was a
difference between the superscription and the address; the latter
having borne, "To Captain the Honourable Edward de Vaux," while in the
inside was merely written, "To Captain Edward de Vaux."

The difference may appear insignificant; but, in the present instance,
and with the commentary of the epistle itself thereon, it signifies a
great deal. However, the letter went on:--


"_To Captain Edward de Vaux_.

"Sir: I shall make no excuse for addressing you, as I am fully
justified therein; and you yourself, however great the pain I may
inflict upon you, will eventually admit that I am so. You are about, I
understand, to unite your fate to a young lady of rank and fortune;
and it is more than possible that mutual affection and mutual good
feelings would render your union happy. Nevertheless, believing you to
be a man of honour, I feel sure that you would not like to lead any
one into such an alliance with expectations which are not alone
doubtful, but fallacious. It is therefore necessary that you should
know more precisely how you are situated; and I hesitate not to inform
you, that on the title and estates held by your father you have no
earthly right to calculate; that, should you marry Miss de Vaux, you
bring with you nothing but your commission as a captain in the army;
and that whatever you expect from your parent will most certainly go
to another person. Your first conclusion--as a world in which there
are so many villains is naturally suspicious--will be, that this
letter is written either by some one who intends to set up some unjust
claim to your rightful inheritance, by some disappointed suitor of
your bride, or by some malevolent envier of another's happiness. Such,
however, is not the fact. The person who writes this owes some
gratitude to your family; not so much for what was accomplished, as
for what your grandfather sought to accomplish in his favour. You may
have heard the story--in which case you will give more credence to the
present letter--or you may not have heard the story: but still, the
way to satisfy yourself is open before you. Either resolve to question
your father boldly concerning the points herein contained; or, if you
would have the facts proved so that you cannot doubt them, come alone
to the gipsies' tents, in the sand-pit on Morley Down, this evening or
early to-morrow morning, and inquire for

                                         "Pharold."


Now, under any ordinary circumstances, the only course which De Vaux
would have pursued might have been, to twist up the paper into any
strange and fanciful form that the whim of the moment suggested, and
put it into the first fire he met with, giving it hardly a second
thought. But there were circumstances totally distinct from, and
independent of, the letter itself, which gave it a degree of
importance far above that which it intrinsically possessed. Edward de
Vaux, though he had a slight recollection of a dark-eyed, beautiful
creature, whom in his infancy he had called mother, lost all
remembrance of her at a particular period of his life, and had never
since, that he knew of, heard her name mentioned. He passed, it is
true, for Lord Dewry's legitimate son, was received as such in
society, and admitted as such by his own family and relations. But, if
so, how was it he had never seen a picture of his mother among those
of his ancestors, and beside that of his father, which stood in the
gallery, and represented him as a man of about thirty-five years of
age?--How was it he had never heard his mother's jewels mentioned,
though those of the two baronesses who had preceded her were often
referred to? How was it that his aunt, Mrs. Falkland, as he inferred
from many facts, had never seen his mother? How was it that his father
had never spoken her name in his hearing? All this had often struck
him as something very extraordinary; and a thousand minor
circumstances, which cannot be here recapitulated, had shown him that
there was some mystery in regard to his family, which had frequently
given him pain. Since his return, however, something more had
occurred: two or three words had been spoken by his father, during
their dispute concerning Colonel Manners, which had startled him at
the time with a suspicion which he had instantly banished, but which
now came up again with fearful confirmation of the tidings he had just
received. Lord Dewry had declared that he could be deprived of the
entailed estates of the barony by a single word. At the time, that
expression had but slightly alarmed him; for, well knowing the
violence of his father's disposition, and the acts and words of almost
insane vehemence to which any opposition would drive him, he had
instantly concluded that it was a meaningless threat, spoken to punish
him for the spirit of resistance he had displayed. But now it came
back in its full force; and he asked himself, what could such words
mean, if he were a legitimate child? The estates were entailed on the
male heir; he himself was the only male heir in the present line; and
if by birth he were the lawful son of Lord Dewry, no earthly power
could deprive him of the lands of his forefathers. But his father, who
had been educated for the bar before he succeeded to the title, had
told him that a word would take them from him. A stranger now repeated
the same tale, and pointed more directly to the same conclusion; and
all his former recollections changed his bitter doubts into a terrible
certainty.

Edward de Vaux bent down his head upon his hands, and covered his
eyes, with a feeling of shame and degradation that was hardly
supportable. It was not alone one well of bitterness that was opened
upon him; but, in whatever direction he turned his thoughts, new gall
and wormwood was poured into his cup. If there had been aught on earth
of which he had been proud--and, in that instance, his pride, though
bridled and restrained by better feelings, had been great;--if there
had been any thing on earth of which he had been proud, it had been of
his clear descent from thirteen generations of noble ancestors. He had
taken a delight, even from boyhood, in tracing the recorded history of
each, and in proving that there had not been one, from the founder of
the family to his own immediate parent, who had not been well
deserving of the rank and station that they held in their native land.
He had drawn from his noble birth the moral which noble birth should
always afford; and had determined that he, too, would deserve the
title that they had received for great deeds; that he, too, would
transmit the jewel of hereditary virtue to his children as an
heirloom, unimpaired in passing through his hands. He knew that, in
the words of a great natural poet,--


             "The rank is but the guinea's stamp--
                The man's the gold for a' that;"


and he felt that, to bear the name of noble, without being noble in
his heart, was but to carry the die of value upon inferior metal, and
pass upon society a base and worthless counterfeit. But all such
thoughts, such remembrances, and aspirations were now at an end. He
could no longer look back to mighty men amid his forefathers, for the
world's law cut the link between him and them. He had no longer a
proud name to keep up and adorn with noble actions, for he was an
illegitimate son, who had unrightfully usurped the name and station
which belonged not to him. His best support, his noblest designs, his
most generous purposes, were cast down, and his heart was laid
prostrate along with them.

But this was not all: he was now a beggar! the estates were entailed,
and descended with the title; and though his father lived in somewhat
gloomy retirement, yet the state with which he had surrounded his
solitude De Vaux well knew could have left little accumulation from
the revenues of his property. Here, then, were new evils to be
encountered. Accustomed to luxury, and ease, and plenty, without one
thought of that sordid ore, the want of which cramps so many a noble
spirit, and stifles so many a great design, he had lived free from one
of the greatest burdens upon man. He had never been lavish or
extravagant, for such was not a part of his nature; but he had been
generous and liberal to others, as well as at ease himself; and now he
felt that every expense must be measured and gauged by considerations
of economy; that every guinea must be weighed and estimated before it
was parted with; that he must look upon money in a light that he had
never done before; that he must make it a continual object of thought;
that his mind, like the traveller in the land of the Lilliputians,
must be painfully pinioned down on every side by the irritating ties
of petty cares; that his ease must be at an end, and his generosity
cease.

There was more, however, far more bitter kept mingling in the draught.
Round the idea of one's mother the mind of man clings with fond
affection. It is the first sweet, deep thought stamped upon our infant
hearts, when yet soft and capable of receiving the most profound
impressions, and all the after-feelings of the world are more or less
light in comparison. I do not know that even in our old age we do not
look back to that feeling as the sweetest we have known through life.
Our passions and our wilfulness may lead us far from the object of our
filial love; we learn even to pain her heart, to oppose her wishes, to
violate her commands; we may become wild, headstrong, and angry at her
counsels or her opposition; but when death has stilled her monitory
voice, and nothing but calm memory remains to recapitulate her virtues
and good deeds, affection, like a flower beaten to the ground by a
past storm, raises up her head and smiles among the tears. Round that
idea, as we have said, the mind clings with fond affection; and even
when the early period of our loss forces memory to be silent, fancy
takes the place of remembrance, and twines the image of our dead
parent with a garland of graces, and beauties, and virtues, which we
doubt not that she possessed. Thus had it been with De Vaux: he could
just call to mind a face that had appeared to him very beautiful, and
a few kind and tender words from the lips of her he had called mother;
but he had fancied her all that was good, and gentle, and virtuous;
and now that he was forced to look upon her as a fallen being, as one
who had not only forgotten virtue herself, but, in sin, had brought
him into the world, to degradation and shame, what could be his
feelings towards her?

Horrid! horrid is it to say, that the world should take unto itself
that awful power claimed by Almighty Omniscience, of visiting the sins
of the fathers upon the children, and of making the guiltless
offspring more than share the punishment inflicted on the offending
parent! But so De Vaux felt that the world does, and that, in his
instance, it was not alone the usual contemptible sneer, or still more
contemptible neglect, that he was destined to meet; but that he must
expect all the venomous pity and malignant compassion which his fall,
more than his situation, would excite, and which the hard and
unfeeling beings of the earth affect to experience for those they wish
most powerfully to depress.

Such accumulated feelings were all bitter enough; but there was one
more bitter still, more filled with agony and degradation. De Vaux, as
we have seen, was engaged to a being full of beauty, and grace, and
gentleness, by promises which united them to each other, not alone as
persons of high rank and fortune, having found a fitting alliance; but
as two people who had known each other from infancy, had grown up in
affection, and had for many a year looked forward to their marriage as
the means of securing to both the utmost degree of human happiness for
life; as the binding on of a talisman, that would shut out from their
domestic hearth all the evil things of earth. With De Vaux, these
feelings, these anticipations, were even stronger. He loved Marian
with the fullest, deepest, most passionate attachment. Towards her his
heart was all fire and thrilling energy; and, though there were times
when he somewhat doubted that her feelings were of as powerful a kind
towards him, yet he believed that she loved him as much as she could
love; and perhaps even her slight reserve made him love her the more
ardently. The day for their marriage was already fixed; the bridal
ornaments were all prepared; their future life had, in the
conversation of that very day, been laid out before them as on a map,
and Edward de Vaux had as much doubted, when he sprang from his horse,
that Marian, in all her beauty, was to be his bride within three short
weeks, as he doubted of his own existence.

Now, however, what were his feelings?--now that his situation was
changed in every particular,--that in fortune, and in station, he had
fallen at once from the situation in which she had promised him her
hand; and when he felt that he had no right to claim from Marian de
Vaux the execution of a promise which she had made under different
circumstances, and to which he believed that all her friends would, of
course, be opposed, as soon as his real position became known? He felt
that he had no right either to ask or to expect it; and the darkest
image that presented itself to his mind was, the loss of her he loved,
for ever. Nor did this image come before him vague and undefined, as a
thing of remote possibility,--though even then the apprehension would
have been terrible enough,--but, in his present state of despondency,
it appeared as an undoubted and inevitable certainty--as a thing that
must and would take place. He felt as if Marian were _already_ lost to
him for ever, and the bright bubble of his happiness irreparably
broken. He fancied, also,--he could not help imagining, that something
like contempt would mingle in the pity that she felt for him. She was
herself so pure,--delicacy, modesty, and virtue so characterized her
every movement, and her every word,--that he tortured himself with
believing that a part of the reprobation and scorn with which she must
think of his mother, would fall upon himself. "She will look upon me
as the child of vice," he thought; "she will see in me the offspring
of guilt and shame, and will easily make up her mind to the
separation. She is always so reasonable, and so willing to do what she
considers right, at any sacrifice, that her mind will soon be tutored
to forget Edward de Vaux. Were she of that warm, ardent, deep-feeling
nature that casts fate and happiness upon one die, I might hope that
she would still cling to me: but it is in vain thinking of it--I have
no reason to hope it. She will follow the dictates of common sense and
prudence, and abandon an alliance which all her friends would now
oppose."

Poor Marian! thus did her unhappy lover contrive to wring his own
heart even with her very virtues. After thinking for at least an hour
in gloomy silence, a faint hope crossed his mind, that he might have
mistaken the import of the letter--that his apprehensions might have
deceived him. Experience, gained from the consequences of our faults,
almost always, sooner or later, gives us a vague, unsatisfactory
consciousness that such things exist in our bosom; and Edward de Vaux
did know that he was given to torment himself needlessly. He therefore
read the letter over again, and read it carefully; but, on doing so,
his first impression was but the more confirmed.

"Yet it might be false," he thought; "the whole tale might be false,
or might refer to something else, and be the mere blunder of some
ignorant and presumptuous person." But then the remembrance of his
father's words returned, and all that had before seemed strange
regarding his mother came up before his mind; and he once more gave
himself up to despair.

What was to be done, became the next question. There was just a
sufficient portion of doubt mingled with his feelings to hold him
tortured in suspense, without being enough to approach the limit of
hope. This state, of course, he could have borne no longer under any
circumstances; but his situation in regard to Marian rendered it
absolutely necessary that he should put an end to all doubt upon the
business. And yet it was terrible, most terrible, to feel that it must
be his own hand which tore away the veil that concealed the obstacles
to his marriage--that it must be his own hand that cast away his
happiness for ever. The thought might cross his mind of letting things
take their course--of choosing to disbelieve the letter--of treating
it with contempt, and of proceeding with Marian to the altar, to
secure the blessing of her hand, at least, before the rest was
snatched from him. But if it did cross his mind, it was but as the
image of a thing that might be with some men, but could never be with
him. It occupied not a moment's consideration--it left no trace behind
it. To investigate the matter instantly, and to the bottom, became his
determination; and, having done so, to make the result known to those
interested, and at once place himself fearlessly in the situation
which he had alone a right to fill. He did get that there might be
circumstances in the story which he was about to hear which might
render it necessary to conceal it from the public ear, in
consideration for the feelings of his father, or of others. But to
Marian, at least, the facts must be told; she was too deeply
implicated in it all to be left in ignorance of what touched her whole
future happiness; and De Vaux resolved that not only should she be
told, but that no lips but his own should tell it, as he well knew how
a few explicative words, or a well-turned round of phrases, may
pervert a plain tale from its true meaning. "I will trust none," he
thought; "and, whatever the truth may be, from my lips alone shall she
first hear it."

The course to be pursued in his investigation became the next
question. Two were pointed out in the letter itself; but from the
first, that of applying to his father, he shrank with irresistible
repugnance. It was not alone that De Vaux, as is common--we might
almost say universal--among men, possessed more physical than moral
courage; that he feared the fierce and angry mood of his father,
irritated as he had been by late opposition, and loved not to venture
upon a discussion with him, which would rouse every dark and stormy
passion into fiery activity; but he feared himself also: he feared
that anguish and anger, and the haughty irritation with which he was
sure to be encountered, might make him forget himself, and say words
that no after-sorrow could recall. There might still be a doubt, too,
upon even the very subject of his fears, and he felt that were those
fears unfounded, his father might justly look upon it as little better
than a gross personal insult, were he asked if he had passed his
illegitimate son upon the world as legitimate, and promoted his union
with the heiress of a large fortune, under the pretence of his being
heir to an honourable name and great possessions.

De Vaux might believe that such conduct was not impossible; he might
also think that his father was not actuated in so doing by the mean
and sordid views which, at first sight, seem the only motives
assignable for such behaviour. Various circumstances might have
occurred, in earlier years, to make his father acknowledge an unreal
marriage with his mother; considerations for her feelings, or for his
own respectability, might be among the rest. Once having said so, and
spoken of himself as of a legitimate child, Edward de Vaux knew well
that his father's proud and reserved nature might have made him ever
after silent upon the subject, till explanation became almost
impossible; and the deceit he had practised or permitted might have
been rather the result of haughty reserve than of cunning artifice.

De Vaux felt that, however, ere he presumed to insinuate to his father
a bare suspicion of his having committed such an act, he must have
much better information and clearer proof to justify the charge. When
such evidence was once obtained, he might communicate the discovery he
had made to Lord Dewry by letter, and thus avoid that painful
collision which a personal discussion of the matter must induce; or,
if he found that the evidence was faulty or inconclusive; that there
was motive for suspicion against the person who tendered it, or that
the whole was an interested calumny, he might lay it before his
father, as an affair which required him to investigate the assertions,
and punish the authors of them.

The determination, therefore, was taken to visit the gipsy himself;
and the only consideration that remained was, whether to go alone, or
to ask Manners to accompany him. From the latter idea he shrank, as,
in that case, he must have exposed to his friend doubts and
apprehensions which were bitterly humiliating, and might even
compromise the secrets of others, to whom his friend was a stranger,
in a manner which he had no right to do. The letter, also, bade him
come alone; and, on reading it over once more, everything tended to
make him give credence both to the sincerity of the writer and the
accuracy of the facts. He had a faint remembrance, too, of having
heard the name of Pharold mentioned by his aunt, as connected with the
early days of her family; and the fact of the writer having referred
him, in the first instance, to his own father, tended to show that
there existed no design against himself personally. Besides, De Vaux
was not a man to entertain fears of any kind for his own safety; and,
as he clearly saw that Manners was totally ignorant of the contents of
the letter which he had brought him, he determined to go alone, and
investigate the matter thoroughly.

His next question to his own heart was, "and, in the meantime, what
shall be my conduct towards Marian? How shall I behave while I expect
and believe that a few more hours will alter our situation towards
each other for ever, and render that conduct wrong which was perfectly
consistent with our engagement towards each other? If I change my
manner, she may think my affection cooled, and feel herself unkindly
treated. But then," he thought again, bitterly enough, "but then that
will but serve to smooth the way to the change which is ultimately to
take place; and perhaps it had better be reached by some such
intermediate step." The next moment, again, his wavering thoughts
turned to the other side, and he demanded whether he had any right
to give her one instant's pain more than necessary. The reply was
ready:--"No, no! that were cruel and unkind indeed; and should I do
so, and my fears prove false, my behaviour would necessarily, from all
the circumstances of the case, remain unexplained--a dark blot upon my
affection towards her. Yet, hereafter, if she should learn that such
tidings have been in my possession,--that such doubts have been justly
working in my mind,--will she not think it wrong, and even deceitful,
of me to treat her as my promised bride, when I know that she never
can be such?"

What was to be done? De Vaux, according to the old scholastic term,
had got himself between the horns of a dilemma; and we must pause for
one moment, in order to inquire how far he was art and part in putting
himself into that situation. It is wonderful, most wonderful, how
people deceive themselves in this world, and how they go on arguing
with themselves on both sides of the question for an hour together,
affecting to be puzzled, and asking themselves what is to be done,
when, from the very first, they have determined, in secret counsel,
what to do; and all this logic and disquisition has solely been for
the purpose of bewildering _reason_, or _duty_, or _conscience_, or
any other of those personified qualities of the soul, which the great
parliament of man's passions choose to look upon as _the public_, _the
spectators_.

Now, at that point of De Vaux's cogitations wherein he thought, and
rejected the idea, of admitting Manners to his confidence in the
matter before him, as is fully displayed three or four pages back, a
fancy struck him, which instantly changed into a secret resolution,
not to make Manners his confidant in the business, but to open his
whole heart to Marian de Vaux; and although it needed scarcely any
argument to prove that she, whose fate was the most strictly bound up
with his own, whose affection he certainly possessed, and whose good
sense he never doubted, was the person, of all others, in whom he
ought to confide; yet, some idle cant that he had read in some foolish
book, or heard from some foolish people, about the absurdity of
trusting a woman; some silly sneer or insignificant jest, magnified
into a bugbear through the mist of memory, had power enough to make
him hide his own determination from himself; and, in the first
instance, go the roundabout path we have traced, in order to prove
that he had no other resource but to tell her the whole affair, ere he
boldly admitted his resolution even to his own heart, and brought
forward the true and upright motives on which it was founded. So weak
is human nature!

As soon as this was done, the matter was no longer difficult; all
embarrassment in regard to his conduct was removed, and he felt that
what was kindest and what was most affectionate, was also the most
just and the most reasonable. Whatever was the truth of the assertions
contained in the letter he had received, and to whatever facts it
alluded, it pointed principally at his union with Marian, and the
disparity of fortune and rank which the writer affirmed to exist
between them. She, therefore, was a person principally concerned; and
on her ultimate decision their fate must rest. De Vaux feared not that
any loss of fortune could affect Marian's regard: he could not have
loved her had he supposed it would; but he did fear that the stigma,
which he believed might rest upon his birth, and which he himself felt
as so deeply humiliating, might make a difference in her feelings;
and, when backed by the counsel and arguments of some of her maternal
relations, might make her resolves unfavourable to his hopes. But
still, in telling her all, from the beginning, in concealing nothing,
in acting at once affectionately and candidly, he felt that he was
establishing the best claim to continued affection and esteem: he
felt, too, that, if there had been deceit on any part, such conduct
would be the best proof to all that he was as free as day from any
participation in it, and that, whatever were the result, his honour
and his name would be clear.

His determination, therefore, was backed by every motive, but still it
required great delicacy in executing it. It was necessary not to shock
or to pain her--he loved too much to do so--and yet to be perfectly
explicit. It was requisite to tell her all, and to leave her fully
convinced of his unalterable love; yet perfectly free to form her own
decision on her future conduct. The hour, too, and the manner, were
matters for consideration, and he resolved not to delay, but let the
communication be made immediately, and as a matter of importance. It
would require time, however; and, as it was already late, he was
obliged to make up his mind that the visit to the gipsy must take
place on the following morning: he only paused, then, to recover his
composure completely, and to think of the best method of telling
Marian the whole, in such a manner as to give her the least pain, yet
show his confidence and affection the most clearly.

He accordingly sat still, and laid it out like the plan of a battle;
but in this he was very wrong; as, by so doing, he naturally presented
Marian to his fancy in the light of the enemy. The consequences were,
that his own private little demon instantly saw his advantage, and,
whispering in De Vaux's ear, made his irritable and irritated spirit
believe that Marian would act in a thousand different ways, which he
could not blame, yet did not like. The fiend, who well knows how to
seize probabilities, took hold of every particular point in Marian's
character which could give him any thing to cling to; and De Vaux saw,
in the glass of fancy, her beautiful countenance looking upon him as
calmly and as reasonably as ever, without a shade of agitation passing
over its placid sweetness during the whole time that he, with
difficulty, and hesitation, and agony of spirit, and humiliation of
heart, was telling her all his anxieties and apprehensions. He saw, in
the same magic glass, the very spot of the room where she would stand,
and the fine easy line of her figure, all displaying perfect composure
and graceful ease; and he heard the soft, sweet modulations of her
voice, calm, gentle, but unaltered; and at length he thought, "I know
perfectly what she will say when she hears it: she will declare that I
am too hasty in my conclusions; that I must see the gipsy, or whatever
he may be, and hear the whole of what he has to say; for that the
matter is too important to be judged of hastily, and that when we know
the whole, and have had time to consider, we can decide: or she will
speak of consulting my aunt, or her great uncle Lord Westerham, or any
other of those cold, disinterested people who can give proper advice
upon the subject: and yet I do my aunt injustice; for though of a
decided nature, she is not of a cold-hearted one."

Thus, then, did he torment himself for some minutes, taking as much
pains to make himself miserable as if there were not quite enough pain
in this world without our seeking it. Nor did he stop here; but went
on in the same train till he had almost wrought himself out of the
determination of telling Marian at all, though he ultimately came back
to his first resolution. It is not to be concealed that all this
hesitation, and a great deal of this anguish, proceeded from his
having fallen into the common error of giving the reins over to
imagination, and believing that he had placed them safely in the hands
of reason. Had he acted wisely, he would not have sat down to fancy
any thing upon the subject at all, but he would have risen up, on the
contrary, as soon as his resolution was taken, and, seeking out her he
loved, would have told her all his doubts and fears, without thinking
at all previously either of what he would say or what she would say.
Nature, left alone to work her own way, in a thousand instances out
of a thousand and one does it gracefully; but if one calls in to
counsel her all the host of man's passions, prejudices, faults, and
foibles--though judgment may be present too--yet, nine times out
often, the multitude of counsellors, in this case, produces any thing
but safety. Neither is there ever any use of long consideration in
circumstances like those we have mentioned. What we will do always
requires thought; how we will do it, seldom, if ever. Trust to your
own heart, if you have a good one; and if it be bad, the sooner you
hurry it through the business the better. It is equally vain thinking
what we will say ourselves, for we are sure never to say it; and still
more fruitless to fancy what other people will say, for we know
nothing about it.

De Vaux, however, was in some respects a curious compound of very
different principles. With all his errors and with all his faults, he
had a great deal of candour; and, however keen he might be in
investigating and lashing the motives of other people, he was not half
so strict an inquisitor into their failings as he was into his own. As
a consequence of this, though the knowledge often lay dormant, he did
know, as we have often before hinted, with extraordinary accuracy, all
the turnings and windings, the intricacies and the absurdities of his
own nature; and as soon as the rush of passions was over, his
conscience--like the power of the law restored after a popular
tumult--would mount the tribunal, and sit in judgment on his own
heart. Often, too--like the same power exerting itself to repress
anarchy--his better judgment would rise up against the crowd of wild
images presented by an irritable fancy, and after a short struggle
would regain its power.

Thus, in the present instance he felt, after a while, that he was but
anticipating more misery when he had already sufficient to endure;
and, doing in the end what he ought to have done at first, he started
up, and went to seek Marian, in order to give her the opportunity of
letting her own conduct speak for itself.




                             CHAPTER IX.


De Vaux had calmed himself as much as he possibly could; and as he was
not blessed with a face possessing that general expression of jocund
felicity which is usually denominated a smiling countenance, whatever
degree of gravity and care was left in his look at present excited no
particular notice in the drawing-room, whither his steps were first
directed. The party there assembled now consisted of Mrs. Falkland and
her daughter, with Colonel Manners; and the latter alone saw that the
agitation which he had beheld the gipsy's letter produce in his friend
had ended in permanent distress.

"Where is Marian?" said De Vaux, as he entered, not very much
disappointed, perhaps, to find that she was not with the rest of the
family; "where is Marian?--do you know, Isadore?"

"I left her drawing in the little saloon at the other end of the
house," replied Isadore; "but that was a full hour ago, Edward; and if
she expected a gay knight or wandering troubadour to come and sooth
her, either with his _gaie science_ or his _bien dire_, she may have
left her solitude by this time in disappointment."

De Vaux smiled somewhat bitterly, as he felt how much more painfully
he had been employed than he would have been in the occupations to
which Isadore referred; and, again leaving the drawing-room, he sped
along the same passages which, with a light and bounding heart, he had
often trod in search of her upon some joyous errand whom he now sought
with feelings of care, anxiety, and sorrow. Marian was still where her
cousin Isadore had left her; and though, perhaps, she did think that
De Vaux might have found her out sooner, when he had no ostensible
motive for being absent from the side of her he loved, yet, like a
wise girl, she received him with as sweet a smile as if no such slight
reproach had ever crossed her fancy. The next moment she rejoiced that
she had done so; for the expression of anguish in her lover's eyes did
not escape her, and she felt at once that, for whatever other
occupation De Vaux had yielded the pleasure of her society, it was for
no agreeable one.

"Look at this drawing, Edward," she said, as he came in: "do you not
think that I have made my hermit look very melancholy sitting on that
rock?"

"Not so melancholy as my thoughts, dear Marian," replied De Vaux,
gazing over her shoulder, apparently at the drawing, but in truth
hardly seeing a line that the paper contained; "not so melancholy as
my thoughts."

"And what has occurred to make them so, Edward?" she asked, turning
round to read the answer in his face before his lips could reply.
"Surely, I have a right to know, if any one has, what it is that makes
you unhappy."

"You have, dear Marian, you have," he replied; "and I have sought you
out here to make you share in all I feel, though the task be a painful
one. But come here, and sit with me on the sofa by the window, and I
will tell you all." And, taking her by the hand, he led her on towards
one of the windows that looked out over the park; for, however strange
it may be, there are undoubtedly particular positions and particular
situations in which one can tell a disagreeable story more easily than
in others.

Marian was alarmed, and she was agitated, too, within; for she
suffered not her agitation to appear upon the surface when she could
help it; and, as is very natural, she anxiously strove to arrive at
some leading fact as quick as possible. "Something must have occurred
very lately, Edward," she said, "for you were very gay and cheerful
during our ride this morning. Have you heard any thing from your
father to distress you?"

"No, dearest girl," he answered, "I have heard nothing from him; but I
have heard from some one else much that distresses me: but I had
better show you what I have received, which will explain the matter
more briefly than I could do."

So saying, he placed the gipsy's letter in her hand. Marian took it,
and read it through; but, as she knew none of the circumstances which
tended in the mind of De Vaux to corroborate the doubts insinuated by
the letter, she viewed its contents in a different light; and,
returning it with a smile, she asked, "And is that all that has made
you uneasy, Edward? But it is evidently all nonsense, my dear cousin.
If that foolish man, who teased me so much two years ago, were not out
of the country, I should think it was a plan of his to annoy you; but
depend upon it, that this is the trick of some one who wishes to
disturb our happiness. What have we to do with gipsies, Edward? and
how could gipsies know any thing about you and me, unless they were
instructed by somebody else? And if any person in our own rank had
real information, they would of course bring it forward themselves,
and not send it through a set of gipsies."

"You argue well, Marian," answered De Vaux, "and I would fain believe
that you argue rightly; but I am sorry to tell you that several things
have previously occurred, which tend to confirm the assertions
contained in this."

Marian turned a little pale from anxiety for him she loved. "Tell me
all, Edward," she said, "tell me all; I am sure you will conceal
nothing from me."

"Nothing that I know, indeed, Marian," he answered: "I came with the
purpose of opening my whole thoughts to you; for you have every right,
that either true love or our mutual situation can give you, to know
every thing that I know. Well, then, my beloved, the fact which most
completely tends to corroborate the assertions in this letter,
occurred in a conversation between myself and my father yesterday
morning. It was when he was angry in regard to his unfortunate quarrel
with Manners and my opposition of the view he had taken: and he said
sternly, and bitterly enough, that though the estates were entailed, I
could be deprived of them by a word."

"Indeed!" said Marian, thoughtfully, "indeed!" but the next moment she
added, "No, no, Edward, it must have been said in a moment of
passion, without reason, and without truth. Depend upon it, your
father and my uncle would never have spoken about our marriage to me,
and to all my mother's family, as he has often done, calling you
somewhat particularly the heir of his titles and estates, if you were
neither, as that letter says."

"But yet the letter and his words confirm each other," said De Vaux:
"they both tell the same tale, dear Marian. Many a true word is spoken
in a moment of passion, that a man has concealed for years, and would
give worlds afterward to recall. Besides, I think I have heard the
name of this Pharold before: have you not heard my aunt speak of some
gipsy boy that my grandfather wished to educate?"

"Oh, no, not my aunt," answered Marian. "All that happened when she
was very young, quite a child, I believe. It was poor Mrs. Dickinson,
the old housekeeper, who used to tell us stories about that gipsy when
we were children; and his name was Pharold, I think. She spoke of him
as of a fine creature, but very wild."

"You see, dear Marian," said De Vaux, with a gloomy smile, "everything
tends to the same result. My father's words confirm the story of the
gipsy, and what we know of the gipsy would show that he had some
acquaintance with the history of our family."

Marian mused: "It is very strange, Edward," she said at length, "and I
suppose there must, indeed, be some foundation for all this. But yet I
cannot understand it: if the estates are entailed, what is there on
earth that can prevent your inheriting them? If the title goes to the
sons, you must have it; and if it had gone to the daughters, I must
have had it, you know, which would have been all the same thing. If
you do believe this story, as I am afraid you do, tell me how it can
be."

Edward de Vaux paused; for he had never calculated upon going further,
or being more explicit than he had been. He had thought it would be
enough to explain that he was likely to lose the lands and honours of
Dewry, and that Marian would naturally draw her own conclusion, and
perceive the only cause which could produce such a result. Her
question, therefore, embarrassed him, for he would willingly have
sealed his lips upon his mother's shame; and, though he had felt
himself bound to tell her all he was likely to lose, without
concealment, yet he hesitated at revealing the most painful part of
his own suspicions, till those suspicions had been rendered
certainties.

Marian saw him hesitate, and raising her beautiful eyes to his face,
she said, "Edward, you have promised to tell me all, and you must make
it all you think, as well as all you know."

It was not to be resisted. "Well, beloved, well!" he said, "I will,
though it is very, very terrible to do so; and, in truth, I hardly
know how to do it. Marian, did you ever see my mother?"

"No, Edward, never that I know of," she replied: "why do you ask?"

"Did you ever hear my aunt speak of her?" continued De Vaux, without
replying to her question.

"Let me think," said Marian. "I believe I have: but no, I cannot
remember that I ever did, now I reflect upon it: no, I never did."

"Nor my father either?" asked De Vaux.

"No, never; certainly never," answered Marian.

"Well, then--" said De Vaux, and he paused abruptly, fixing his eyes
upon her face. Instantly a colour of the deepest crimson rushed up
over the whole countenance of Marian de Vaux, dying cheek, and neck,
and forehead with the blush of generous shame--the shame that every
pure, virtuous, inexperienced woman feels when the idea of vice in her
own sex is suddenly brought before her.

Edward de Vaux turned deadly pale, as he both perceived that Marian
had now caught his meaning, and comprehended most painfully the
feelings in which that bright blush arose. The shame that Marian felt
for the degradation of her sex touched the most agonized spot in De
Vaux's heart. All that hatred for vice, and scorn for the vicious, and
the pity which comes near contempt, could produce in a woman's bosom,
seemed to De Vaux expressed by that blush, and pointed, more or less
directly, towards himself; and, as I have said, he turned very pale.

The deep emotion that he felt overpowered him for an instant; but then
he made a great exertion, and, rising from the sofa, "Marian," he
said, "I have now told you all, even to my innermost thoughts; and I
have but one word to add, my dear, dear cousin. Nearly three years
ago, you assured me of your love, and promised me your hand; and every
member of your family willingly consented to our ultimate union; but
then I was the Honourable Edward de Vaux, the heir to one of the most
ancient peerages in England, and to twenty thousand per annum. Things
have now changed; and, if the assertions in this letter, and my own
suspicions be correct, I am now a nameless, illegitimate beggar,
without a right to any thing on earth but my sword and my
reputation--with shame upon my mother's head--with nothing to claim
from my father, and without even a name that I can offer you. Under
these circumstances, though I shall love you to the last day of my
life, and think of you through every moment in the whole course of
time, I give you back your promise, I free you from all engagement,
and leave you totally untied to a connection from which your friends
will naturally be glad enough to separate you."

He spoke calmly, slowly, and distinctly; but the deadly paleness of
his countenance showed how deeply he was moved at heart; and Marian
gazed upon him, with her long dark eyelashes raised high, her
beautiful eyes full upon his face, and her lip slightly trembling
while he went on. As soon as he had ceased, she rose from the sofa,
and, with agitation and ardour, all unlike her usual calmness, cast
herself at once upon his bosom, with her arms circling his neck, her
lips pressed upon his cheek, and her tears falling rapidly upon
him.--"Edward, Edward!" she cried, "I am yours--all yours! Could
you--could you do such injustice to your own Marian? You have given me
back my promise, and I here give it you again--so that, whatever
comes, I may never hear from any one a single word against our union.
Nay, nay, let me speak--it is seldom that I am vehement; but I must
speak now--you have my promise, most solemnly, most strictly; and I
consider myself as much bound to you as if I were your wife. Not only
shall no other person upon earth ever have my hand, but, whatever
happens, and whoever opposes it, you shall have it, when and where you
choose to ask it."

Need I say how tenderly he pressed her to his heart? Need I say how
ardently, how sincerely he thanked her? But still there was some
slight hesitation in his mind. He almost doubted that she fully
appreciated his situation, and he felt that he could not receive such
a promise as she had made till she comprehended all. He bade her
think, then, of the whole; and conjured her to remember, that it was
not alone the loss of name and station, but that, if his anticipations
were correct, every thing like wealth, or even competence, would also
be lost to him.

But all Marian's reserve was now gone, and the long-restrained
feelings of her heart flowed forth all together. "Nay, nay, Edward,"
she said, again seating herself on the sofa, without, however,
withdrawing the small soft hand he held in his; "nay, nay, Edward,
have I not enough for us both? enough to give us every comfort? Nay,
every luxury that we ought to have we shall still possess; and why
need we wish for more? Do you think that the coach-and-six, and the
golden-coated coachman, and the three lackeys on the footboard ever
entered into my calculations of happiness?"

"No; but, dearest Marian," he replied, "it is only painful to me to
think that I bring nothing to unite to your property. Your large
fortune renders it only the more necessary that I should have one
too--"

"Hush, hush, hush!" cried Marian, eagerly: but still he went on: "I
have to owe you every thing, Marian; love, and happiness, and rank,
and station, and fortune too."

"And will you, Edward, _you_ talk so proudly to Marian de Vaux?" she
exclaimed. "Will you be too haughty to enjoy all the blessings that we
possess, because it is Marian that gives them? Is not that which is
mine yours? Has it not been so since we were children? Do not distress
me, Edward, by one thought of such a kind. Indeed, I shall think you
do not love me--that you are going to refuse my offered hand."

"Oh, Marian, Marian!" he cried, kissing it a thousand times, while
something very bright, and not unlike a tear, glittered in his eye. "I
would not lose it for a thousand worlds! Distress you! dearest girl! I
grieve to have distressed you for a moment; but I felt myself bound to
tell you all."

"Oh, that does not distress me at all," replied Marian; "the only
thing that could distress me would be to see you grieve, or to think
that you should make a difference, even in thought, between what is
yours and what is mine. I declare, Edward, I never knew what it was to
feel glad of a large fortune before; but now I am thankful, not only
for what my mother left me, but for every shilling that my good old
granduncle and guardian has scraped together for me, by his economy
thereof. Three thousand a year, Edward--consider, we shall be as rich
as princes; and if it had not been for that, this misfortune might
have obliged us to wait on for many a year, till you had made a
fortune in India, and very likely have lost your health, which no
fortune could have compensated."

Marian de Vaux spoke in a manner totally different from that which her
cousin had seen her display for many a year. Her beautiful eyes were
full of light and feeling; a smile, half-tender, half-playful, hovered
over her lip, and her voice was full of eager kindness and thrilling
affection. He had remembered her thus as a girl; but, as she had grown
up towards womanhood, either the feelings which had animated her bosom
with such a warm and enthusiastic glow had passed away, or the
expression of them had been gradually suppressed. Now, again, she was
all that he remembered her, and to see her so, plunged him into a
sweet vision of the past--connected, though by some fine golden
threads, with the present. He had seated himself on the sofa beside
her, and, still holding her right hand in his, he had glided his left
arm round her waist, and then, with his eyes fixed on a distant spot
of the floor, he remained in silence for two or three moments after
she had done speaking. Unless man were a cold unfeeling piece of
ticking mechanism, like a watch, our measures of time would always be
by our sensations: and as Marian had at that moment given way to all
the eagerness of her heart, the two moments that Edward de Vaux
remained in thought seemed to her an age. "What is the matter,
Edward?" she said. "Are you still unhappy?"

"No, my beloved," he answered, looking up in her face with a glance
that fully confirmed his words,--"no, my beloved; I am most happy! so
happy, indeed, that, were I placed as I was before, I would almost
again undergo the pain which this discovery first caused me, to enjoy
the delight which my Marian's conduct has bestowed."

"And did you doubt what that conduct would be, Edward?" she demanded,
half-reproachfully. Edward de Vaux coloured, and might have hesitated;
for conscience, that bitter smiter, who always finds his time to apply
the lash, now struck him severely for all those images which an
irritable fancy had suggested concerning Marian's conduct. But she
saved him the pain of a reply, which must either have been mortifying
or insincere. "And did you doubt what my conduct would be?" she asked;
and in the next moment she added, "But never mind, dear Edward; you
see what it is, and do never doubt it again."

"I will never doubt, as long as I live, my own beloved girl," he
answered, ardently; "I will never doubt, as long as I live, that it
will on every occasion be all that is good, and noble, and generous:
but it was not that alone, my Marian, that made me so happy--so very,
very happy."

"What was it, then, dear Edward," she asked, in some surprise; for
Marian, with all the quickness of a woman's perception, had noticed
the passing colour that came into De Vaux's cheek; and knowing him,
and all the little intricacies of his heart, better than he
thought--better, perhaps, than she thought herself--she had instantly
set down the blush to its right cause, and said, in her own heart,
"Edward has been tormenting himself with fancies." Now, however, his
words puzzled her, though a latent consciousness of having--in the
urgency of the moment, and in the desire to sooth and render Edward
patient under his misfortune--a latent consciousness of having given
free course to feelings and enthusiasms which she had long held close
prisoners in her bosom, made her now feel embarrassed in turn; and a
bright warm blush, partly from curiosity, partly from that
consciousness, mantled for a moment in her cheek.

Edward de Vaux gazed upon her as she put her question with a smile,
full of deep fond affection--with a sort of triumphant happiness, too,
in his look that made her inclined, she knew not why, to hide her eyes
upon his bosom, as she had done long ago, when first she had
acknowledged to him the love that he had won, and witnessed the joy
that it called up in his countenance. "I will tell you what it is,
dearest," he answered, "that makes me now so happy, that I should have
considered anything but yourself a light sacrifice to obtain such joy.
It is, that the misfortune which has befallen me has called forth my
beloved Marian's true and natural character, and shown her to me
fully, as the same dear, excellent, feeling, enthusiastic girl that I
have always pictured her to my own imagination--such as her feelings
as a child gave promise that she would be--such as I remember her
appearing constantly, not many years ago."

Marian blushed, and looked down; and there was a swimming moisture in
her eyes, which a little more might have caused to overflow in tears:
but they would not have been unhappy ones. She felt--

But it is difficult to say what she felt. It was not that she felt
detected, for that word would imply a shade of culpability which she
did not feel; but she felt that she had betrayed herself--that a veil
which she had cast over the true features of her mind, from many a
deep and complicated motive, had been raised--had been snatched away,
and could never be dropped effectually again. The effect which the
raising of that veil had produced was all glad and gratifying, it is
true; but still there was that fluttering emotion at her heart, which
the disclosure of long-hidden feelings must always produce: she felt
as if she had told her love for the first time over again; and she
knew, too, that she might be called upon to assign motives, and give
reasons, which would be difficult to explain, but which she determined
not to withhold, for many a good and sufficient cause. But all this
agitated her. She blushed, she almost trembled; and Edward de Vaux was
but the more convinced, from the agitation which he beheld, that the
concealment of her real character, and the repression of her finest
feelings, had been a conscious and voluntary act on the part of her he
loved.

He became curious, as well he might be, to learn more; and, as Marian
still sat silently beside him, he tried the tacit persuasion of a
gentle kiss upon the blushing cheek, that almost touched his shoulder.
She turned round towards him with a thoughtful smile; but, as she did
not speak, he asked more boldly, "Why, Marian, why, dearest, after
having given me your love, and promised me your hand, have you let
that dear little heart play at hide and seek with me, till I have
sometimes almost doubted whether it was my own?"

"You should not have doubted that, De Vaux," Marian answered; "but if
you really wish to know why I have somewhat changed my conduct since I
was a girl, and why I have, in some degree, repressed feelings that I
have not experienced the less warmly, I will let you into some of the
secrets of a woman's heart; but you must promise me, Edward, never to
abuse the trust," she added, smiling more gaily; "and you must
promise, too, not to be angry with any thing I shall say."

"Angry! angry with you, Marian!" said De Vaux; "do not believe such a
thing possible."

Marian smiled again, for there is often a sort of prophetic
presentiment in the breast of woman, which teaches her that, however
much she may rule and command the lover, the husband will not receive
the power in vain; and, perhaps, it is this knowledge of the shortness
of their reign which sometimes makes women abuse it a little while it
lasts. Marian smiled again at De Vaux's words, and then replied,
"Well, then, Edward, keep your part of the compact, and I will tell
you all. You say I have changed very much since I was a girl; and that
is but natural, Edward; for, depend upon it, every woman does change,
if she feels and thinks at all deeply. As a girl, her words and her
actions are all of but little importance in the eyes of those around
her, or in her own, unless she be nourished in conceit and affectation
from her cradle; and, during the first fifteen or sixteen years of her
life, though she may be taught to act like a lady, yet she sees no
reason for concealing anything she feels, or anything she thinks, if
it be not likely to hurt the feelings of others. As she goes on
towards womanhood, however, the world changes its conduct towards her,
and she finds it necessary to change towards it. She learns to look
upon trifles in her own conduct, and in the conduct of others towards
her, as matters of importance: the world and society assume a
different aspect she trembles lest she should say, or do, or feel what
is wrong; and very often she expresses too little of what she feels,
lest she should express too much. Then, too, Edward," continued
Marian, with the colour which had partly left her cheek while she
spoke coming richly up again, and spreading over her whole face,
"then, too, Edward, if she learns to love, all those fears and
apprehensions are a thousand-fold increased. She is terrified at her
own sensations, and almost thinks it wrong and sacrilegious to suffer
that one being by whom her affections are won to take that station in
her heart, above all the rest of the world, which she has hitherto
devoted solely to a being beyond the world. Perhaps before that time
she may have longed to love and be beloved; but the first moment she
feels that it is so--especially if it come upon her suddenly--depend
upon it, her feelings are more or less those of terror."

De Vaux smiled, but his hand pressed tenderly upon Marian's as he did
so; and she felt it was as much a smile of thanks, as if he had
accompanied it with words of ever so much gratitude for the picture of
her feelings that she had given him. She paused, however, for she was
coming to matter which she feared might not please him so well; and
his thoughts turning, too, in the same direction, he said, after
waiting for a few moments to see if she would go on, "But, dear
Marian, this happens to every woman without producing such a change as
I have seen in you; and besides, what I have seen to-day, Marian, has
shown me fully that there has been some more distinct and individual
motive. Tell it me, Marian, tell it me, my beloved; and, believe me, I
will not abuse your confidence."

"Nor be angry?" she said, smiling again. "Remember, that it is a
principal part of our agreement. Well, then, I will go on. When first
we were engaged to each other, Edward, my chief thought--as, indeed,
it ever has been since--was how to make the man I loved most
completely happy, as far as my own conduct was concerned; and I was
reading at that time a very clever book, which recommended women, on
their marriage, to study, not alone the general character of their
husband, but all his individual opinions and thoughts, in order to
make their own behaviour completely conformable thereto; it asserted,
also, that such was the surest way of winning happiness for both. I
believed it, and resolved to try to follow the advice even before
marriage. I listened to every thing you said, concerning the conduct
of other women that we knew, with a determination of trying to acquire
the qualities that you praised, and to avoid all that you blamed."

"But, good God! my dearest Marian!" exclaimed Edward, warmly, "surely
I did not blame them for suffering the beauties or the excellences of
their natural characters to appear, nor praise them for assuming a
coldness that was the most opposed to the general warmth of their
nature?"

"Not exactly, Edward," replied Marian; "but I will tell you what you
did, which came much to the same purpose. Though whatever I did seemed
to give you pleasure, yet, when you spoke of any of our acquaintance,
you were so severe upon what appeared to me very slight mistakes in
their demeanour; you were so rigid in your ideas of what was right in
general behaviour; you even once censured so heavily a display, rather
too open, of attachment to her husband, on the part of a lady whom we
both knew, that I began to find that your opinions on such subjects
were very nice indeed: and knowing," added Marian, with a smile, which
De Vaux felt fully, "and knowing that my lover, with these nice
opinions, was peculiarly sensitive to every thing that he thought
could draw the slightest degree of ridicule upon him or his, I
determined so to school my own conduct, and to repress the expression
of my own feelings, as to ensure his heart against the slightest
annoyance, concerning a word, or a movement, or a look of his wife."

Marian paused, and Edward de Vaux, with his eyes bent upon the ground,
remained silent for two or three minutes, till she became alarmed.
"You promised me, Edward," she said, "not to be angry."

"Not to be angry with you, my beloved girl," he said; "but I did not
promise not to be angry with myself; and well, well do I deserve it."

"Nay, nor must you be angry with yourself either, Edward," replied
Marian; "if you are, I shall still think some of it lights upon me.
If, in seeking the means of rendering you happy, I have made you
unhappy, I shall meet with punishment instead of reward."

"Dearest Marian," answered De Vaux, "it were vain to deny it. I have
been a fastidious fool hitherto; and, like the other sneerers of this
world, have been seeking the mote in my brother's eye, while I have
forgot the beam in my own. But henceforth I will take example by you,
dearest Marian, and so school my own heart as to get over that feeling
of the ridiculous in others, and terror for it in myself, which I now
find and believe to be a vice and not a quality."

Marian shook her head with a doubtful smile, as if she would have
said, "It is in your nature, Edward."

"I will, indeed, Marian," he continued; "and you shall see what a
strong resolution can do even with Edward de Vaux. But you must
promise me in return, dearest, to reward my efforts, by casting off
the reserve that my foolish fastidiousness has drawn over you. The
qualities of my Marian's heart and mind are too beautiful to be hidden
beneath such a veil."

Marian smiled again, but looked a little thoughtful, for she felt that
the task her lover would impose was no easy one. "I will do my best,
Edward," she said; "but it must be by degrees. In the first place, all
the world would think me mad, if I were to change suddenly from the
quiet still-life demeanour of Marian de Vaux, and take up the gay,
lively, enthusiastic character of Isadore Falkland; and, in the next
place, it would be impossible, for I have now been training myself to
this behaviour so long, that it has become quite habitual to me; and,
whatever are the emotions that I feel at heart, my first effort--even
before I know I am making one--is to keep those emotions from
appearing. Sometimes, indeed," she added, laughing, "they break
through all restraint, as they have done today; but that is only on
great occasions. However, I will do my best to change back again; and,
perhaps, as I have overdone the quiet and composed, I may find the
happy medium, in returning to my old thoughtlessness. But, in the mean
time, Edward, never you be deceived in regard to what I feel. You have
seen the veil, as you call it, cast away; and you know entirely what
is beneath it."

"A thousand, thousand thanks, for letting me see it, Marian," he
replied: "but I can never thank you enough, my beloved, for all that
you have done this day--for showing me your heart, and for giving me a
glimpse, too, of my own."

"But I owe you thanks, too, Edward--deep and many thanks," replied
Marian, "for the generous candour of your conduct; and for not
shrinking, even for a moment, from making me a sharer in your thoughts
and feelings, however painful they might be to communicate. And oh,
Edward, let me entreat you ever to pursue the same course hereafter.
Let me be the sharer of all your thoughts; let me hear every thing
painful or to be feared, from your own lips, and the tale will loose
half its bitterness; and I promise you that, if I cannot assist you
with advice and support, I will not embarrass you by womanly fear, or
weak irresolution."

"I will, Marian, I will!" replied De Vaux; "for I can contemplate no
case in which what I had to communicate would combine half so many
sources of pain and anxiety as that which is just past: and now,
dearest, then, give me your advice in regard to the course I ought to
pursue in investigating this very painful business."

"Do you not think, Edward," said Marian, "that you had better not
investigate it at all? If, by letting it rest, and treating this
information with contempt, you were likely to injure any one, of
course I should say, sift it to the last grain. But it seems that
these people, whoever they are, that send you such disagreeable
tidings, hold out our approaching marriage as the only motive for your
enquiry farther; and, as you have told me the whole without reserve,
and I am perfectly satisfied, I see no reason why you should trouble
yourself further about it. If you are to lose the titles and estates
of your father on any pretext, let the gipsies send their information
to the person who is to benefit by your loss. I would think no more of
it."

De Vaux shook his head, for his vivid imagination and excitable nature
did not fit him for sitting down quietly under such a load of
suspense. "No, no, Marian!" he said; "I could not bear such
uncertainty; I should not know an hour's peace, and whenever a letter
was put into my hand, whenever a stranger desired to speak with me, I
should dread some evil tidings. Investigate thoroughly I must. If I
find these insinuations false, my peace will be established on a surer
rock than ever; and my disposition may not be the worse for the ordeal
I have undergone, and the lessons I have received. If my fears prove
just, and these tidings true, I think, dear Marian--I think," and he
drew her nearer to his heart--"I think that, with the assurance of
such love as yours, I can see all the rest that was bright in my lot
pass away from me without a sigh."

Marian's heart was relieved, for she had doubted how Edward de Vaux
would endure the certainty which might soon be forced upon him, of the
severe reverses which were yet unconfirmed. She had doubted, and, with
all the skilful tenderness of a woman's heart, she had at once
perceived that the most open assurances of her own love were the
surest antidotes that she could offer him against the evils of the
day. She had acted, it is true, by impulse; but there is always some
rapidly operating motive even at the bottom of impulse itself, which,
nine times out of ten, works with wonderful sagacity. There are many
moments in the life of man, when his boasted reason, which is but a
slow and considerate personage, has not time to act, and when, if
there were no power but this same reason to save us from drowning, we
might drown beyond redemption for anything that reason would do to
help us; but God, who gives their never-failing instinct to the
beasts, does not leave man without resource in those moments when
haste, and need, and apprehension render him little better than a
judgment-less animal, and has afforded him also a kind of instinct, a
power which only acts on sudden emergencies, when reason has not time;
which power we call impulse, but which is neither more nor less than
the instinct of a hurry.

Marian de Vaux had, in the first instance, acted on impulse, but as
she went on, finding that impulse was quite right, and that the only
means to sooth and to strengthen her lover under his misfortunes, was
to let him see throughout the full extent of her love for him, she
cast away, as we have seen, every reserve, and showed Edward de Vaux
that he could but lose little, whatever he lost, compared with that
inestimable affection which was still his own.

Marian's heart was relieved by perceiving that her conduct had been
successful, and that De Vaux was nerved against the worst; and, as she
had no particular taste for suspense herself, any more than he had,
she now recalled her words, and advised him, if his feelings were such
as he expressed, to pursue the investigation at once.

"That, Marian, for all our sakes and on every account, I must do,"
he replied; "but the only question with me is, in which way had I
better follow the inquiry. Here are two courses pointed out in this
letter,--to apply at once to my father; or, in the first place, to
visit this gipsy, and to ascertain precisely what information he
possesses. I have already considered, and believe that the latter
course would be the best; but my Marian has every right to guide me."

"Oh! do not go to the gipsy," cried Marian on the first impulse; but
impulse was wrong in this instance, and Marian soon found that it was
so. Edward himself paused, and thought over the matter again; but, on
consideration, Marian remembered many an objection to the plan of
seeking information from Lord Dewry himself. She knew his haughtiness
and his violence, and she knew, too, that De Vaux, tingling under a
sense of degradation, and feeling that such degradation was
attributable to his father, was in no state of mind to submit to the
proud and insulting tone Lord Dewry too often employed, or to speak
calmly and dispassionately upon a subject, in regard to which his
whole heart was bleeding, and every better feeling deeply wounded. She
dreaded the collision which might ensue between the two, and she
thought it also very probable that Lord Dewry might refuse all
information on the subject. "I am afraid I am wrong, Edward," she said
at length; "I have a dread of those gipsies,--I do not know why; but
still, perhaps, you should be more sure that such insinuations as
these are not mere calumny, before you speak to your father about it."

"That is true, my love," replied De Vaux; "and, besides, I have just
remembered that if I wish to have the gipsy's information at all, I
must have it before I see my father. He here in this letter tells me
to come either this evening or to-morrow early. Now, it is too late to
go to my father this evening, and before I could be back, if I went
over to-morrow, the time would be expired and the gipsy gone. I think
my best plan will be, to go early to the gipsy camp to-morrow morning,
hear all the man has to say, and then, if necessary, I can ride over
to the hall and speak with my father ere he goes out."

"Yes, I doubt not that such is the best course," replied Marian; "but
for God's sake, Edward, take care of those gipsies. They are, I
believe, a terrible race of savages; and you told me that this was a
large encampment which you saw in the wood. They might murder you,
Edward, for your purse or your watch."

"Oh, no fear, no fear, dearest!" replied De Vaux; "you see they never
attempted to murder Manners today, though he was there at five or six
in the morning, and his purse is likely to be much better filled than
mine; and as they knew him, and know me, they must know also that his
fortune is larger than mine ever will be."

"But they may have some motive of revenge against you, Edward,"
repeated Marian, contriving to increase her fears most wonderfully by
thinking over them: "they have evidently some greater knowledge of our
situation, and some deeper motive for their conduct, than is apparent;
and may they not wish to entrap you for some purpose of revenge?"

"I never injured one of them by word or deed, Marian," replied De
Vaux; "and if you will consider for a moment, dearest, you will see
that they can have no evil intention, at least, towards my person. In
the first place, they sent the letter by Manners, and therefore must
feel assured that other people will know of my visiting their
encampment; and in the next place, this man, this Pharold, leaves the
matter open to me to come to him, or to speak with my father on the
subject. Had they any design against me, they would have contrived to
convey the letter to me secretly, and would have taken care to tell me
that I could get the information they offer nowhere but from
themselves. Besides, they cannot be sure that I may not make the whole
matter public, and come up with half a dozen companions."

This reasoning calmed Marian de Vaux not a little; but still she was
fearful, and could not banish from her mind a kind of foreboding that
evil would come of Edward's visit to the gipsy. She knew, however,
what absurd things forebodings are; and she felt how natural it was to
be anxious and apprehensive for an object in which all her affections
centred, the moment that a situation of danger presented itself,
without seeking for any supernatural inspirations to justify her
fears. At every reported movement of the armies during her lover's
absence, she had too often felt the same alarm to give any great
weight now to the fear she experienced, against the voice of reason
and conviction; and seeing that De Vaux had every probability on his
side of the argument, she ceased to oppose him by a word.

"At all events, Edward," she said, "for my sake, do not go unarmed:
that precaution cannot be very burdensome."

"Certainly not," replied he, "and I will take my pistols with me, with
all my heart, as well as my sword, if it will give you the slightest
pleasure, Marian; though I am sure, my beloved, I shall have to use
neither."

"Well, you shall do it for my sake, Edward," said Marian; "and I think
that to know it is so will lighten the weight upon you."

De Vaux's answer was the precise one which any other man would have
made in the same situation; and some further conversation ensued of no
great import, in the course of which Marian proposed to her cousin to
make Colonel Manners the companion of his expedition. She understood
fully, however, the objections which, in reply, he urged against
imparting to any one but herself a suspicion which so materially
affected his station in society, his fortune, and even his happiness;
and those objections having been stated to the reader before, it may
be unnecessary to repeat them here. Suffice it to say, that their
conversation continued so long that Marian's toilet for the
dinner-table was far more hurried than her maid approved. Marian,
however, safe in beauty and secure in love, felt that she could go
down to dinner, even if a curl or two did stray from its right place;
and there was something in her heart that made her never regret the
moments given to Edward de Vaux.




                              CHAPTER X.


We left Colonel Charles Manners standing at the library door, with his
hand upon the great brazen ball, embossed with sundry figures, which
served as the handle to the lock. It may be remembered that Colonel
Manners, being somewhat troubled with the internal contention between
feeling for his friend's uneasiness and wonder for its cause, was
seeking an empty room to let those two emotions calm themselves; but
when he turned the above brazen ball, and the door opened to his will,
he found that he had been mistaken in looking for solitude there; for
the first things he saw were, a very beautiful face and a pair of
bright gay eyes looking up at him from the other side of the little
table on the left hand, with the hat and feathers, which it was then
customary for ladies to wear in riding, thrown somewhat back from the
forehead, so as to show the whole countenance of Isadore Falkland,
raising her face with a look of half-laughing vexation, as if asking,
"Who is about to disturb me now, when I came here in search of
solitude?"

The interpretation of the expression was so self-evident that Colonel
Manners paused with a smile; and Isadore, finding that her face had
told the truth somewhat too plainly, laughed, and begged him to come
in. "Nay, Miss Falkland," said Manners, "I will not disturb you. Your
look, I can assure you, said, _Not at home!_ as plain as those words
ever were spoken." And he took a step back, as if to withdraw.

"The servant made a mistake, then," replied Isadore; "I did not bid
him say, 'Not at home' to Colonel Manners. But the truth is, I am
endeavouring to compose my mind."

"Indeed!" he exclaimed, in some surprise; "I am very sorry to hear
that any thing has occurred to agitate it."

"And can you say so, Colonel Manners?" asked Isadore laughing, "when
you, yourself, were art and part in the deed?"

Manners was still more surprised; but, as he saw that the agitation of
which Miss Falkland complained was of no very serious nature, it only
affected him so far as to bring him two steps farther into the room.

"If I am one of the culprits," he said, approaching nearer the table,
where Isadore sat enjoying his astonishment,--for hers was one of
those light and happy hearts that can win a drop of honey from every
flower, however small,--"if I am one of the culprits, I claim the
right of an Englishman to hear the charge fairly read, Miss Falkland.
Otherwise I refuse to plead."

"Well, then, Colonel Manners," she replied, "you stand arraigned of
having galloped as fast, when riding with two ladies, as if you had
been at the head of your regiment; and of being art and part with
Edward de Vaux in shaking the little brains possessed by one Isadore
Falkland out of their proper place. The truth is," she added more
seriously, "that after riding very fast, my ideas, which are never in
a very composed and tranquil state, get into such a whirl, that I am
always obliged to come and read some good book for a quarter of an
hour ere I dare venture into rational society. Do you feel the same,
Colonel Manners?"

"Not exactly," answered Manners smiling, "but I rather fancy that I am
more accustomed to galloping than you are, Miss Falkland; and that had
you been as much used to that exercise as I have been, during eighteen
years' service, you would find your ideas quite as clear, after the
longest gallop that ever was ridden, as they were before you set out."

By this time Colonel Manners had so far carried on his approaches that
he was in the midst of the library, the door shut behind him; and a
sofa in the window--not very far from Miss Falkland's left hand, with
two or three books upon a console hard by--within one step of his
position. What Isadore rejoined to his reply matters little. It was
just sufficient to seat him on the sofa, with a book in his hand,
which he had not the slightest intention of reading; and a
conversation began, which, though it had no particular tendency, and
was of no particular import, stretched itself over full three quarters
of an hour. It was, however, one of those conversations which are the
most pleasant that it is possible to imagine--one of those
conversations, when an intelligent man and an intelligent woman sit
down, without the intention of talking about any thing in particular,
and end by talking of every thing under the sun. They must, however,
feel convinced, like Isadore and Colonel Manners, that there is not
the slightest chance on earth of their falling in love with each
other; for the least drop of love, or any thing like it, changes the
whole essence of the thing, and it is no longer conversation. But
Isadore and Colonel Manners never dreamt of such a thing; and went on,
letting subject run into subject, and thought follow thought, as they
liked--not like a regiment of infantry, indeed, advancing in single
file, one behind the other, with measured step and stiff demeanour,
but like a bevy of rosy children rushing from a school-room door,
sometimes one at a time, sometimes two or three linked hand in hand
together, sometimes half a dozen in a crowd tumbling over one
another's shoulders. Thus ran on their ideas, gaily, lightly, of every
variety of face and complexion, without ceremony and without
restraint. It is true it required some activity to keep up the game
with spirit, for both were rapid; and Isadore, when she could not
easily express herself in one way, often took another, more fanciful
and flowery, so that had not Manners's wit been as agile as her own he
might often have been left behind.

The moments flew rapidly till, as we have said, three quarters of an
hour had passed, as it were a minute; and neither Colonel Manners nor
Isadore Falkland would have known that it had passed at all, had not a
clock struck in the hall hard by, and Isadore suddenly thought that
_somebody_--that great bugbear _somebody_--might deem it strange that
she sat talking to Colonel Manners alone in the library, while the
rest of the family were probably in the drawing-room. She now
remembered, also, that she had still her riding-habit to change; and
having by this time quite forgotten that Colonel Manners was an ugly
man, she made the alteration of her dress an excuse to leave him,
though, to speak truth, she broke off their conversation with regret,
and felt inclined to look upon the moments she had thus spent as one
of the pleasantest things she had yet met with in the garland of
time--that garland which begins in buds and blossoms, and ends in
blighted flowers and withered leaves.

Manners, for his part,--though he had from the first thought her a
very beautiful girl, and a very charming one, too,--had by this time
determined that she was possessed of many a more admirable quality of
mind and grace of person than he had even believed before; and an
involuntary sigh, which broke from his lips when she left him taught
him, to feel that it was as well, upon the whole, that he was so soon
to take his departure. It was a part of his policy never to encourage
regrets in regard to a state of life which he had made up his mind
could not be his; and he found that to live long in the same house
with Isadore Falkland might cultivate those regrets much more than was
desirable.

When she was gone, he thought for a moment over what had just passed,
gave another moment to memories of the long gone, spent two or three
more in trifling with the book he held in his hand, and then, after
changing his boots in his own room, proceeded to the drawing-room.
Mrs. Falkland was now there alone, but it was not long before Isadore
again appeared; and, in a few minutes after, De Vaux, as we have
before shown, entered the room for a single instant to enquire for
Marian. Neither his aunt nor his cousin perceived that any thing had
occurred to disturb his equanimity; but the eyes of his friend,
quickened perhaps by what he already knew, discovered without
difficulty that the pain which had been given him by the letter he had
himself delivered was not at all diminished by reflection; and
although he felt that he could ask no questions, he was not a little
anxious for the result.

Some time passed, ere it was necessary to dress for dinner, Without
any thing of importance, either in word or deed, occurring in the
drawing-room, except inasmuch as Mrs. Falkland informed Colonel
Manners that a lady was to dine with them on that day who had also
enjoyed the advantage of his mother's acquaintance in her youth.
Isadore pronounced her a foolish, tiresome woman; and Manners, on
hearing her name, said he had met her some years before, but did not
venture to dissent from Miss Falkland's opinion.

Mrs. Falkland smiled, and tacitly acknowledged that her own judgment
of the good lady's qualities was not very different, by saying that
she had merely invited her because she knew that she would feel hurt
were she to hear that Colonel Manners had been long at Morley House
without her having seen him. "And I never wish to hurt people's
feelings, Colonel Manners," she added, "unless when it is very
necessary indeed."

"It is never worth while, my dear madam," replied Manners; "and I
believe that, with a little sacrifice of our comfort, without any
sacrifice of sincerity, we can always avoid it, however disagreeable
people may be."

Manners was in the drawing-room amongst the first after dressing, and
he looked with some degree of anxiety for the appearance of De Vaux,
in order to see whether the tidings he had received still continued to
affect him so strongly. But when De Vaux came in his manner had wholly
changed. His conversation with Marian had had the effect which such a
conversation might be expected to have. The recollection of it, too,
as a whole, while he had been dressing, had done as much as the
conversation itself. It had shown him a sweet and consoling result,
unmingled with any of the painful feelings, to which all he had
himself been called upon to communicate, had given rise in his own
breast. The gipsy's letter, and the suspicions which it called up, had
shaken and agitated him, had taken away the foundations from the hopes
and expectations of his whole life; but that which had past between
him and her he loved had re-established all, and fixed the hopes of
future happiness on a surer and a nobler basis than ever. He trod with
a firmer, ay, and with a prouder, step, than when he had fancied
himself the heir of broad lands and lordships; and when Marian herself
soon after entered the room, his face lighted up with a happy glow,
like the top of some high hill when it receives the first rays of the
morning sun. Marian herself, too, blushed as she appeared, for all the
display of her heart's inmost feelings, which she had that morning
made to her lover's eyes, had left a consciousness about her heart--a
slight but tremulous agitation, which brought the warm blood glowing
into her cheek. There was nothing like unhappiness, however, left in
the countenance of either; and Manners became satisfied, that whatever
had been the contents of the gipsy's letter, the evil effects thereof
were passing away.

The Lady Barbara Simpson at length arrived with her husband in her
train, and was most tiresomely pleased to see Colonel Manners. She was
a worthy dame in the plenitude of ten lustres, in corporeal qualities
heavy, and in intellectual ones certainly not light. Vulgarity is,
unfortunately, to be found in every rank,--_unfortunately_, because,
where found in high rank, in which every means and appliance is at
hand to remedy it, its appearance argues vulgarity of mind, to which
the coarseness of the peasant is comparatively grace. Now Lady Barbara
Simpson was of the vulgar great; and, though the blood of all the
Howards might have flowed in her veins, the pure and honourable stream
would have been choked up by the mental mud of her nature. In her
youth, no sum or labour had been spared to ornament her mind with
those accomplishments and graces which are common in her class; and as
music and drawing, and a knowledge of languages, are things which, to
a certain degree, may be hung on like a necklace or a bracelet, the
mind of Lady Barbara was perfectly well dressed before her parents had
done with her education. But nothing could make the mind itself any
thing but what it was; and the load of accomplishments, which masters
of all kinds strove hard to bestow, rested upon it, like jewels on an
ugly person, fine things seen to a disadvantage. The want of
consideration for other people's feelings, or rather the want of that
peculiar delicacy of sensation called _tact_, which teaches rapidly to
understand what other people's feelings are, she fancied a positive,
instead of a negative, quality, and called it in her own mind ease and
good-humour; and thus, though she certainly was a good-tempered woman,
her coarseness of feeling and comprehension rendered her ten times
more annoying to every one near her than if she had been as malevolent
as Tisiphone.

During dinner, Manners felt as if he were sitting next to somebody
clothed in hair-cloth, which caught his dress at every turn, and
scrubbed him whenever he touched it; and his comfort was not greatly
increased by finding himself an object of great attention and
patronage to Lady Barbara. Opposite to him sat Isadore Falkland; and,
though it was certainly a great relief to look in so fair a face, yet
there was in it an expression of amused pity for Lady Barbara's martyr
that was a little teasing. Her Ladyship first descanted
enthusiastically upon the beauty of Colonel Manners's mother and
called upon Mrs. Falkland to vouch how very lovely she was. Mrs.
Falkland assented as briefly as possible; and Lady Barbara then took
wine with Colonel Manners, and declared that there was not the
slightest resemblance between him and his mother, examining every
feature in his face as she did so to make herself sure of the fact.

At this point of the proceedings Manners was more amused than annoyed;
for his own ugliness was no secret to himself, and he therefore knew
well that it could be no secret to others. He laughed then at her
Ladyship's scrutiny, and replied, "I was once considered very like my
mother, Lady Barbara; but whatever resemblance I did possess was
carried away by my enemy the small-pox."

"Oh yes," she cried in return, "a dreadful disease that! Shocking the
ravages it sometimes makes! I see you must have had it very bad."

"Very bad, indeed, Lady Barbara," replied Colonel Manners with a
laughing glance towards Miss Falkland; "and, what is worse, I had it
at that period of life when one has just learned to value good looks,
without having learned to despise them."

"Oh, terrible!" exclaimed Lady Barbara, really commiserating him; "it
must have made a terrible change in you, indeed. Dear me, what a
pity!"

Marian de Vaux was pained for Colonel Manners, and she now interposed
with a few words, endeavouring to change the subject; but Lady Barbara
was like a hollow square of infantry, and could _faire face partout_,
so that poor Marian only drew the fire on herself. Lady Barbara
answered her question, and then added, "And so I hear you are going to
be married in a fortnight, Miss De Vaux. Well, I wish you happy, with
all my heart; though marriage is always a great risk, God knows; is it
not, Mr. Simpson?"

"It is, indeed, my dear," replied Mr. Simpson, a quiet little man with
much sterling good sense concealed under an insignificant exterior,
and with a certain degree of subacid fun in his nature, which was
habitually brought forth by the absurdities of his wife,--"it is,
indeed, my dear;" and he finished with an audible and perhaps not
unintentional sigh, which gave point to his reply.

"But, for all that, it is a very good, and a very proper state, too,"
rejoined Lady Barbara, "and a very happy one, after all."

"I am glad you find it so, my dear," said Mr. Simpson; but Lady
Barbara went on, as usual, without attending to her husband.

"I would advise all young people to marry," she said, "but not too
young though,"--she herself had married at thirty-five--"not too young
though, for then they only have such large families they do not know
what to do with them. But now at a proper age every one ought to
marry. Now, Colonel Manners, why are not you married? You ought to
have been married before this."

The reader knows that she was upon dangerous ground: but Manners was
too good a politician to show that he was touched; and therefore he
determined in reply to put that as a jest which had a good deal of
serious earnest in it. "Oh, my dear madam," he answered, "you forget I
am too ugly; I should never find a wife now."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" she answered; "ugliness has nothing to do
with it; many a woman will marry the ugliest man in the world sooner
than not marry at all; and besides, you ought to have a good fortune,
Colonel Manners; and that is a great thing. But, I can tell you, you
will certainly never find a wife, as you say, unless you ask some
one."

The draught was bitter enough; but Manners was indomitable, and
answered still gayly, "Nay, nay, Lady Barbara, I am so diffident of
my own merits, and so completely convinced that no one will ever fall
in love with my beautiful countenance, that I shall certainly never
marry till some lady asks me. It would require that proof, at least,
to convince me that I had any chance of being loved."

"And if any lady were to ask you," continued the unmerciful Lady
Barbara, "would you really marry her after all, Colonel Manners?"

"I believe I may answer that it would depend upon circumstances,"
replied Colonel Manners, with a grave smile; "as, unfortunately for my
happiness, your ladyship's marriage has put you out of the question."

"Oh, do not let me be in the way in the least degree," rejoined Mr.
Simpson from the other side of the table.

De Vaux was fairly driven to a laugh; and Lady Barbara, beginning to
find out that there was an error somewhere, paused for a moment, and
went on with her dinner.

However skilfully and courageously a man may struggle against his own
feelings on those points where they have intrenched themselves by long
habit and possession, yet, when forced by circumstance to treat as a
matter of common conversation subjects that are habitually painful to
him, there are slight traits--each almost imperceptible, but making
something in the aggregate--which will betray what is going on within;
sometimes to the eyes of another man, and almost always to those of a
woman. A degree of bitterness will mingle with his gaiety; a sigh will
sometimes tread upon the heels of a smile; and a deeper gravity will
follow the transient, superficial laugh, and distinguish the true from
the assumed. Women, by a more refined nature, by a necessity of
concealing their own feelings under various disguises, and by the
habit of judging others by slight indications, are rendered infinitely
more capable of penetrating the veil with which we are often obliged
to cover our deeper sentiments. Both Marian de Vaux and Isadore
Falkland were at once in Colonel Manners's secret, and comprehended,
without difficulty, how much was jest and how much was earnest in his
replies to Lady Barbara. Both felt for him, too, and both were sorry
for him; and as Marian, in consequence of her generous interposition
in his favour, already suffered somewhat too much by her Ladyship's
answers touching matrimony, to dare the field again, Isadore entered
upon the campaign with greater power, and did her best to effect a
diversion. In this she was tolerably successful, though Colonel
Manners did not entirely escape; and the ladies retired sooner than
usual, in consequence of Mrs. Falkland's desire to support her
daughter.

De Vaux, anxious for the following morning, in order that all his
doubts might be brought to a conclusion, would willingly have followed
the ladies as soon as possible: but, alas! those were days of hard
drinking; and Mr. Simpson, though by no means given to excess any more
than Manners or De Vaux, had his own peculiar method of consoling
himself for his lady's tiresomeness during the day, by sitting long in
the evening, with the sparkling decanters and the social biscuits, by
which he was sure neither to be annoyed nor contradicted. He drank his
wine slowly, and with real enjoyment, pausing over every sip as a
miser over every guinea, playing with the stalk of his wineglass,
saying little smart things, if he had any one to hear him, and if he
had not, gazing in the fire and diversifying pleasant thoughts by
discovering landscapes and faces therein.

De Vaux, without any want of charity, wished every glass his last, and
Colonel Manners wished himself in the drawing-room; but the _leges
conviviales_ of those days were far more strict than in these
degenerate times; and as the party was so small, both felt themselves
obliged to sit ceremoniously at table, till suddenly Mr. Simpson
perceived that neither of his companions had touched wine for half an
hour, and kindly took the hint. It was now near ten o'clock: Lady
Barbara had far to go, and was compassionate towards the four bright
bays that were ordered at that hour; and thus Colonel Manners was
spared the execution of all the man[oe]uvres he had planned to get out
of her way in the drawing-room. The carriage was announced: De Vaux
handed her down-stairs; and a glad sound it was when the wheels rolled
away from the door.

There are many people whose disagreeableness is of that peculiar kind
that one can compensate the annoyance it occasions at the time by
laughing at it with one's friends when it is over: but, unfortunately,
Lady Barbara's was of so extensive and tenacious a quality that it
outlasted her presence; and Mrs. Falkland, Isadore, and Marian, all
found that they could not talk of it in Colonel Manners's presence
without being as disagreeable as herself. As Marian, too, had no
inclination to converse upon the risks of matrimony and large
families, she was cut off from mentioning her share in the annoyance;
and after a quarter of an hour spent in determining, in general terms,
that Lady Barbara Simpson was a very disagreeable person, the family
returned to its usual course. Marian was a little anxious about
Edward's proposed excursion of the next morning; De Vaux himself was
thoughtful in regard to the conduct he was to pursue towards the
gipsy; and, as if by mutual consent, the whole party separated sooner
than usual.

We have not, however, done with the events of that night, and,
consequently, we shall follow De Vaux to his room, where he rang his
bell; and on the appearance of his servant, suffered him to give him
his dressing-gown and slippers. "You need not wait, William," he said,
when this operation was concluded; "I have something to write--give me
that desk."

The man obeyed and retired, and De Vaux proceeded to put down some
notes in regard to what he was to demand of the gipsy, and what was to
be the exact course he was to pursue, in order--without admitting any
fact till it was proved, or committing himself in any way--to arrive
both at the most accurate knowledge of his real situation, and the
most incontestable proofs of whatever was affirmed by the man he went
to visit.

When he had done this, he thought of going to bed; but his head ached
a good deal, with all the agitation he had gone through during the
day, crowned by the conversation of Lady Barbara Simpson during
dinner, and the tedium of Mr. Simpson after it; and approaching one of
the windows, he drew the curtain, opened the shutters, and looked out.
It was still moonlight, as when he had handed her ladyship to her
carriage; and throwing up the heavy sash, he leaned out, enjoying the
cool air. The moon was just at her highest noon, and the sky was
beautifully clear, except inasmuch as, every now and then, there
floated across a light white cloud, which the wind seemed playfully to
cast round the planet, like a veil, as she walked on in soft and
modest splendour, among the bright eyes of all the crowd of stars. The
river, gleaming like melted silver, appeared at the extremity of the
park, with the line of its banks, broken here and there by majestic
elms; and even beyond the grounds, glimpses of its windings might be
caught among the distant fields and plantations. The little wooded
promontory that flanked the park, with the higher hill, starting up
from the isthmus over which the road passed, rose grandly up, like two
towering steps, towards the glittering heavens; and beyond the sloping
fields and their hedgerow elms, with many an undulating line, lay soft
and obscure, in the sheeny moonlight, as far as a spot where, half-way
up the higher hill in front, the extreme horizontal line of the
distant country cut upon the sky. Scarce a sound was to be heard as De
Vaux gazed forth, but the whispering of the light breeze among the
tree tops, and the sweet plaintive belling of the deer in the park
below.

"If I had known that these people would have gone so soon," he
thought, "I would have made my visit to the gipsies' encampment
to-night instead of to-morrow. The gipsies sit up, carousing by their
fires, I believe, for full one-half of the night; and I might have set
my mind at rest about this business without waiting so long."

The thought of going even then now struck him; and he paused for a few
minutes to consider whether he ought to do so or not. "I shall not
sleep, even if I go to bed," he thought. "With all these things
weighing on my mind, slumber is not very likely to visit me. A couple
of hours will be enough to obtain all the information that I want; and
returning home, I may sleep in certainty to-night, and to-morrow have
to tell Marian that my apprehensions were groundless, or that our lot,
as far as station and fortune go, must be lower than we at one time
expected. I shall then have time, too, to sleep over my information,
and to lay out my plan of action for to-morrow deliberately. I wonder
if any of the servants are up yet?"

The fears that Marian had expressed for his safety crossed his mind
for a moment; but they crossed it merely as apprehensions, which might
have given her some pain, if she knew that he was venturing to the
gipsies' encampment at midnight. No doubt of his own security ever
entered his thoughts; for, although De Vaux's imagination was a very
active one, it was not fertile in images of personal danger. In short,
he was constitutionally brave; and, like his father, did not know what
corporal fear is. "I shall only have to tell Marian," he again
thought, "that I have been, and that all she was alarmed about is
over."

He gave one more look to the moonlight and then closed his window. His
boots were speedily drawn on; his dressing-gown exchanged for a
military coat; his sword buckled to his side; and, in conformity with
his promise to Marian, a brace of loaded pistols placed in his bosom.
Thus equipped, he opened his door and descended the staircase. All was
quiet; the lamp in the hall was still glimmering, though somewhat
faintly; the servants were all evidently in bed; and turning the key
in the glass door at the end of the lobby, De Vaux opened it
cautiously, and stepped out upon the lawn.




                              CHAPTER XI.


The moon was shining bright and clear upon Morley Down, covering every
rise on which its beams fell with soft and silvery light, and casting
every dell and opposite slope into dark broad shadow. From that height
a slight degree of mistiness appeared, hanging over the scene in the
valley; but above, all was clear; and the satellite of the earth was
so bountiful of her reflected rays, that our fellow-stars could
scarcely be seen in the sky, twinkling faintly, half eclipsed by her
excess of splendour. The scattered bushes and stunted hawthorns, and
the tumulus, with its clump of towering beeches, caught the rays; but,
with the peculiar effect of trees by moonlight, the latter seemed more
to absorb than to reflect the light, while their long deep shadows
cast upon the neighbouring ground, showed, at least, that they served
to intercept the beams. In many of the little pits and hollows of the
ground small pools of water had been formed; and so often did these
appear, glistening in the moonshine, in situations otherwise dark,
that it seemed as if the light sought out purposely the objects best
calculated to reflect it, and, like active benevolence in search of
humble merit, followed them into the dim and lowly abodes where they
had made their dwelling.

From these pools, however, the sand-pit in which the gipsies had
pitched their tents was free; and the only water it contained was
afforded by a small clear spring, which the labourers had cut through
in digging for the produce of the pit; and, which, welling from the
bank, fell into a clear small basin of yellow sand that would, in all
probability, have absorbed it speedily, had it not found a sudden
channel among some smooth stones and gravel, and thence wound away,
forced into a thousand meanders by the irregularity of the ground,
till, issuing forth upon the common, it pursued its course down the
hill, and, joined by several other brooks, poured no inconsiderable
addition into the river in the valley below. It, too, caught the
moonbeams and glanced brightly in them; but that was not the only
light that shone upon it, as it trickled down the bank, and rested in
its little basin below. A redder and less pure gleam was reflected
from its waters, for at about twenty yards from the source, close
under shelter of the high bank and overhanging bushes, the gipsies had
pitched their tents; and now, though the hour was nearly midnight,
they were just in the midst of those revels that often rise up from
many a moor and many a planting throughout old England, while the rest
of her denizens are fast asleep. The evening was as warm as if it had
been far earlier in the year; and although the wind was high it
whistled sheer over the pit, without visiting with its rude search the
corner thereof in which the race of wanderers had nested their
encampment. The very sound, however, and the freshness of the night
air, rendered the idea of a fire any thing but unpleasant; and in
three different spots of the gipsy encampment the blaze rose up and
the sticks crackled, while the pots, now withdrawn from the flame, the
bottles of various shapes that lay round, and the cups, some of tin,
some of horn, some of silver,[3] that circulated somewhat rapidly,
told that the last and merriest meal of the day had commenced.


---------------------

[Footnote 3: It is a peculiar trait in the character of the gipsies,
remarked, I believe, in every country where they are to be found, that
each individual strives to possess himself of something formed of one
of the precious metals, denying himself even necessaries to procure
it; and guarding it with a degree of care which the race extend to few
other things. By some writers it is asserted that these cups, or
ornaments, or other articles formed of gold or silver, descend from
generation to generation, and are never parted with except under
circumstances of the greatest necessity.]

---------------------


Three several groups had assembled round the three fires, and each had
its peculiar character. At that which burned in the middle of the
scene appeared Pharold, leaning upon the ground, with his elbow
supported by a projection of the bank, with a middle-aged woman on one
side, and the beautiful girl we have before mentioned on the other.
Two or three stout men, of from forty to fifty years, surrounded him;
and though joining boldly and freely in all that passed, it was
evident that they listened to him when he spoke with the respect due
to experience and command, and without any of that sullenness which we
have noticed in some of the younger members of the tribe who were with
him in the forest. Some more women completed that group; and, though
merry enough, it was evident, by their demeanour, that there sat the
eiders of the tribe. The next fire, at the door of a tent farther up
the pit, was surrounded by a different assemblage, though it was in
some degree mixed. At the entrance of the little hut itself appeared
the beldam whom we have seen acting as cook in the forest, and who on
that occasion, had shown some inclination towards a resistance of
Pharold's authority. Round about her were five or six sturdy young
men, from five-and-twenty to thirty, and five or six women; two of
whom did not appear to be more than eighteen or nineteen years of age,
while the rest were fine buxom brown dames of thirty-five or six. The
worthy lady of the hut, however, seemed now to have lost her acerbity;
and in a gay and jovial mood, with many a quip and many a jest, kept
all her younger auditors in a roar; though every now and then, with a
curl of the lip and a winking eye, she glanced towards the party at
the other fire, as if their graver conversation was the subject of her
merry sarcasm.

At the third fire appeared the younger part of the tribe, the boys and
girls of all ages, except those, indeed, who rested sleeping in the
huts; and this circle, the loud laughter and broad jokes of which were
sometimes checkered by the sounds of contention and affray, occasioned
by an old pack of cards, was presided by a strong handsome youth of
about nineteen or twenty, whose proper place would have been,
apparently, at the second fire. He was here, however, placed much
nearer to the first group; and this proximity gave him, every now and
then, an opportunity, in the intervals of teasing his younger
comrades, of looking over his shoulder at the beautiful girl we have
called Lena, who, as we have said, was leaning beside Pharold, and
listening with seeming attention to his discourse.

The whole three fires had assembled round them a much greater number
of the gipsy race than had been congregated in the wood where we first
saw them; and, in truth, a very formidable party was there gathered
together, who might have given not a little difficulty, and offered,
should their need have required it, no insignificant resistance,
either to game-keepers, constables, or police officers. Fourteen stout
men, in their prime of strength, with nine or ten boys capable of very
efficient service, were there met together, as well as a number of
women, whose arms were of no insignificant weight, and whose tongues
might have been more formidable still.

As it may be necessary, for various reasons, to afford a sample of the
sort of conversation which was taking place amongst the gipsies on
that night, we shall begin, on many accounts, with the second fire,
round which it appeared that a liquor, which smelt very like rum, had
been circulating with no retarded movements.

"Take it easy, take it easy, Dickon, my chick," said the old dame of
whom we have already spoken, addressing one of the sturdy young
vagabonds by whom she was surrounded: "never let's kick up a row among
ourselves, do you see. That's the right way to bring the beaks upon
us. He's a king of a fellow, too, that Pharold, though he do sometimes
look at one, when he's angry, as if the words were too big for his
throat--just as I've seen a fat cock turkey, when I've been nimming
him off the perch, and got him tight round the neck with both my hands
to stop his gabbling." The simile seemed to tickle the fancy of her
auditors, who interrupted her by a roar, which soon, however, died
away, and she proceeded. "He's a king of a fellow, though, and it
wouldn't do to make a split; besides, he knows more than common; and
the law's again it, too: so take it easy, Dickon, and I'll put you up
to a thing or two."

"Ay, do, mother, there's a good soul!" replied the young man. "Do you
see, I don't want to split with Pharold; but damn me if I go out
shooting at rabbits, and hares, and little devils like that, if I am
to give my word that I won't touch a deer if it comes across me."

"No, no, Dickie, never you meddle with nobody's dear," said the old
woman; "though Bill there, at the other fire," she added, dropping her
voice a little, and grinning significantly--"though Bill there, at the
other fire, seems to have a great fancy for Pharold's own dear." A low
laugh, whose suppressed tone argued that every one felt themselves on
dangerous ground, followed her jest, and she went on: "But,
howsomdever, Dick, never you meddle with nobody's deer, when you are
bid not--till the person that bade you is out of the way--do you see?
eh, Dicky, my boy?"

"Ay, that's something like now, Mother Gray," replied Dickon. "Do you
see, to-morrow, it seems, we must troop, half one way and half
t'other; and then, if I be not sent to a distance, and can get some
good fellows to help me, I'll bet a bob that I bring home two or three
as fat bucks as ever laid their haunches on the king's table--and
that's a better night's work than ever Pharold will do."

"Well, well, Dickon, you shall do it," replied the old dame: "you wait
quiet till to-morrow, and seem to think no more about it; and I will
get Lena to wheedle Pharold out of the way, if some of his own strange
jobs do not take him without; and you shall have free scope and fair
play for a night, my boy, anyhow--so the keepers may count their deer
the next morning, if they can."

"But suppose I am sent away," said the young man; "I would rather have
gone to-night by half."

"But you know you can't, Dickon," she replied; "and it would only make
a row to speak about it. We only go ten miles, any of us; and I will
take care of your ten miles, my chick. So keep snug; and, do you see,
there's no use of bringing up the deer to where we pitch. The shiners
are what we want; and Harry Saxon, who bags the pheasants and hares,
and who first gave me an inkling about the venison, will take the
beasts of us for so much a head, and send them up to the lord-mayor in
London. So to-morrow I'll be off early, and get the job arranged
proper, and have a cart and horse ready, do you see, Dickon."

Dickon rubbed his hands with much glee; and as it would seem that some
people are born to deer-stealing, he felt that satisfaction which all
men must feel when a prospect opens before them of their talents at
length having a free course. At that moment, however, two shots were
heard at no very great distance, but in the direction of the little
wooded promontory near Morley House, and the sound called forth some
symptoms of emotion in more than one of the party. Pharold listened,
drew in his eyes, and knit his brows hard, while Dickon vowed, with an
oath, "That fellow Hallet has gone down into Mrs. Falkland's
preserves, and will blow us all with his cursed gun. He might have
waited an hour or two."

Pharold listened still, but made no comment; and those by whom he was
surrounded seemed to suspend their own observations on the sound till
his were spoken. In the mean time, Dickon and the good dame, whom he
termed Mother Gray, proceeded with the edifying arrangements they had
been making, and had nearly completed their plan for getting Pharold
out of the way, stealing two or three deer from some of the
neighbouring grounds, and sending them up to the capital to supply his
majesty's burgher lieges in their necessity for fat venison. The exact
park which they were to plunder, and some other of the minor
considerations, were undergoing discussion, in which the whole party
round the fire took a friendly and zealous share; when one of Dickon's
comrades, who had been keeping an eye on Pharold's circle, touched him
on the shoulder, saying, "They are going to divide the money."

"They will not have so much to divide as we shall get to-morrow," said
Dickon; "I will answer for that."

"I don't know, I don't know, my chick," rejoined the worthy beldam;
"that Pharold is a knowing hand, and always gets more than any one
else, work for it how they will. How he gets it I am sure I don't
know; and I often think he must coin his skin into guineas, for my
part."

Now the complexion of the old dame herself, and of every one round
her, was as yellow as any one could desire; but that did not prevent
them all from enjoying the joke highly, simply, perhaps, because
Pharold's countenance might be a little brighter in hue than their
own. Several of them, however, now rose and approached the other fire,
at which the proposed division of gains was about to take place; for
it seemed that the tribe in question had retained many of the original
habits of their people which have been lost among other hordes.[4] One
after another, till the turn came to Pharold, the several gipsies
poured forth their acquisitions into this general fund. Silver and
copper were the principal metals that appeared in the collection,
though a few pieces of gold, consisting in general of coins of the
value of seven shillings or half a guinea, sparkled between; the
numbers who contributed, however, and the copious contributions of
small coin that some of them poured forth, gave the whole sum an
imposing amount; but when Pharold at length received the hat in which
it was collected, and drawing forth an old purse added between thirty
and forty golden pieces to the store, a murmur of joy and satisfaction
ran through the assembled gipsies.


---------------------

[Footnote 4: This habit is said still to exist among many of the gipsy
tribes; and some persons have not scrupled to assert, though
apparently without reason, that they carry their ideas of the
community of property to a somewhat licentious extent.]

---------------------


The partition next began; but it was not, as may be supposed,
perfectly equal. It was perfectly just, however; each received
according to the burdens upon him. The married man obtained a share
double in amount to that bestowed upon a single man: the mother
of a large family, even if her husband was no more, claimed in
proportion to the number of her offspring, and each orphan--of which
be it remarked, by one cause or another, there were several--- was
treated as a single man. The partition was made by Pharold himself
with rigorous equity; and though almost all the gipsies had gathered
round, and observed his proceedings with gleaming black eyes and eager
faces, none offered a word either of remonstrance or of information;
for all were not only convinced of his justice, but every one would
have felt shame to grumble at the award of one who, contributing more
than the whole together, only claimed the share of an individual.

When he had done, and the whole was distributed, Pharold addressed a
few words to his companions, such as the division which had just taken
place suggested. He told them that in this custom, as in all the
others which they themselves observed, they followed exactly the
manners of their fathers: and he praised, not without eloquence, the
sort of patriarchal state in which they lived. He lamented grievously,
however, that many of their nation were abandoning their ancient
habits; that some had even established themselves in fixed
dwelling-places, had submitted themselves to the laws, and had adopted
the manners, of the people amongst whom they dwelt. He besought those
who surrounded him to live as all their race had lived, and promised
that thus they would continue to be as prosperous as the division of
that night showed them to be at present.

"A curse upon our children," cried one middle-aged woman, "if they
quit the ways of their fathers, and go to live among the puny,
white-faced things of the lands: a curse upon them all! May their line
of life be crooked and broken off in the middle--full of crosses, and
ending in _Gehennel_!"

A murmur of approbation followed this denunciation; and the rest of
the gipsies retiring to their several fires, their carousings were
renewed, while Pharold related to those who more particularly
surrounded him a variety of melancholy facts relative to the
degeneracy of various gipsy tribes, who had fallen into the iniquity
of fixed dwelling-places, and many other abominations. He spoke of
much that he had seen in his own wanderings, and much that he had
heard from others; and his story became so interesting that a good
many of the younger of the race crept round to listen. This, however,
did not seem to suit his purpose; for he speedily broke off his
discourse, and, looking round him, exclaimed, in a voice loud
enough to be heard at each of the neighbouring fires, "Come, my men,
we are sad to-night, and that must not be. Will," he added, speaking
to the young man who, as we have said, presided over the younger
circle,--"Will, you are a songster, let us hear your voice."

William obeyed without hesitation; and while he went on with his song,
the old dame at the other fire continued conversing eagerly with her
favourite Dickon, in tones which were low in themselves, and which
were the better cut off from other ears by the rich fine voice of the
singer.


                                SONG.

       In the gray of the dawn, when the moon has gone down,
       Ere the sun has got up over country and town,
       'Tis the time for the lover to steal to his dear,
       In the heart-beating May of the incoming year.
                    _Chorus_.--In the gray of the dawn, &c.

       In the gray of the dawn, when the fox is asleep,
       And the foxes of cities in slumber are deep,
       'Tis the time for the wise from his tent to walk out,
       And to see what the rest of the world is about.
                               In the gray of the dawn, &c.

       In the gray of the dawn, ere the milkmaid trips by,
       To bring home the milk from the bright-coated kye,
       Some earlier hand may have taken the pain
       To render her milking all labour in vain.
                               In the gray of the dawn, &c.

       In the gray of the dawn, if you'll meet me down by,
       My own pretty maid with the dark gleaming eye,
       We'll wander away far o'er mountain and plain,
       And leave the old fools to look for us in vain.
                               In the gray of the dawn, &c.

       In the gray of the dawn, if you'll not come to me,
       My own pretty maid, by the green hawthorn tree,
       You may stumble by chance o'er the corpse of your love,
       As you trip with some other along the dim grove.
                               In the gray of the dawn, &c.


"You have changed the song, Will," said Pharold, as the other ended;
"you have added and taken away."

The young man reddened, but merely replied that he had forgot some
verses, and been obliged to put new ones; and Pharold, taking no
further notice, continued his conversation with his companions. In the
meantime, the consultation between the old lady and Dickon had gone on
throughout the song, and was still continued.

"Well, well, Dickon, my boy," rejoined the old lady to something that
her companion had said under cover of the singing, "keep a good tongue
in your head for a while, and we'll see what we can make of it. It is
a shame, indeed, that he should have his own way of getting so much
stuff, no one knows how--from the _Spirit_, I think--and prevent you
from following your way of getting some too, specially when it's all
to go with the rest. And he's proud of his way of getting money, too.
Did you see with what an air he poured the shiners in?"

"That I did, that I did," replied the other; "curse him! I'd get as
many as he, if he'd let me."

"Ay, but you see the thing is, Dick," she answered, "he gets it, no
one knows how, without ever saying a word about it to any one. Now,
you follow the same plan, my chick; and if he asks you, you can then
tell him to mind his own business. But hush, he's looking at us. Bid
Bill give us another stave."

"Bill," cried Dickon, "give us another touch of it, there's a good
'un. Sing us Old Dobbin, and then come here and take a swig of the
bingo with me and Mother Gray."

Bill was not at all reluctant, and without the slightest appearance of
bashful hesitation again began to pour fourth his fine voice in song.
The air, however, was of a very different kind, as far as expression
went, from that which he had formerly chosen, which had been somewhat
more sentimental and solemn than the words in general required, or
than might have been expected from the personage by whom it was sung.
In the present case, his tones were all lively, and the song seemed
well known to all his companions.


                                SONG.

                                  1.

              Lift your head, Robin!
                Lift it and see,
              Why shakes his bells, Dobbin,
                Under the tree.
              Why shakes his bells, Dobbin,
              His old noddle bobbing,
          As if there were strangers upon the green lea?

                                  2.

              Lie quiet, lie quiet,
                Though danger be near,
              If we make not a riot
                There's nothing to fear.
              If you will but try it,
              And only lie quiet,
          There is no harm will happen my own little dear.

                                  3.

              I have heard of the fairy
                That walks in the night,
              With a figure so airy
                And fingers so light,
              That though watch-dogs hairy
              May sleep in the airy,
          She will empty your hen-coops before morning light.

                                  4.

              I have heard of the witches
                That ride in the dark,
              And despite hedge and ditches
                Get into the park;
              Nim hares from their niches,
              Without any hitches,
          And think man-traps and spring-guns a toothless dog's bark.

                                  5.

              Then lift your head, Robin,
                Lift it to find
              Why the bells of old Dobbin
                Sound on the night wind;
              Then lift your head, Robin,
              For my heart is throbbing,
          About witches and fairies and things of the kind.

                                  6.

              Lie still, 'tis no fairy
                That trips the green sod;
              To hen-coop or dairy
                No witch takes her road.
              No, no! 'tis no fairy,
              Nor anything airy;
          Lie still and be silent, the _beaks_ are abroad!


This very edifying composition seemed to give infinitely greater
satisfaction to the generality of the gipsies than the former song had
done; and especially in those places where the singer contrived to
modulate his voice, so as to change the tone from the male to the
female, or from the female to the male, as the words required, the
approbation of his hearers was loud and vehement. Pharold alone
appeared somewhat gloomy upon the occasion; and were one to look into
his breast, which we do not intend to do very deeply on this occasion,
one might see a strange and bitter contest between early feelings,
habits, and inclinations, and refinements and tastes acquired from the
most opposite sources--a state of things so discordant in all their
elements, that nothing but an originally wild and eccentric nature
could have endured its existence in the same bosom. Some one has said,
"_Malheureux celui qui est en avant de son siècle_;" and it certainly
might be said, in every class of society, "_Malheureux celui qui est
au-dessus de son état_." Pharold then became gloomy, and felt
disgusted at things which amused and interested his companions; nor,
perhaps, was his gloom decreased by seeing that the beautiful young
companion who leaned beside him was as much pleased and amused as the
rest.

"I thought that I had taught you to despise such things, Lena," he
said in a low tone, and with somewhat of a frowning brow.

"Yes, yes," she replied, colouring brightly; "and so I do, when I
think; but yet--"

She was interrupted by the man named Dickon, who gave a low whistle,
and exclaimed at the same time, repeating apart of his companion's
song,--


              Lift your head, Robin,
                Lift it and see,
              Why shakes his bells, Dobbin,
                Under the tree!


And almost at the same moment one of the horses, of which the gipsies
had several feeding upon the common just above, repeated a low neigh,
which had been heard in the first instance by Dickon, as he was
called, alone. All was instantly silent; and then the jumping sort of
noise which a horse with a clog upon his feet makes, when endeavouring
to go fast, was heard from the common; and Pharold's practised ear
could also distinguish, proceeding from the gravel of the road, the
sound of a man's footstep, the near approach of which had probably
frightened the horse.

"Jump up, Will," he cried quickly, addressing the singer; "jump up,
and see who it is. Stop him up there! If he want me, whistle twice; if
you want help, whistle once!"

The young man was up the bank in a moment; but the length of time that
elapsed before they heard any farther sound made them at first fancy
that they had been mistaken in thinking that any one approached, and
then showed them that in the clear silence of the night the sounds had
made themselves heard farther than they had at first imagined. All
kept a profound silence; but, after the lapse of about a minute, the
murmur of distant voices was distinguished, and then came a low long
whistle. Every one started on his feet, but the next moment a second
whistle was heard, and Pharold said calmly, "It is for me! I may be
absent, perhaps, for an hour or so: but as the young man has come
to-night instead of to-morrow, we will set off all the earlier in the
morning."

He spoke to one of the elder men near him; but in a tone of voice loud
enough to be heard by those around. Dickon and Mother Gray gave each
other a look; and when Pharold slowly took his way up the bank she
stuck her tongue into her toothless cheek with very little of that
reverence in her looks which she sometimes professed for the leader of
the tribe.

Soon after he was gone the young man called Will returned; and was
questioned by several of the gipsies regarding the stranger who had
intruded upon them at so late an hour. All that he could or would
reply was, that he was a young fellow with a sword by his side, and
that he had walked away with Pharold; with which tidings they were
forced to content themselves, and their revels went on and concluded
much as they had begun.




                             CHAPTER XII.


Let any one who is fond of sublime sensations take his hat and staff,
and climb a high hill by a moonlight midnight. There is apart of that
dust of earth, which gathers so sadly upon our spirit during our daily
commune with this sordid world, cast off at every step. The very act
of climbing has something ennobling in it, and the clearer air we
breathe, the elevation to which we rise, all gives the mind a
sensation of power and lightness, as if it had partly shaken off the
load of clay that weighs it down to the ground. But still more, when
with solitude--the deep solitude of night--we rise up high above the
sleeping world, with the bright stars for our only companions, and the
calm moon for our only light--when we look through the profound depth
of space, and see it peopled by never-ending orbs--when we gaze round
our extended horizon and see the power of God on every side,--then the
immortal triumphs over the mortal, and we feel our better being strong
within us. The cares, the sorrows, the anxieties of earth seem as dust
in the balance weighed with mightier things; and the grandest earthly
ambition that ever conquered worlds and wept for more, may feel itself
humiliated to the dust in the presence of silence, and solitude, and
space, and millions of eternal suns.

The cool night air playing round his brow calmed the feverish headache
which anxiety and excitement had left upon Edward de Vaux; and as he
walked forth from the park, and climbed the high hill towards Morley
Down, with the stars looking at him from the clear heaven, and the
moon glistening on every pebble of his path, it is wonderful how much
his mind felt soothed and tranquilized, how small the cares of earth
became in his sight. So much so, indeed, was this the case, that
although, as he mounted the steep ascent, he heard distinctly two
several shots fired, apparently, a great deal too near his aunt's
preserves--a sound which, at any other time, might have roused his
indignation in a very superabundant degree--he now only paused for a
moment, and turned round to listen; and, hearing no more, walked on,
regarding the destruction of some hares or pheasants as a matter of
but small consequence. When he reached the common, the beauty of the
moonlight scene, with its broad lights and shadows, and the solemn
effect of silence, and solitude, and night, again made him halt in his
advance, to gaze upwards into the depth, and feel the mightiness of
the universe around him; and that, too, sunk all human cares so low by
comparison, that he began to think he could bear any disclosure with
calm tranquillity.

He then walked on rapidly, regretting, perhaps, a little, that he had
not asked Manners the exact position of the gipsy encampment, as he
had become warm in climbing the hill, and the wind that blew over the
common felt chill, and made a slight shudder pass over him. The little
mound, however, was his resource, as it had been that of his friend
when engaged on a similar errand; and, walking on to the spot where it
stood, he climbed the side, and cast his eyes over the wide and broken
flat grounds below him. In the direction of the sand-pit, he almost
immediately beheld a light; and the next instant a fine mellow voice
singing showed him that the gipsies were not only there but awake,
though he was too far off to catch any thing but a few detached notes
of a merry air rising up from below. Turning his steps in that
direction, he had proceeded about a quarter of the way from the mound
to the encampment, when an old white horse, which had lain down after
feeding, started up at his approach, and hobbled away with its clogged
feet, as fast as it could, uttering, at the same time, one or two
short neighs, as if perfectly aware that its masters were of that
class which does not like to be interrupted without warning. The light
of the fire, now rising up above the abrupt edge of the sand-pit, and
showing the dark outline of the bank, with the few black bushes
cutting sharp upon the glare, pointed out to De Vaux the exact spot
where the gipsies were to be found, when suddenly a human figure was
seen rising rapidly across the light; and a minute or two after the
form of a stout youth planted itself directly in the way of the
wanderer.

"Who do you want, and what?" demanded the young man, eyeing him from
head to foot with a look of no particular satisfaction.

De Vaux, however, answered him at once in such a manner as to put a
stop to any farther enquiries, saying, "I want to see a person called
Pharold, who is with you here. Can you bring me to him?"

"No," replied the youth, "but I can bring him to you;" and he uttered
a low, long whistle, succeeded by another, which was quickly followed
by the appearance of Pharold himself, who, as he approached, took care
to examine his visiter as accurately as the moonlight would permit.
When he came near, without addressing De Vaux, or waiting to hear his
errand, he turned to the young man, saying, "You may return, William;"
and seeing a slight inclination to linger, he added, in a more
authoritative tone, "Return!"

The youth obeyed; and then turning to his visiter, the gipsy said,
"You are Captain de Vaux, I suppose--nay, I see you are."

"You are right," replied De Vaux; "though I am not aware that you ever
saw me before; at least, I am certain that I never saw you."

"I saw you on the day before yesterday," replied the gipsy, "though it
was but for a moment, and you did not see me. But it is not alone from
that I know you. You are very like your father, as I remember him; but
still more like your grandfather and your uncle, in the times when I
can recall as happy a set of faces in Dimden Hall as ever shone in the
palace or the cottage."

The gipsy sighed as he spoke, and De Vaux sighed too, for he had never
seen such faces in his father's house; and there was also, in the
picture thus presented, a sad sample of how happy things and scenes of
joy can, in a few short years, pass away and be forgotten, which,
linking itself by the chain of association to the present, carried on
his mind to the time when he and his might be as those of whom the
gipsy spoke, and all the happiness which he now so fondly anticipated
with her he loved become a memory for some old remaining servant, or
poor dependant, to sigh over in their age.

"Then I am to suppose," rejoined De Vaux, after pausing for a moment
on thoughts which, perhaps, might be called gloomy--"then I am to
suppose that I am speaking with the person signing himself Pharold;
and I may also conclude," he added, "that he is the same whom I have
heard of, as having been taken, when a boy, by my grandfather, in
order to educate him with my father and uncle; but who could not bear
the restraints of that kind of life, and at the end of two years fled
back to his own race and his native pursuits."

"In less time, in less time than that," said the gipsy; "but I often
went back, and was ever kindly met, and used to please myself by
enacting one day the young gentleman at the hall, and the next the
gipsy on the common. But after a time," he continued, carried away by
his subject, "I strayed farther, and forgot what I might have been, to
give myself more up to what I was to be--but there is no use of
talking of such things now, it makes me sad! And so you have heard all
that. Yet who would tell you? Your father never did, I am sure; and
your aunt was then but a child of two or three years old; and your
uncle--but you remember not him."

"No," replied De Vaux, "any knowledge of the facts that I do possess
was derived, I believe, from the tales of an excellent old
housekeeper, who died not many years ago, and who seemed to speak of
Pharold with no small regard."

"And is she dead?" cried Pharold. "Poor good old Mrs. Dickinson--I
knew not that she was dead--she was ever kind to me, good soul: and
now she is dust and ashes! Well, well, the fairest, and the strongest,
and the best, go down to the sand with the leaves of the tree!--but
will the kindly affections, and the noble feelings, and the generous
nature, die too and rot? Can you tell me that, young gentleman?--I
think not."

"Nor I either," answered De Vaux. "God forbid that we should think so!
But, as I said, it was from that good old person, as I now recollect,
that I heard all I know of your former history."

De Vaux recurred to the subject of the old housekeeper purposely, for
he was not at all sorry that--instead of having to meet the gipsy as
an opponent, where every word was to be examined, and nothing admitted
without proof--their conversation had taken such a turn as to draw
forth the man's true character, and to show the deeper motives upon
which he acted. Anxious, as he might naturally be, to ascertain
whether there was any hidden passion which might tempt the other to
deceive him, or to seek to injure either himself or those connected
with him, De Vaux would fain have led the gipsy on to speak more fully
of the past; but Pharold's mind, following always its own particular
train, rested but for a moment longer upon the idea suggested, and
then returned abruptly to the cause of their meeting.

"Since you know so much of me, Captain de Vaux," he said, "you must
also know that I possess knowledge in regard to your family which few
other persons now living do possess; and you must know, likewise, that
I am not one to say to you a word that is false, or to seek to wrong
you by even a thought. That you have given some credence to my letter
I see by your having come here, and that you put some confidence in me
I see by your having come alone, and at this hour. Both deserve that I
should be as explicit with you as possible; and, therefore, before you
quit me, I will leave not a doubt upon your mind in regard to the
truth of what I affirm."

"By so doing," replied De Vaux, "you will at least entitle yourself to
my gratitude and thanks, though I conceal not from you that it is
difficult to feel grateful or to offer sincere thanks to one who,
willingly or unwillingly, overturns our hopes and our happiness for
ever."

"It is difficult!" replied the gipsy; "I know it is difficult; but yet
you must believe me when I tell you that I feel deeply and bitterly
every pang that I inflict on you; that but for a duty and a promise
registered in my own heart and beyond the stars--but for your own
ultimate happiness--I would not pour upon you now all that I must bid
you bear. You must believe all this, Captain de Vaux, for it is true."

And De Vaux did believe it, in part, if not entirely; for there was a
solemn earnestness about the man's manner, a sort of eager deprecation
in his tone, that would have been very difficult to assume unfelt.
Although his opinion of mankind in general, and of the gipsy race in
particular, was not very high, still the barrier of distrust was not
strong enough to shut out conviction when De Vaux heard the tones of
real sincerity; and he spake truly when he replied, "I will believe
that you do feel what you say, both because I have never, to my
knowledge, injured you or yours, so that it would be gratuitous
baseness to injure or afflict me; and because the little I have ever
heard of your character in youth, as well as your tone and manner at
present, convinces me that you are incapable of such a proceeding.
Nevertheless, you must remember, that before I can yield belief to any
part of a story which, in some way, must throw dark imputations upon
my family, I am bound to exact proof, and must be permitted to
question every assertion that is not supported by the fullest
evidence."

"Proof and evidence you shall have," replied the gipsy; "and you shall
not only be permitted to question any thing that seems doubtful, but
to be angry and indignant till you are convinced. Only, for your own
sake, command yourself as much as possible. Remember that you have to
hear a tale that will give you great pain; and, in order to enable
yourself to judge rationally of its truth, you must govern your
passions, and, as far as may be, subdue your feelings. You must
promise, too, Captain de Vaux, to forgive him who inflicts the truth
upon you. Will you promise me," he asked, laying his hand solemnly on
De Vaux's arm, "to forgive whatever pain I may inflict, when you shall
be satisfied both that my tale is true, and that I have no motive of
earthly interest in relating it?"

"Most certainly," replied De Vaux, "though you proved my illegitimacy
ever so clearly. Of course I must forgive you, if disinterestedly you
speak but the truth."

"Worse, worse, far worse than that have I to tell," replied the gipsy;
"but I cannot tell it here. The wind blows cold, and I saw you
shudder, but your blood will run colder still before my tale is done.
Besides, my people have long hearing and cunning ways. They are too
near; and I would not that any other ear than yours in the whole world
should listen to the words I am going to speak. You have trusted
yourself so far to-night that you will not fear to trust yourself
alone with me still farther. Come, then, with me to the edge of the
wood that you see lying there about half a mile off. There we can
shelter ourselves from the wind beneath the part of the bank just
where it looks down upon the road. You are nearer home there, too."

"I know I am," answered De Vaux, turning, and gazing somewhat fixedly
upon him; "but do you know that the road which it does overhang is
within a hundred yards of the spot where my uncle was murdered?"

"I know it well," replied the gipsy; "but you will never be murdered
like him, Captain de Vaux."

"And why not?" said De Vaux, quickly. "What happened to him may happen
to me."

"My story must explain my words," rejoined Pharold; "I am unarmed--you
are armed. All my comrades are there behind us: I go farther from
them, and lead you nearer to your home. Were I willing to injure you,
here were the place."

"Lead on, lead on!" said De Vaux; "I will trust you, and follow you!"

"Without reply, the gipsy led the way across the common, with every
step of which he seemed so well acquainted as to be able to shape his
course amid all the breaks, and bushes, and irregularities of the
ground, without ever giving a glance to the right or the left. He said
not a word either, and De Vaux followed equally in silence, with his
interest and anxiety still more excited than they had been even by his
strange companion's letter. In less than a quarter of an hour they had
crossed that part of the common which lay between the sand-pit and the
edge of the wood, exactly at that point where the hill, of which
Morley Down formed the table land, joined on to the general chain of
hills, from which it appeared as a kind of offset or promontory, and
which, as we have said, were generally covered with forest. The neck
of the promontory here overhung the turn of the road and the river, at
about a couple of hundred yards nearer to Morley House than the spot
where De Vaux had told Manners, on their first arrival in the country,
that his uncle had been murdered some years before; and the track that
lay between the place where he now stood and the highway was a steep
precipitous bank of two or three hundred feet in height, covered with
loose stones, scattered bushes, and one or two larger trees, thrown
forward beyond the mass of wood on the left. The moon was shining
bright on the road and the river, and though she had passed her
meridian, promised yet several hours of light.

"Come down this little path, sir," said the gipsy. "Under that bank,
with those bushes round us, about thirty yards down, we can find
shelter, and can see every thing around, so that there will be no fear
of interruption."

De Vaux followed as he desired, and in a few minutes reached the spot
to which he had pointed. There, upon a felled oak, which only remained
to be rolled down the hill, he seated himself on a little piece of
level ground, where some one had endeavoured ineffectually to
establish a quarry, and whence he could behold the village near his
aunt's dwelling and the top of Morley House itself, though the view up
the valley on the other side was interrupted by the sweep of the woody
hill. The gipsy stood beside him, and De Vaux anxiously besought him
to produce at once the proofs of the very painful assertions which his
letter had contained.

"I brought you not here without an object, Edward de Vaux," said the
gipsy, still standing; "for here I can relate my tale better than
anywhere else. Now, tell me what you remember of your early years, and
what you have heard of your father's history--of his history and that
of his family."

"I did not seek you," answered De Vaux, "to tell you what I myself
know, but to learn from you facts with which I am unacquainted. You
have made assertions, and you must either support them by proof, or
let them fall to the ground."

"Well, well," said the gipsy, "be as cautious as you will! If you
hesitate to tell the story you have heard, I will tell it for you,
Captain de Vaux, as I know you have heard it, and stop me if I speak a
word that is false. Your grandfather, the twelfth Lord Dewry, left two
sons and one daughter, then nearly seventeen. His eldest son, who was
about six-and-twenty, succeeded to his title; and his second son,
Edward, your father, who was then at college, went soon after to
London to study for the bar. They were both as handsome men as you
could look upon; and of your father's life and conduct in the great
capital, as I know nothing with much certainty, so shall I say but
little--"

"But it appears to me," interrupted De Vaux, "that such is the very
matter on which you are called to speak. I was born in London; and if
you can tell me nothing certain of my father's conduct in London, you
can tell me nothing to the purpose."

"Patience! patience, sir, I pray you!" replied the gipsy; "I can tell
you much, though on your father's conduct in London I will spare you
as far as may be. William Lord Dewry, your uncle, was one of those men
such as the world seldom sees; full of fine and generous feelings,
kind, forgiving, noble, with enthusiasm such as the cold call folly,
and humanity such as the unfeeling term weakness, though the rectitude
of his own conduct was as unbending as yonder oak, and his enthusiasm
never led him to aught but what was just and good. For some years
after he succeeded to the title, he remained unmarried, and it was
generally supposed that he would continue to live as a single man.
Those who knew him better, however, felt sure that if ever chance
should throw in his way a woman who deserved his love, whose heart was
full of such feelings as his own, and whose mind was stored with
thoughts and wishes as high and noble as those which filled his own
bosom, he would not only offer to join his fate to hers, but would
love her as woman has seldom been loved on earth; that such a woman,
so loved, would become the great object of his being and his life, and
would concentrate on herself all those deep and ardent affections
which from his boyhood he had shown that his heart possessed. He did
at length, as you well know, find such a woman--full of all those
qualities which were so bright in himself--beautiful, accomplished,
and his equal in rank and fortune. He addressed himself at once to a
heart that was free and unengaged; and the same fine properties that
had won his love were sure to win her love for him. He was married,
and was happy beyond all that he had ever dreamed. He was happy; nay,
more, he was content! for the angel of his home was more than all he
had expected, and he sought and wished for nothing more. Every
feeling, every thought turned towards her; and though his kindness,
his benevolence, his philanthropy, were doubled rather than
diminished, yet no joy was any thing to the joy of his love. For
a year and six months he was as happy as any human thing can
be--happier, perhaps, than any human thing ever was before. I saw his
happiness; and, oh! how it made my heart expand to behold it! But then
suddenly came a change. His wife had given him a child--beautiful, I
hear she is, as her mother and good as her father; but ere the opening
of her infant mind could add anything to the happiness of her parents,
or afford even a momentary consolation to her father when distress
came, her mother was seized with sudden illness, and ere five days
were over she was dead."

The gipsy paused, and seemed to sigh bitterly over the memories of the
past; while De Vaux, whose interest in all that concerned his beloved
Marian was hardly less than he felt for those things that affected
himself, waited anxiously to hear more; for though the story was not
unfamiliar to him, yet it was put in a new light, and told in a mild
and feeling tone, that gave it a thousand times more force than ever.
After a moment or two of silence the gipsy went on:--"What a change,"
he continued, "came upon him then! The world seemed all forgotten. He
appeared as one struck with sudden blindness; and where he had beheld
nothing but beauty around him before, he now beheld nothing but a
blank. For hours and hours he would ride in solitude through the
country, unaccompanied even by a servant. He would pass his friends
when he met them as strangers, and when they spoke, would seem long
ere he remembered them. He forgot all enjoyment and all occupation,
and lived in the world as if it were not his proper place. Thus passed
the days for near two months, when, at the end of that time, he one
morning rode forth as usual alone; but he chanced--though it was
seldom he mentioned whither he went--he chanced to say that he was
going to the county town. He was known, too, to have a large sum of
money on his person; and as he passed by the house of Mrs. Falkland,
his sister, for it was at Dimden he always lived, he stopped for a few
minutes."

"You seem to know the whole facts as minutely as if you had followed
him," said De Vaux, when the gipsy paused for a moment.

"I do," said the gipsy; "and, if you will listen, you shall hear how.
When he left Mrs. Falkland's, her husband, who was then living, and a
noble, frank-hearted man, walked by his brother-in-law's horse as far
as the village, but there he left him, and Lord Dewry rode on. He was
seen by some boys who were playing in that field--can you see it? half
a mile nearer than the village, with a red barn at the side. But none
of the country people saw him after, and he never returned to the
hall. His servants, who all loved him, were alarmed, and sent over to
Mr. Falkland, and he despatched messengers to the county town, with
orders to inquire at the villages on the road; but no Lord Dewry was
to be heard of anywhere. The evening passed over in terror; night had
come on, and the family of Morley House were retiring late to rest,
when a messenger arrived from Mr. Arden the magistrate, to inform Mr.
Falkland that a gipsy--do you remark--a gipsy had just been taken up
upon the charge of beating a young peasant almost to death the day
before, and now made a voluntary declaration that he had seen the Lord
Dewry murdered at the elm-point, there down below, that very morning
at ten o'clock. Mr. Falkland instantly got upon horseback, and rode
over to see Mr. Arden; and it was agreed between them that the news
should instantly be sent to the Honourable Edward de Vaux, your
father, and that till he arrived nothing further should be asked of
the gipsy, except if he knew where the body of Lord Dewry might in any
likelihood be found. He said yes: it might be found at the sea; but
that if they would search in the reeds by the bank, they would find
the baron's hat, and that in some of the woods or meadows his horse
would be met with. Search was instantly made, and some of his words
proved true; for the hat, pierced through and through with a shot, was
found bloody among the reeds, and his horse was discovered grazing in
the meadows, four miles down, on the other side of the water. In the
mean time, the courier rode night and day to London, and when he
arrived, found the dead lord's brother at the playhouse. He was very
much shocked at the news, and instantly came down hither with one Sir
William Ryder, a good enough man, they said, at heart, but one who had
been fond of play, and had lost a fine fortune by that foolish
passion. When the new lord arrived, the gipsy was again brought up and
placed before him. A great many questions were asked, and he told this
story:--The young man he had beaten had foully ill-used a gipsy woman,
and he, the gipsy, had punished him, scarcely as he deserved. He had
left him for dead, however, on the ground; and thinking that if he
were dead the offence might bring trouble on his people, if he went
back to them, he hid himself in these woods, and on the morning of the
murder was lying down yonder, in the sweep of trees there, just at the
head of the point. He had been there all the morning, he said; and, as
the country people generally take the short way over the hill, he had
seen no one pass, till, about half-past nine o'clock, a man on
horseback came and backed in his horse between the two old elm-trees
that lie about five hundred yards farther up in the bite of the river.
He lay very still there to see what would come of it; and in about
half an hour he heard another horse's feet coming quickly up, and Lord
Dewry turned the point. The gipsy said that he thought to have sprung
out, and told him what he had seen; for his heart misgave him as to
the purpose of the other horseman; but just at the moment the other
came forth, and, riding quietly up, spoke with Lord Dewry calmly
enough for some minutes. They then seemed to get into high dispute,
and Lord Dewry pushed his horse on upon the road a little, while
following, and speaking at his side, the other suddenly drew a pistol
from his pocket, and fired right into the baron's head. At the same
moment, as he was falling from the saddle, the horse, taking fright,
plunged into the river, dragging him by the stirrup, and his hat fell
into the rushes. The other horseman looked after him for a moment; but
ere the swimming horse reached the opposite bank, he set spurs to his
own beast, and was galloping away, when at the turn he was met by
another. The gipsy could see them grasp each other's hands; but they
stopped not a moment to speak: the second turned his horse with the
first, and both galloped away like lightning. The gipsy plunged into
the water, he said, to see if he could bring out the body, as soon as
he saw that it had become disentangled from the stirrup; but it had
sunk to rise no more; and when he was tired with swimming he returned
to the woods.

"Mr. Arden, the magistrate, said it was a very improbable story; but
asked the gipsy if he could recognise the man who had committed the
murder. The gipsy replied that he could, if he saw him, and could
swear to him whenever he was placed before him. Mr. Arden then said
that it would be better, under all circumstances, to commit the gipsy
at once for his other offences, when he would be always forthcoming to
give evidence if required; but as it was proved that the young man he
had beaten was hourly getting better, and acknowledged that he had
deserved the treatment he had received, the kind magistrate had no
other excuse to propose for committing the gipsy but that of his being
a rogue and a vagabond. In this, however, he was overruled by Lord
Dewry, the new Lord Dewry, after some private consultations with Sir
William Ryder. His lordship said, with a kind look to the gipsy, that
it would be cruel, he thought, to commit a man to prison for having
given voluntary evidence where it was much needed; and besides, that
he had reason to think very well of that gipsy, who had, in a degree,
been brought up by his father. Mr. Arden, however, suggested that the
gipsy himself might have been the murderer; and though Lord Dewry
treated the idea with contempt, yet the sturdy magistrate kept him in
custody, till, by the marks of the horse's feet, and many other
things, it was proved that his story must be true. In the mean time
Lord Dewry and Sir William Ryder were very kind to him, and took care
that he should want for nothing while he was detained. At length he
was liberated, and went to join his own people, promising to return
whenever he should be called upon, which every one felt sure he would
do, as he had been educated with the dead man, and loved him as a
brother. I need not tell you that I was that gipsy!

"In the mean time," continued Pharold, "Mr. Edward de Vaux took the
titles and entered into possession of the estates held by his late
brother. The will of the last lord was found, and no one wondered that
in it he never mentioned his brother's name; for it was known to all
the world that they had had many a bitter dispute, and had long been,
not as brothers should be. His daughter, Miss De Vaux, and the care of
the splendid fortune which she inherited from her mother, were
intrusted to his sister, Mrs. Falkland, to Mrs. Falkland's husband,
and to a distant relation.

"All his servants and friends were remembered by the dead nobleman,
and almost every one that he knew was named except his own brother.
The world did wonder, then, that that brother, with a singular
generosity, resigned in favour of his niece many things that he might
have claimed as belonging to the male heir, and treated all questions
between them, in regard to property, with unexampled liberality. When
he had settled all things, and retained a number of his brother's
domestics, he ordered the hall at Dewry to be put in order; not loving
the part of the country where his brother had been murdered. Thither,
then, he went, after he had arranged his affairs in London, bringing
down with him a young gentleman of seven years' old, his only son, and
supposed heir to all the property."

"And my mother!" cried De Vaux, raising his head from his hands, in
which position he had been sitting while listening to the gipsy's
story; for during its course he had been agitated by many a strange,
but ill-defined, emotion. The story of his uncle's murder had always
been one on which his mind had rested with awe and pain from his very
childhood; but though he had heard it often told, both as a whole and
in detached fragments, yet he had never listened to such minute
details as were now given by an eye-witness of the horrible event, who
seemed prepared to connect it, too, by some vague and unexplained
link, with the painful assertions which had been made in regard to his
own doubtful situation. The very expectation, or rather apprehension,
of some horrible disclosure to follow at every word the gipsy uttered,
had troubled and shaken him greatly; and the name of Sir William
Ryder--a person who, it appeared, was then most intimate with his
father, but who, it was clear, had since become the object of his most
determined hatred--had added deeper feeling of mysterious dread to all
those thoughts by which he was already perturbed. What could be the
meaning of all this? whither would it lead? how was it to end? were
the questions which continually pressed upon him as the gipsy
proceeded; and it appeared even a relief, when Pharold's last words
seemed to bring his ideas back from the new and dreadful topics on
which they had been engaged, to the subject of his former doubts and
suspicions.

"And my mother!" he cried, as the gipsy paused, "what of her?"

"Nothing, that I know," replied Pharold, apparently with some
surprise; "nothing but that she was a Spanish lady, who married your
father privately, after breaking her vows in a convent."

"Then they were married?" cried De Vaux, eagerly.

"Certainly!" answered the gipsy: "I never heard it doubted; though he
kept her from all his family, and used her ill; which was one of the
causes of his quarrels with his brother. But she was dead before he
came down here to take possession of his brother's lands. But let me
tell my tale."

De Vaux again leaned his head upon his hands; every thing once more
becoming dark and misty around him. "Go on! go on!" he said; "go on,
and keep me not in suspense, for Heaven's sake!"

"I have now told you," continued Pharold, "the story of your family as
it went forth to the world, and as you most likely have heard it
yourself. It is a goodly tale, and just such as could be desired under
such circumstances! The picture is, indeed, a dark and painful one:
but it has another side more dark and painful still; and ere you look
at it, nerve your mind firmly, young gentleman; for if you be such as
I believe you are, filled with honourable feelings and kindly
affections, your very soul will writhe under all you have to hear."

De Vaux waved his hand for him to go on; and the gipsy
continued:--"You have heard the world's version of the story; you must
now hear the gipsy's. My early history you know; for a year and nine
months I was brought up with your uncle and your father. Your uncle
ever loved me--your father never: but he was too proud to seek to
injure me; and when I left the false restraints of what you call
society, to go back to my own race and my native freedom, he and I
were friends, as far as we could be.

"Your uncle I often returned to see, though longer and longer became
my absence, and greater and greater my contempt for gilded halls and
mercenary slaves in laced jackets. I took a pleasure, however, a
secret pleasure, in marking and learning all the doings of the man I
loved best on earth; and sometimes, though my distaste to fine
dwellings and insolent lackeys had grown into a diseased abhorrence
that would not let me cross the lordly threshold of Dimden, yet often
would I meet him in the park or in the walks, and hold a brief
conversation with him in the free air. It was after an absence from
this part of the country of near two years that I came back, and found
that his heart had been withered by the death of her he loved. I was
seeking for an opportunity of meeting him, when the offence was given
to an unhappy woman of our tribe, which called for vengeance at my
hand; and I was forced to conceal myself till I could learn what were
the ultimate consequences of the punishment that I had inflicted. I
hid myself, as I have told you, in that wood; and all the rest that I
said before the magistrate is true: but I said not all the truth. I
saw the horseman station himself between the elms; I saw Lord Dewry
ride up, and they met; I heard the words they spoke; I saw him ride
on, and I saw the other follow, though little did I dream his purpose;
I saw him draw the pistol from his bosom; I saw it raised, and the
shot fired that struck the good lord down--and the hand that fired it,
young man--the hand that fired it was his brother's!"

"It is false!" cried De Vaux, starting up and half-drawing his sword;
"it is as false as hell itself!"

"It is as true as yon stars in heaven!" replied the gipsy, calmly but
sternly; and a long pause followed, while Pharold stood erect and
tranquil before the son of him whom he had charged with so fearful a
crime, and De Vaux gazed on him with a countenance in which the
workings of all the manifold passions that such terrible tidings
produced were fearfully visible. "Will you hear me out?" demanded the
gipsy at length.

"I will," said De Vaux, casting himself down again upon the tree; "I
will! but think not to escape me. You have made a dreadful charge; and
as there is a God in heaven, you shall show me that it is true before
I quit you!" and leaning his head again upon his hand, he kept his
eyes fixed upon the gipsy, as if fearful that he should elude him,
till he came to parts of the details that made his hearer again bury
his face in his hands.

"I will!" continued Pharold; "I will show you that what I have uttered
is true; for it was to that purpose that I brought you here. But be
more calm, and let me tell you all the circumstances which might lead
him to the terrible act that he committed."

"He committed it not!" murmured De Vaux; but the gipsy went on as if
he had not heard him. "I have since heard all the facts," he
proceeded, "from one who knew them too well; the only one, indeed,
besides myself. Edward de Vaux, the younger of the two brothers, was a
man of extravagant tastes and habits. He went early and often into
other countries, and there he learned expensive vices and follies. I
would not pain you; but he gamed deeply, and lived sumptuously, while
your mother lived neglected, and fared but hardly. What he inherited
from his father was but small; what he acquired was nothing; what he
squandered came from the liberality of his brother; and often his
demands were more than any liberality could supply. Lord Dewry
remonstrated and entreated, but in vain; and much and nobly, have I
heard, did he offer to do for him, if he would retire into the
country, and treat your mother well. But she died, and that cause of
dispute was removed by her death. All check, indeed, seemed now cast
away by her husband. He gamed more deeply than ever; lost all; applied
to his brother; was refused, and then staked what he did not possess.
He lost. Sir William Ryder, his great friend, joined him in an
engagement to pay the sum within a certain time; but shortly before
the period arrived, Mr. De Vaux was not to be found by his friend. Sir
William thought that he had evaded him in order to cast the whole debt
upon his shoulders; and, learning the route he had taken, followed at
full speed; traced him step by step, and overtook him--at the very
moment he had murdered his brother. Horrified, but confused and
bewildered, before he well comprehended what he was doing, Sir William
became a participator in the crime, by promising to conceal all that
he had seen; and setting spurs to their horses, they arrived in London
by different by-roads, in so short a space of time that it seemed
impossible they could have done the distance. Well knowing that he
must soon be sent for, the heir of the dead man took care to show
himself in every place where his presence in London would be marked
and remembered, in case of necessity; and he was found, as I have
said, at the play-house. What sort of hell was in his heart, as he sat
and saw mockeries and pageants, I know not."

"But your story halts, sir," said De Vaux, sternly; "how could he know
at what exact spot his brother would be found at that precise time?
How could he--"

"By that letter!" said the gipsy, placing abruptly an old but
well-preserved paper in his hands, on which the regular post marks
were easily discernible.

"But I cannot read it by this faint light," said De Vaux, attempting
to make out the contents, after gazing at the address; "what is its
purport?"

"I will tell you," replied the gipsy, striking a light with a flint
and touchwood that he carried; "I will tell you; though you shall soon
be able to satisfy yourself. It is your uncle's letter to your father,
telling him that he has not sufficient money at his banker's to meet
his fresh demand; but that, if he will be at the inn at the county
town of ----, at noon of the eighteenth of May--the very day of the
murder--he will give him the sum of five thousand pounds, which is all
he can collect without burdening himself for other people's faults, in
a manner that he does not choose to do. There!" he continued, lighting
a few dry sticks; "there is light enough to read!"

De Vaux read the letter. It was such exactly as the gipsy described:
it was written in a hand which he remembered from other papers he had
seen to be that of his uncle; it was dated four days before his death,
signed with his name, sealed with his arms, directed to his brother,
and by the post marks had evidently been received. Conviction was
forcing itself painfully upon his mind, but drowning men will catch at
straws; and he hoped yet to find some flaw in the horrible history he
heard, and to be enabled to give it the lie to his own heart. He
returned the letter; and folding his arms upon his breast, bade the
gipsy go on; while, with a knitted brow and quivering lip, he
continued gazing upon vacancy, suffering his mind to roam wildly
through a thousand painful thoughts and memories, but without letting
one word escape his ear.

"By this letter," continued the gipsy, "did he know exactly when his
brother would set out for the town of ----; and he knew his habits,
too, well enough to arrange the rest of his plan. But crime is always
agitated; and it is thus that even the coolest and most determined
ever leave some trace behind by which murder may be detected. Your
uncle came not so soon as he had expected, and he took the letter from
his pocket to be sure that he himself had not overstepped the hour.
Just as he was reading, the horse's feet which bore Lord Dewry
sounded, and he hastily thrust back the paper, as he thought, into his
pocket; but it fell, and I saw it, and forgot it not afterward. When
the deed was done, he paused for a moment gazing upon the swimming
horse, and the sinking form of his brother, as it detached itself from
the stirrup, and without even a struggle the waters closed over his
head; and I am as sure as there is a heaven above us, that at that
instant the murderer would have given lands and lordships--nay, life
itself--to have recalled the irrevocable act that he had done. He
could gaze at it no longer; but striking his spurs into his horse like
a madman, he turned back the way he came. Just at the turn of the wood
he was met by Sir William Ryder; what he said I know not, but he
grasped his hand for a moment, and then galloped away, followed by the
other. Ere he had gone far his coolness had returned; for before he
came down here all his plans had been arranged, and his conduct
decided. He had questioned the messenger, too, and had heard the
evidence that I had given; and though I had declared that I could
swear to the person, he felt sure, from my _not_ swearing to him, that
I either did not really know him, or had determined to conceal my
knowledge. At all events, he had no resource but to front the matter;
and he did so boldly. When I was brought into the justice room, I
could see that he turned a little pale, and at the same time he put up
his finger to his lip, in a way that I might take for a signal or not
as I pleased. I repeated all I had said before, nay, I went further,
and described exactly the appearance of the murderer, but such
descriptions are always loose; and no one asked me whether any of
those present was the man--"

"Would you have said yes if they had?" interrupted De Vaux.

"I do not well know what I might have done," replied the gipsy, "but
I think not. What use would it have been to me to destroy the son of
one who had loved and cherished me? He had committed an awful crime,
it is true--but I was not the avenger. Besides, I knew that vengeance,
in its intensity tenfold more terrible than aught that man could
inflict, was in his heart already,--that there was a serpent eating it
up,--that the mighty, the almighty Avenger of all crimes was there in
his terrors, and that every hour of his after-existence would be
constant judgment and continual death. No, no! on my life, I did not
so much hate as pity him. At night, after I had been removed from the
justice room, I heard the door of the chamber, in which they had
confined me, open, and Sir William Ryder came in with a light. He was
a fine-hearted man, though he had been misled; and although the real
murderer had shown himself but little shaken, yet through the whole of
my examination he, Sir William Ryder, had been agitated, as I could
see, to his very soul. Both he and the other, however, whether to make
me a friend or what matters little, had done all they could to soften
the hardness of old Squire Arden, as he was called; but Sir William
now came to me to see what I did know, and how far they could trust
me. It was a difficult task; and had he gone about it as cunningly as
some would have done, he might have failed with me. But he was too
much moved for that. He spoke kindly to me, however, and told me that
Lord Dewry was very much interested for me, and would take care of me,
and I told him at once to bid Lord Dewry take care of himself, for his
was the case of danger, and not mine. So then he said that he saw I
knew more than I had spoken, and that Lord Dewry was grateful to me.
'Call him not by a title that is not his,' I answered; 'for I know
that the patent of their nobility bears, that if any of the family,
judged according to law, be found guilty of a felony, he and his
children are to be considered dead, their line extinct, and the next
heir to claim as if they were not.' He answered that that mattered
not, for that his friend had not been found guilty of any felony, nor
ever would; and that he had only to say, if I would quit the kingdom,
till he gave me leave to return, he would secure me the sum of one
thousand pounds directly, and a pension for my life. I said I would
think of it, and tell him when I was at liberty; and I was very soon
after set free. Sir William Ryder did not fail to find me out,
however; and it was agreed between us that I should go; and that he
should meet me at the sea-port where I embarked, and there give me the
money.

"It took a time, however, to move the tribe to the port, and some were
unwilling to go without knowing the reason. So we divided, some going
with me, some betaking themselves to their own way. I saw Sir William
Ryder often, and when I wrote to him to tell him that we were near a
sea-port in Wales, he came down directly, and visited the encampment.
He told me that he, too, was about to set out for America, and
intended to spend the rest of his life in the colonies. 'I will try,'
he said, 'by devoting the remainder of my days to doing good, and
walking uprightly with all men, to efface from my memory the traces of
many follies and of one great crime, in which I have not been a
sharer, indeed, but which I have aided to conceal.' The second day,
however, that he came out to us, his horse took fright at a monkey,
which some of our people had among the tents, and threw him violently.
He broke his collar-bone and several of his ribs, and being carried
into a hut, we all nursed him tenderly. I found him better than I
thought, and learned to love him; and under our care he got well
sooner than if all the doctors in the world had seen him. While he was
recovering it was that I learned how all had happened; and he tried to
persuade himself and to make me believe that the murder had been
committed in a moment of passion, and not by design, or that his
friend was distracted with anxiety and distress at the moment that he
committed it. When he left us for America I went away to Ireland. I
have since seen many other lands, and have lived for some years in
Scotland, but I never returned to this country of England till about
three weeks ago."

The gipsy paused, and De Vaux remained as he had placed himself, with
his head bent down almost to his knees, and his eyes buried in his
extended hands. He continued silent long, bowed down by a sense of
misery, and humiliation, and despair. What would he have given at that
moment to have all his former apprehensions confirmed, if the present
terrible doubts could have been thereby swept away!--doubts, indeed,
they could scarcely now be called, for the gipsy's story was too
consistent in every part, was too much combined with facts within his
own knowledge, was too clear an explanation of many parts of his
father's conduct--his gloom, his reserve, his irritation, his
agitation at the very name of Sir William Ryder--for him to entertain
any thing but one of those faint, lingering, insane hopes, which death
itself is the only thing that can extinguish. But, for the moment, the
thought of whether there were still a doubt had merged itself in the
more agonizing ideas of what must be his fate if the story were true.
His own father! How could he ever behold him again? How was he to act
towards him? What was he to do? Then came the idea of Marian in all
her beauty, in all her gentleness, in all her generous love; and he
felt that she could never be his; that the blood of her father placed
between them an obstacle that could never be removed; that no time, no
change, no effort could ever cast down that dreadful barrier; that at
the very moment when his passionate love had been raised by her noble
conduct almost to adoration was the moment at which he must sacrifice
her for ever! And how must he sacrifice her? How must he act towards
her? He could not, he dared not explain, by even a single word, the
cause of that sacrifice; he could not tell her what had happened; he
could not even have the blessing of weeping with her over their
blighted hopes. Whichever way he turned, it was all horror and
destruction; and the brain of the unhappy young man seemed to reel
with the agony he suffered. He spoke not; he could hardly be said to
think; it was all one frightful dream of misery and despair. He felt
that his fate, as far as happiness was concerned, was sealed for ever;
and yet a thousand whirling and inconsistent visions rushed upon his
brain regarding his future conduct. How--how was he to act? What--what
was he to do? At one moment he thought of going instantly to his
father's presence, of telling him he knew all, and of ending his own
life before him, to cast off the intolerable burden of thought and
sensation; but then he remembered all that his father had already
suffered; called to mind the deep and gloomy pondering--the solitary
meditations, and the never-smiling lip--the bursts of wild and
impatient passion, the hollow cheek, the sunken eye, and all the
indications of a heart torn and mangled by remorse; and that idea
vanished in filial sorrow. At another time he thought of burying
himself deep in the wilds of America, of joining some Indian tribe,
and hiding his name and its disgrace in scenes to which Europeans
never penetrated; but then again the idea of Marian, and of never,
never seeing her more, overcame him with fresh anguish. He knew not
where to turn his eyes for guide or direction; he knew not how to act;
he knew not whither to go: every place was hopeless--every view
presented but despair; and, after a long and terrible silence, one
deep and bitter groan found its way to his lips.

The gipsy's heart was moved for him; and, after gazing upon him for
several minutes, he said, "I grieve from my very heart to pain you
thus; but yet, young man, be comforted: there is a balm for all
things."

The very words of comfort, however, proceeding from the same tongue
that had destroyed all his happiness for ever, roused De Vaux almost
to phrensy; and, starting up, he exclaimed, "Either what you have told
me is false, or you must know that there is no comfort for me on
earth! What balm do you mean?"

"The balm of time," replied the gipsy, unmoved, "which, as I know by
the experience of many sorrows, can take the venom from the most
cankered wound!"

De Vaux glared at him for a moment as if he would have struck him to
the earth, and then--for there are some loads of misery which are too
vast for the human mind to comprehend or to believe at first--and then
replied, "I believe you have been deceiving me, and wo be unto you if
you have! Have you any other proof," he cried, striving eagerly to
catch at a doubt; "have you any other proof? If so, produce it
quickly!"

"I am not deceiving you, young gentleman," answered the gipsy; "and I
can forgive both your anger and your unbelief."

"But the proof! the proof!" cried De Vaux; "have you any other proof?"

"I have," answered Pharold, "and I will produce it, though the letter
I have shown you is proof enough. I grieve for you, sir, but you must
not injure me."

"The letter you may have stolen," replied De Vaux, fiercely, "or found
it years afterward. What other proof have you? Give me some other
proof, and I will believe you."

"You believe me already at your heart," answered the gipsy; "but the
other proof is this:--I have said that the murderer gazed for a moment
after his victim, and that I saw that he gazed in deep and terrible
remorse. Know you how I saw that it was so? Thus: The moment that the
shot was fired, and that his brother was falling, his hand let the
pistol drop from his grasp, and he sat on his horse motionless as a
statue, as if the deed he had done had turned him into stone; nor did
he move hand or limb till he turned and galloped away as if the fiends
of hell were pursuing him. The pistol was not lost any more than the
letter; and happy for him was it that they both fell into the hands of
one who concealed them carefully; for had they been found by any
other, your father might have ended his days upon a scaffold more than
twenty years ago. You ask for more proof. Look there! that is the
weapon, and you know the arms of a younger brother of your race too
well to doubt me longer."

De Vaux took the pistol which the gipsy produced. It was curiously
inlaid with silver, and the arms of his family embossed upon the
stock. He had once seen one, and only one, precisely similar in the
hands of his father, when he came upon him by accident in his private
study. His father had put it away in haste into a chest that contained
it; and, with a pale cheek and quivering lip, had reproved his son for
breaking in upon his privacy. De Vaux now saw the fellow-weapon of the
one he had then beheld: the last faint gleam of hope left his heart
for ever; and striking his hand upon his bosom, and groaning in the
bitterness of his heart, he cast himself frantically down upon the
cold ground.




                            CHAPTER XIII.


It is a wonder that man ever smiles; for there is something so strange
and awful in the hourly uncertainty of our fate--in the atmosphere of
darkness and insecurity that surrounds our existence--in the troops of
dangers to our peace and to our being that ride invisible upon every
moment as it flies--that man is, as it were, like a blind man in the
front of a great battle, where his hopes and his joys are being swept
down on every side, and in which his own existence must terminate at
length, in some undefined hour, and some unknown manner--and yet he
smiles as if he were at a pageant!

Were his smile the smile of faith and confidence in the great, good
Being who sees the struggle and prepares the reward, he might smile
unshaken indeed; but, alas, alas! is it so? I fear but seldom.

There are few things on earth more melancholy than when one is
burdened with some evil news to see those whom it is destined to
plunge into grief full of gay life and happiness, enjoying the bright
moments as if there were nothing but pleasure in the world. There is
something awful in it! It brings home to our own hearts the fearful
fact that, at the very instant when we are at the height of joy, some
remote, unseen, unknown, unexpected agents may be performing acts
destined to blast our happiness for ever. There is something
mysterious in it, too; for it shows us that at the very moment when
our state is in reality the most miserable upon earth, we are often
giving ourselves up to the most wild and rapturous gayety, solely
because some other tongue has not spoken in our ear a few conventional
sounds which the inhabitant of another land would not understand, but
which, as soon as they are spoken, plunge us from the height of joy
down into the depth of despair.

On the third morning of Colonel Manners's stay at Morley House, and on
which he expected letters that would give him a fair excuse for
abridging his visit, he rose as early, but came down somewhat later
than usual. He still, however, expected to find himself earlier than
the rest of the family; but on passing the music-room, the door of
which was ajar, he heard the notes of a harpsichord--the solace and
delight of our worthy ancestors--mingling with some gay voices
talking; and, taking the prescriptive right of opening quite all
half-opened doors, he walked in, and found Miss Falkland at the
instrument, speaking cheerfully, over her shoulder, to Miss De Vaux,
who stood behind.

A slight complaining cry on the part of the lazy hinges made both
ladies turn their eyes towards it; and Isadore smiled as she did so,
while a faint colour spread itself deepening over Marian's soft
cheek--perhaps she might expect to see some one else than Colonel
Manners, and be just sufficiently disappointed to say something civil
and kind to him on his entrance, as a sort of compensation for the bad
compliment she paid him at the bottom of her heart.

"Isadore was just talking of you, Colonel Manners," she said, looking
towards her cousin, as if leaving her to explain in what manner.

"There is a proverb to that effect, madam," replied Manners, smiling;
"but I am always glad to find myself subject of discourse to those I
esteem, if the matter be not censure at least. May I be let into the
secret?"

"Oh, beyond all doubt," replied Isadore. "The fact is, De Vaux
betrayed you last night, Colonel Manners; and told me, without even
binding me to secrecy, that you sing remarkably well."

"He did me injustice, I assure you," replied Manners; "but if that be
'the head and front of my offence,' I can prove myself innocent of
singing remarkably well at any time you like."

"No time like the present, Colonel Manners," said Isadore. "It wants
full half an hour to breakfast, and there is nothing on earth so
painful as to live in long-drawn expectation of such things. Will you
sing, Colonel Manners?"

"I believe," he replied, "that there is some superstitious penalty
attached to singing before breakfast; but nevertheless I will dare the
adventure if you have any music that I know, for the sin of
accompanying myself I commit not."

"Do you know that?" asked Miss Falkland; "or that! or that?"

"No, indeed," answered Colonel Manners; "but I know the air of this
one, and have sung it more than once to different words, the
composition of a lady possessing no small poetical powers. I will try
to recollect them now; though, to speak the truth, it is doing some
injustice to the lines to take them from the drama for which they were
designed, and apply them to an old song."

"Oh, never mind; we will make all due allowances," replied Miss
Falkland; "am I to accompany you, or Marian!--Oh, very well, with all
my heart! Is it to be the time of a monody or a jig?"

"Not too fast, if you please," replied Colonel Manners; and Miss
Falkland accompanying him, he sang the following lines to an air,
which was then not very new, but which is now in all probability lost
to posterity.


                                SONG.

             "I woo thee not as others woo,
              I flatter not as others do,
                  Nor vow that I adore;
              I cannot laugh, I cannot smile.
              Nor use, as they, each courtly wile,
                But oh, I love thee more.

             "The rich, the noble, and the great,
              Offer thee wealth, and power, and state,
                And fortunes running o'er!
              How can I smile, when none of these
              Give me the worldly power to please,
                Though I may love thee more?

             "And yet I hope, because I love
              With thoughts that set thee far above
                Vain Fortune's glittering store.
              Others may deem thou canst be won
              By things that sparkle in the sun,
                But oh, I love thee more.

             "I do believe that unto thee
              Truth, honour, plain sincerity,
                Are jewels far before
              All that the others think are dear;
              And yet far more than they I fear,
                Because I love thee more.

             "I love thee more than all the train
              Who flaunt, who flatter, and who feign,
                And vow that they adore:
              I love thee as men loved of yore--
              Ah, no, I love thee more--far more
                Than man e'er loved before."


"I do not think I could have resisted those verses well sung," cried
Isadore, smiling as he concluded, if I had been the most disdainful
beauty that ever carried a hawk upon her glove in the days of old.
"What do you say, Marian?"

"I do not know how far my powers of resistance might go," answered
Marian de Vaux, "but I should very much like to hear the rest of the
story. You say that it is in a drama, Colonel Manners, I think; pray,
can it be procured?"

"I am afraid not," answered Manners: "it is the writing of a lady, and
has never been given to the world; at least, as far as I know."

"But at all events tell us the fate of the lover," exclaimed Isadore;
"that you are bound to do in common charity, after having excited our
curiosity."

"Oh, he is made happy, of course," he replied, "as all lovers are, or
should be."

"Say _true lovers_, if you please, Colonel Manners," cried Isadore,
"and then I will agree; but if a woman were to make happy, as you
gentlemen call it before you are married, every impertinent personage
who comes up, and making you a low bow, with his hat under his arm,
asks you, 'Pray, madam, will you marry me?' as if he were asking you
merely to walk a minuet, she would have enough to do, I can assure
you."

"I can easily conceive it," answered Manners, laughing; "but what a
clamorous summons that bell makes! pray does it ring for breakfast
every morning? I did not near it yesterday."

"That was because you were out having your fortune told when it rang,
Colonel Manners," replied Miss Falkland; "but it rings every morning
at this hour, and if Mrs. Falkland is not down, it falls to my lot to
make the tea. Wherefore I must now remove to the breakfast-room."

Thus saying, she led the way, while her cousin and Colonel Manners
followed; and the hot and shining urn having taken its wonted place,
she proceeded with the breakfast arrangements, while the butler
bustled about, first at the sideboard, and then at the table, looking
ever and anon at the two young ladies, and then at Colonel Manners,
and then at the fire-place, till, having nothing further to do, he was
obliged to retire.

"Gibson looks as if he had some vast secret upon his mind," said
Isadore, speaking to her cousin; "did you see, Marian, how he moved
about? You must know, Colonel Manners, that that old gentleman is a
very privileged person in our family, and often condescends to pour
forth the secrets of the village upon us, in despite of all our
struggles and reluctance."

"I am sorry he did not gratify himself this morning," said Manners:
"there are few things more delightful than a village story well told."

"You were the great obstacle, I am afraid," replied Miss Falkland: "he
has his own peculiar notions of decorum, and a visiter is pretty sure
of reverence; but I do believe, from his extreme alacrity this
morning, that he would have even disregarded your presence had a
single word been said to him. But I did not choose to gratify him even
by a word; for I knew if I had but said, 'Gibson, bring more butter,'
he would instantly have burst forth with, 'Yes, miss, I'll tell you
all about it. The park-keeper's daughter's husband's sister--' and so
he would have gone on for an hour."

Colonel Manners could not help laughing, and even Marian smiled at the
manner in which her gay cousin imitated the old man's prolixity; but
at the same time there was an expression of anxiety on Miss De Vaux's
countenance which nothing but the presence of Edward de Vaux could
have done away. He had not yet come down, however, and the next person
who entered was Mrs. Falkland, whose first observation, after the
common salutations of the morning, was, "Why--is not Edward down?
surely he has not grown a sluggard in the wars!"

"Oh no, my dear aunt," replied Marian; "I dare say he was down before
we were up, for he told me last night that he was going out early this
morning, but would be back to breakfast."

The old butler was just at that moment entering with a partridge pie;
and halting in the midst, he exclaimed, "No, indeed, Miss Marian; no,
indeed! Master Edward has not come down, because he has never been
up."

"Never been up!" said Mrs. Falkland, mistaking the man's meaning;
"then you had better send up his servant to wake him, Gibson. But why
are you so pale, Marian? what is the matter?"

"Oh, that is not it at all, ma'am," replied the butler, taking upon
himself to answer for all parties. "Mr. De Vaux has never been in bed
last night, ma'am. His servant told me so this minute. There is the
bed turned down, says he, just as the housemaid left it, and his
slippers standing by the great chair, and his hat, and sword, and
riding-coat gone."

"Nay, Marian, do not look so alarmed," said Isadore, laying her hand
affectionately upon that of her cousin. "This will prove all airy
nothing, depend upon it; but you had better come away with me, love,
and leave mamma and Colonel Manners to sift it; for you will only
agitate yourself more than is at all necessary by listening to the
miraculous conjectures of every different servant in the house."

"No, no; I would a great deal rather hear all, Isadore," answered
Marian, in her usual calm tone, though the excessive paleness which
had spread over her countenance evinced clearly enough that her heart
was any thing but at ease. "You had better send for Edward's servant,
my dear aunt."

Her suggestion was instantly followed, and De Vaux's servant, who had
been an old soldier, entered the room, and stood at ease before the
party assembled round the breakfast-table.

"Colonel Manners, will you be so kind"--said Mrs. Falkland.

"Most certainly, my dear madam," replied Manners, understanding her
meaning as well as if she had expressed it. "When did you see your
master last, William?"

"Last night, sir, at twenty minutes to twelve," said the man. "Did he
seem as if he were about to go to bed?" demanded Manners.

"No, sir," replied the servant. "He made me give him his dressing-gown
and slippers, but told me not to wait, for that he had a great deal to
write before he could go to bed."

Marian's face cleared up a little, for she was glad to imagine that
De Vaux might have sat up writing on all the many subjects which she
knew occupied his mind till daylight had appeared, and might then have
set out at once for the gipsy encampment; but Colonel Manners
proceeded:--"Do you know at what time any of the other servants were
up?"

"The groom and I were up at five, sir," replied the man, "and it was
just dawning then; but as we went along the corridor I saw my master's
door ajar, and thinking I must have left it so by carelessness, I just
pulled it gently to."

"Were all the horses in the stable?" asked Colonel Manners.

"All, sir," answered the servant.

"And now, William, in what state did you find your master's room?"
demanded Mrs. Falkland.

"Why, madam, I found that nobody had been in bed, clearly enough,"
replied the man; "and I found, too, that Captain De Vaux had put off
his dressing-gown and slippers, and put on his riding-coat and boots;
and I remarked, also, that the curtains of one of the windows were
undrawn, and the window itself open."

"Oh, then, I dare say he went out after daylight," said Colonel
Manners, "and will soon be back. Shall we ask him any thing further,
my dear madam?"

Mrs. Falkland had nothing more to inquire, and the man was dismissed.

"It is as well," said Manners, who knew that De Vaux was the man of
all others to be very much mortified, if he came back and found that
his absence had been made unnecessarily a nine-day's wonder of--"it is
as well to treat this business as quietly as possible, though, I
confess, it does seem to me strange that De Vaux should go out so
early, so very early, as to be seen by none of the servants, and also
should never have gone to bed; but I think Miss De Vaux said just now
that he mentioned his intention of going out very early."

"I did so," replied Marian, colouring slightly, from a feeling of
embarrassment, in regard to disclosing any part of all that her cousin
had confided to her, and yet painfully anxious on his account. "He
intended to go to speak with somebody, who gave you, I think, a letter
for him yesterday, Colonel Manners."

Manners was not a little anxious for his friend also; but he saw
Marian's still deeper anxiety, and he strove tenderly to avoid giving
her greater pain than necessary, while he yet continued to investigate
the cause of her lover's absence. "Oh, if he be gone to that person
who gave me the letter," he said, "De Vaux is safe enough; but,
perhaps, he may not be back for an hour or two, as it is a long way,
and they may have much to speak of; but yet, Mrs. Falkland, I should
like, if you could make an excuse for sending for the housemaid who
usually washes the stone steps, to ask her one or two questions."

"Certainly," answered Mrs. Falkland. "If you will ring the bell, I
will find some excuse."

The housemaid was accordingly sent for; and holding fast either
corner of her apron, presented herself before the company in the
breakfast-room. Mrs. Falkland then asked her one or two questions of
no particular moment, and Colonel Manners next demanded, somewhat to
the girl's surprise, "The mornings are becoming frosty now, are they
not, my good girl?"

"Oh, that they are, sir," answered she. "It was all as white this
morning as if it had snowed last night."

"And did you see any marks of feet upon the steps?" demanded Manners.

"No, sir, none," replied the girl.

"Are you sure?" repeated Colonel Manners.

"Oh, quite sure, sir," she replied; "for I washed and whitened the
steps with my own two hands, and cold work it was; and I must have
seen steps if there had been any."

After this answer she was dismissed, courtesying low, and not
ungracefully.

"I dare say he will soon come back," said Colonel Manners, when the
woman was gone; "and, at all events, if he be with the person who gave
me the letter, he is in no danger, I am sure."

Both Mrs. Falkland and her daughter perceived that Manners, at least,
if not Marian, spoke with a slight touch of mystery concerning the
letter and its sender, but, of course, they asked no questions; and
Colonel Manners's assurance that his friend was in no danger served in
some degree to tranquilize Marian. The breakfast, as may be supposed,
passed over dully enough, for every one was more anxious than they
chose to show, and their anxiety was, of course, increased by every
minute as it flew. Each passing step that made itself heard in the
breakfast-room, the sound of every opening door, caused Marian's heart
to beat, and Isadore to look round, but still the person for whose
return they were so anxious did not appear; and however slowly the
minutes flew, so many of them passed away at length as to justify
serious alarm.

The time had now lingered on till eleven had struck by the clock in
the hall, and some very painful remembrances of all that had taken
place at the death of her beloved brother were recalled to the mind of
Mrs. Falkland by the unaccountable absence of her nephew. Isadore,
with all her natural cheerfulness, was anxious and silent; but it was
scarcely possible to express all the painful emotions that thrilled in
the bosom of Marian de Vaux. Manners, for his part--though his
feelings as a man were, of course, essentially different from those of
the persons by whom he was now surrounded--was far more alarmed about
his friend's absence than he liked to admit, and somewhat undecided in
regard to what he should do himself, under existing circumstances. He
wished much to go and seek his friend; but he did not like to do so
till the length of time was sufficient to warrant the conclusion that
some accident must have befallen him; and at the same time he
reflected, that during his absence some news might arrive which would
render his presence and assistance necessary at Morley House. At
length, however, he could master his impatience no longer; and,
ringing the bell, he said, with as much appearance of unconcern as he
could command, "I think, my dear madam, that it may be as well for me
to go and see if I can hear any thing of De Vaux, in the direction
which his fair cousin imagines that he has taken. I do not, indeed,
think that there is any cause for alarm; but it may quiet your mind."

"Oh yes, yes! pray do, Colonel Manners," cried Marian, starting up,
and clasping her hands. "I beg your pardon for asking you such a
thing; but, indeed, it will be a very great consolation."

"If it afford you the slightest comfort, my dear young lady," replied
Colonel Manners, "it will be the greatest pleasure to me. Will you
send my servant?" he added as the butler appeared. The servant came
promptly: for the anxiety of the parlour soon finds its way, in a
greater or less degree, to the servant's hall; and all the domestics
at Morley House were as much on the alert as the garrison of a newly
invested fort.

"Put my saddle on the gray directly," said Colonel Manners; "saddle
Amherst for yourself, and bid Captain De Vaux's servant get a horse
ready to come with me." The man retired. "I will just put myself in
riding costume, and be down directly," Manners added; and leaving the
ladies still gazing in melancholy guise from the windows of the
breakfast-room, he retired to his own apartment.

Long before the horses could be ready, however, he had rejoined them,
and was in the act of saying, "Now, I think, Mrs. Falkland, with three
old soldiers upon the search, we must soon be able to bring you
tidings of your nephew; and, I trust, perfectly satisfactory tidings
too," when the butler again made his appearance. The terror expressed
upon his countenance, and his first exclamation of, "Oh, ma'am!"
instantly sent every drop of blood from Marian's cheek back to her
heart. Colonel Manners would fain have stopped a communication
which was evidently alarming, and which might not only be a
confirmation of their worst fears, but be told in the most abrupt and
most painful manner; but it was too late, and the old man went on,
"Oh, madam, here is John Harwood, who has the cottage on t'other side
of the point, come up to say, that last night, about one o'clock, he
heard shots fired in the wood, and he's afraid there's been bad
business there."

Marian dropped down where she stood, as if she had been struck with
lightning, and for the time all attention was called towards her.
Colonel Manners aided to carry the fair unhappy girl to her room; and
then leaving her to the care of her female relations, he returned
to question both the butler and the peasant, whose intelligence had so
much increased their alarm. On inquiry, however, he found that old
Gibson's taste for the sublime and horrible had given greater effect
to John Harwood's tale than it deserved.

The man had simply heard shots fired, and his own natural conclusion
had been, that poachers were busy in the wood, of which, as a
dependent on Mrs. Falkland's family, he found himself bound to give
information. Colonel Manners, however, sent another servant to the
stables to hurry the horses, and then returning to the breakfast-room,
wrote down a few words in pencil to inform Mrs. Falkland that the
story had been exaggerated; but he was almost instantly joined by
Isadore, who assured him that her cousin was better.

Moments of grief, anxiety, and danger are wonderfully powerful in
breaking down all the cold and icy barriers which society places
between us and those we like; and Isadore Falkland came forward, and
laid her fair hand as familiarly upon Colonel Manners's arm as if she
had known him from her infancy. There was an earnestness in her fine
eyes, too, and an appealing softness in her whole look, that was very
irresistible. "Colonel Manners," she said, "this state of apprehension
and uncertainty is very dreadful, especially to us poor women, who,
having but little knowledge of the world and its ways, have little
means of judging whether our fears be reasonable or not. I can see
that you have put a restraint upon yourself before Marian; but I
beseech you to tell me, at least, if you have any friendship for a
person you have known so short a time, what is your real opinion! Do
you think there is any serious cause for apprehension?"

"You and your family, Miss Falkland," replied Manners, "have taught me
how soon one can feel the deepest interest and friendship for those
who deserve it; but in regard to De Vaux, I really see no cause for
apprehension."

"Nay, nay, Colonel Manners," said Isadore, "I shall not think you have
much regard for me if you try to sooth me by false hopes respecting my
cousin. There is an anxiety in your look, which could not be there if
there were no cause for alarm."

"Indeed, Miss Falkland," he replied, with a smile which was not of the
gayest character in the world--"indeed, I have the deepest regard for
you, and would not deceive you for a moment. De Vaux's absence is
strange, undoubtedly. His never having gone to bed is strange. But in
regard to these shots which have been heard--as the man himself
believed till your old butler infected him with his own miraculous
mood--they have been undoubtedly fired by poachers; and I see not the
slightest reason for believing that they are in any way connected with
your cousin's absence."

There had been a degree of earnestness in Manners's profession of
regard that had called a slight glow into Isadore's cheek, and made
her heart beat a little quicker, though Heaven knows he had not the
slightest thought of making her heart beat with any but its ordinary
pulse, and Isadore herself never suspected that he had. It was only
one of those slight passing emotions which sometimes move the heart
without our well knowing why, like the light ripple that will
occasionally dimple the surface of a still, sheltered water from some
breath of air too soft and gentle to be felt by those who watch it
from the banks. Whatever caused the glow, it was all gone in an
instant; and she answered, "Perhaps what makes us all the more uneasy
is, that none of us can forget that my uncle, Marian's father, was
murdered many years ago in this neighbourhood; and the first news of
his death came upon mamma by surprise, in the same way that this has
done upon poor Marian."

"I trust in Heaven, and believe most firmly, Miss Falkland, that you
will find no further resemblance between the fate of your cousin and
that of his uncle," replied Colonel Manners: "but, at all events, I
will lose no time and spare no exertion in endeavouring to satisfy you
as to his fate; and, if it should cost me my life, I will discover him
before I give up the search."

"Nay, nay, you must take care of your life," said Isadore; "it must
doubtless be valuable to many, and therefore must not be risked
unadvisedly."

"It is valuable to none that I know of, Miss Falkland," said Manners,
with a melancholy smile, "and to myself least of all; but,
nevertheless, I never trifle with it, looking upon it but as a loan
from that great Being who will demand it again when he himself thinks
fit. But I anticipate no danger from my visit to the gipsies."

"Are you going, then, to the gipsies in search of Edward?" exclaimed
Miss Falkland, in evident astonishment. "Good Heaven, I had no idea of
that!"

"It was from one of them that I received the letter to which Miss de
Vaux referred," replied Colonel Manners; "and I may add," he
continued, "to you, Miss Falkland, that the impression that letter
made upon your cousin was such as to induce me to believe that if news
is to be heard of him anywhere, it will be from them that I shall
obtain it."

"This is all very strange, indeed!" cried Isadore. "But tell me,
Colonel Manners, do you know the contents of the letter?"

"Not in the least," he replied; "but certain it is, that whatever they
were, they affected your cousin sensibly. I had it from a gipsy-man,
certainly of a very superior stamp to the rest, although I found him
consorting with a gang of as ruffianly fellows as ever I beheld."

"Oh, then, for Heaven's sake, take more men with you!" cried Isadore,
eagerly: "you may get murdered, too, and then--"

"Nay, nay, I have no fear," answered Manners, "and there, you see, are
the horses. Three strong men on horseback might surely contend with a
whole legion of gipsies."

"Must I plead in vain, Colonel Manners?" said Isadore, really
apprehensive for his safety, and desirous of persuading him, but
blushing at the same time from feeling conscious that she was more
apprehensive for him than she had often before felt for any one. "Must
I plead in vain? or must I ask you for my sake, if you will not for
Heaven's sake? But consider what we should do if we were to lose your
aid and assistance at such a moment. Take two or three of our servants
with you also."

"For your sake, Miss Falkland, I would do much more difficult things,"
replied Manners, earnestly; "but listen to my reasons. It would delay
me long to wait till fresh horses are saddled, and longer to take men
on foot with me. In many cases speed is everything: I have lost more
time than I can well excuse already; and I can assure you, that with
the two strong and trustworthy fellows who accompany me, there is
nothing on earth to fear. Adieu! I doubt not soon, very soon, to bring
you not only news, but good news."

Thus saying, he left the room, and sprang upon horseback, while
Isadore returned to the apartment of her cousin, who was now in bed by
the orders of the village apothecary, and in the act of taking such
medicines as he judged most likely to calm and sooth the mind by their
sedative effect upon the body. Here Isadore communicated in a low
voice to her mother all that she had gathered from Colonel Manners;
and placing herself at the window of her fair cousin's room, watched
the dark edge of the hill where it cut upon the sky, till at length
she saw the figures of three horses straining with their riders up the
steep ascent. The next moment they came upon the level ground at the
top, changed their pace into a quick gallop, were seen for a minute or
two flying along against the clear blue behind, and then, passing on,
were lost entirely to her sight.




                             CHAPTER XIV.


We must now beg leave to retrograde a little in regard to time: and,
in order to bring every character in our story to the same point, must
turn for a while to a personage of whom we have heard nothing since
the day after Edward de Vaux's arrival at Morley House.

The beautiful world in which we live, the multitude of blessings by
which we are surrounded, and that beneficent ordination by which the
human mind in its natural state is rendered capable of resting
satisfied with whatever portion is allotted to it, would make the
earth that we inhabit an Eden indeed, if Satan had not supplied us
with easy steps to lead us to misery. Our passions form the first
round of the ladder; then come our follies close above them; then
follow next our vices; these, with brief intervals, are succeeded by
crimes; and all beyond is wretchedness. Every crime, too, is prolific
in miseries--its legitimate children--who not only return to prey upon
their proper parent, but ravage far and wide the hearts of thousands
of others. Not only is it on the grand scale when the glory-seeking
felon calls the dogs of war to tear the prostrate carcass of some
peaceful country, and, by his individual fault, render millions
wretched; but each petty individual crime, like the one small seed
from which mighty forests spring, is but the germ of gigantic and
incalculable consequences; and no one knows to what remote and
unforeseen events each trifling action may ultimately lead: no one can
tell to whose bosom the error he commits may not bring despair, or how
many hearts may be laid desolate by the sin or the folly of the
moment.

The father of Edward de Vaux--for to him we must now turn--had gone on
in the usual road by which small errors grow into great crimes. He had
committed follies, and yielded to passions. Passions had hardened into
vices, and vices had ultimately hurried him beyond what he would at
first have dreamed possible for a reasonable creature to perpetrate.
In the story we have heard told by the gipsy, the part that he had
acted was in no degree overdrawn by the narrator, though there were
some secrets in Lord Dewry's breast alone, which neither, indeed,
justified nor even palliated his crime--for such deeds admit not of
palliation,--but which showed, at least, that the crowning act itself
was not accompanied by many of the circumstances which seemed to
aggravate it. Overwhelmed by a debt that he could not pay,
disappointed of relief from a source that had never before failed, Mr.
De Vaux had set out from London to meet his brother in a state of mind
which approached insanity, and was, in fact, despair. Hardened by many
years of vice, he had retained very few of those Christian principles
which had not been wanting in his early education; and there remained,
certainly, not sufficient virtue of any kind to make him view an
escape from disgrace, by an act of suicide, as any thing unmanly or
infamous in itself. He had determined, then, either to obtain from his
brother the full sum he demanded, by whatever means might suggest
themselves at the moment--threats, supplications, or remonstrances--or
to terminate his own existence on the spot,--principally with a view
to avoid the shame he anticipated in London if he could not discharge
his obligations, but partly, also, with a savage desire of inflicting
bitter regrets upon his brother for the obduracy of his refusal.

As the most retired spot for executing this purpose, he had chosen the
point where we have seen that he had waited his brother's coming; and
there a busy devil, that had been stirring at his heart all the way
down, renewed its suggestions with tenfold importunity. He saw before
him some of the rich lands of Lord Dewry; he saw them smiling with the
promise of abundance; all seemed happy in the world but his own heart;
all seemed prosperous but himself. His brother, notwithstanding his
late loss, appeared in his eyes peculiarly blessed; and again and
again the fiend within asked him what right by nature had his brother,
because he was the elder, to the sole possession of all those
advantages which, the same evil spirit lyingly told him, would have
kept him from vice and misery, had they been equally divided between
them? His brother arrived while he was in this mood. The first means
he employed to obtain what he wanted were entreaty and persuasion; and
when these failed, he had recourse to threats and violence. Lord Dewry
retorted with reproach and reprehension; and his brother, in a moment
of frantic passion, brought the curse of Cain upon his own head.

The agony of remorse was the first thing that succeeded; but
self-preservation and the enjoyment of that which he had so dearly
purchased, became the next considerations, and he bent all the
energies of a keen and daring mind to that purpose. He mastered his
own feelings, both bodily and mental; and, after returning to London
with a degree of speed and perseverance that killed the horse which
bore him, he overcame both personal fatigue and anguish of heart, and
showed himself on the evening of his return at two private parties and
one public place; and, what is more, he showed himself with a smiling
countenance and an unembarrassed air. But when it was all over--the
examination of the facts, the taking possession of the property, and
the removal of those who could betray him--the excitement which had
been caused by danger passed away; that bubble, the hope of happiness
without virtue, burst under his rude touch, and left his heart to
remorse for ever.

Knowing that he must often see his brother's child, though at first
the sight was full of agony, he forced himself, by a great effort, to
endure it, till he had overcome the pain by habit; and at the same
time the lingering remains of some better feelings in his heart made
him look upon every generous or kindly thing that he could do towards
her as an act of atonement for the crime he had committed.

Such were some of the motives, or, rather, such were some of the
facts, which had influenced Lord Dewry in all his actions for the last
twenty years. For a time, indeed, he had affected gayety which he did
not feel, and mingled in society which had lost all charm for him; but
the revellings of the never-dying worm upon his heart's inmost core
would make themselves felt, and gradually he drew back from the world,
gave himself up to solitude and stately reclusion, forgot what it was
to smile, and only mingled with his fellow-men to pour forth upon them
the gall and bitterness that welled from an everlasting source in his
own bosom.

Remorse, however, was not the only fiend that preyed upon his heart:
fear, too, had its share. We have said, and said truly, that he was
corporeally as brave a man as ever lived: he knew not what bodily fear
is; but that is a very, very different affection of the complicated
being, man, from the mental terrors, the daily doubts, the hourly
apprehensions, that crowded upon him in solitude and retirement.
Corporal pain, the simple act of dying, he feared not, and there yet
lingered in his mind some faint traces of his early faith, suggesting
vague ideas of atonement made for man's crimes, which led him to
believe that the anguish which he suffered below might be received in
place of repentance, and procure him pardon hereafter; so that, on
ordinary occasions, he felt no tangible dread even of the awful
separation of soul and body. But this was not all: the torturing
uncertainty of his fate was a bitter portion of his curse. He knew
that there were two men in the world who could, at any time, doom him
to disgrace and death; or at least, if, by the precautions he had
taken, their success in any attempt of the kind had been rendered
doubtful, yet their knowledge of the dreadful secret of his state
rendered all that he possessed--honour, fortune, rank, even existence
itself--precarious; and he felt, as he looked around him, that he was
living in a gilded dream, which the next moment might vanish, and
leave him to misery and despair.

At first, when, perhaps, it might have been in his power to implicate
the gipsy as the murderer of his brother, and, by pursuing him as
such, to have crushed one strong source of evidence against himself,
two powerful causes had operated to deter him from such a course. He
knew that Sir William Ryder, though implicated by accidental
circumstances in his crime, was of too generous a nature to connive at
any further evil to which the desire of concealing it might lead him.
But it would be doing him injustice not to say that he himself had
shrunk from the very thought. His heart was not hardened enough for
that: he felt that there was too much blood upon his hand already; and
although the idea did cross his mind, yet at that time remorse was
stronger than fear, and even had Sir William Ryder not existed, he
would have chosen rather to bear apprehension than a greater load of
regret.

Time, however, had now altered such feelings; he was accustomed to
remorse, but no time can harden the heart to fear; and the first
imagination which crossed his mind, when, at the end of twenty years,
he again saw the gipsy, was to destroy him. The reader may recollect a
conversation in the beginning of this work, wherein Pharold detailed
the particulars of an interview he had had with the peer; and it may
easily be conceived, that from that interview Lord Dewry perceived at
once that the moment was come when he must try his strength with those
who had the power to injure him, and silence them for ever, or yield
for ever to his fate; and with a strong determination, but a mind
fearfully agitated, he instantly resolved to crush those he feared, if
human ingenuity, backed by wealth, and power, and a daring
disposition, could accomplish such an object.

Such had been the state of his mind when he so unexpectedly visited
the house of Mrs. Falkland, and found new cause for apprehension in
the conversation of Colonel Manners. But his coming thither had not
for its sole object to meet and welcome his newly-returned son. He had
learned, by instant and close inquiry after the gipsy had left him,
that parties of his race had been seen lying in the neighbourhood of
Morley Wood, with the view, it was supposed, of poaching on the open
and ill-protected grounds in that district; and suspecting, from his
conversation with Pharold, that on the refusal he had given, Sir
William Ryder himself might return to England, he hastened over to his
sister's house, which lay within a few miles of his property of
Dimden, in order, if possible, to pursue means of destroying the
actual witness of his crime, before the arrival of the only other
person who even suspected it.

Let it not be supposed--although there were in reality no means at
which Lord Dewry would now have hesitated to effect his purpose--that
he deliberately, and boldly, and undisguisedly proposed to his own
heart to bring about the gipsy's death. No, no: the great power of
evil is too well aware how horrible his naked suggestions are, not to
furnish them with a veil, flimsy enough, it is true, but still
sufficient to cover some part of their deformity. No! Lord Dewry
only proposed--at least, he cheated himself into thinking so--to
detect the gipsy or his comrades in some unlawful exploit, which might
give an excuse for removing them for ever from the country, and at the
same time might render any evidence they might tender against himself,
not only suspicious, but almost inadmissible.

The severe laws in regard to poaching, and the loose and lawless
habits of the gipsies themselves, he doubted not would furnish the
means; and his great object was to discover an offence of such
magnitude, and to obtain proofs so clear, that great severity would be
warranted and the justice of the accusation undeniable. It might cross
his mind that, in the pursuit of these views, a gipsy or a keeper
might be killed, that the charge of murder might be added to that of
poaching, and that a felony might rid him of the enemy of his repose
for ever. Such a thing might cross his mind, and be viewed with no
great dissatisfaction; but, at the same time, he denied to himself
that such was his object. "No: God forbid! But, if it did happen, he
should of course take advantage of it to silence for ever the voice of
one who had been witness to the _unfortunate accident_ by which, in a
moment of hasty passion, his brother had been deprived of life, and
who seemed disposed to abuse the knowledge he unhappily possessed."

Such had been the thoughts of Lord Dewry as he travelled over to Mrs.
Falkland's house on the night of his son's arrival, and such were the
thoughts that again took possession of him as soon as the passion in
which he had left her subsided on the following morning.

"With Sir William Ryder," he thought, as the carriage rolled rapidly
on towards Dimden--"with Sir William Ryder I shall easily be able to
deal single-handed, if once I can remove his confederate. He used to
be a simple, frank-hearted, foolish fellow; but I must, by some means,
keep him from any further meeting with Edward. I have already remarked
that the boy sees there is some mystery; and a bare hint would awaken
suspicions that I would rather die than he should even dream of. But
this man--this Pharold--must be my first care; and my next must be to
procure such proofs of my having been in London at the time of my
brother's death that suspicion itself shall be silenced, if either of
the villains dare to open his lips."

The manner in which this latter object was to be accomplished became
the next consideration; but ere Lord Dewry could come to any
determination upon the subject, the lodge of Dimden Park, and the old
woman who opened the gates, courtesying to the ground as the carriage
rolled through, met his eyes, and told him that he must reserve that
matter for after-thought.

The place that he was now entering had been the favourite habitation
of his brother, where his days of happiness and sunshine had been
passed, and whence his virtues had made themselves felt and beloved
through all the country round. There were many recollections and
associations then connected with that spot which, as it may easily be
conceived, were not a little painful to the man who now entered it:
and although he sometimes visited the house, and had once or twice in
twenty years spent a day within its walls, yet he had never been able
to vanquish the distress that the sight occasioned him so far as to
live in it for any length of time. He now beheld it in a state which
added to the pain whereof other circumstances had rendered it
fruitful. It was not exactly going to ruin, for he had given strict
orders, and paid large annual sums, for the express purpose of keeping
the grounds in order and the house in repair; but those orders had
been given from a distance, and had been received with a conviction
that the master's eye would never inspect their execution very
minutely. There were long tufts of grass in the walks and on the
roads, though here and there was to be seen a faint and lazy effort to
clear away, by the exertions of a few hours, the shameful negligence
of many a day. Some of the trees, which had been felled years before,
were rotting in the long dank grass; and the fences which had been
placed to keep the deer within their proper bounds lay flat upon the
ground, overturned and broken. The road over which the carriage rolled
was channelled with deep unmended ruts; and the fine old house, with
its closed windows and smokeless chimneys, stood in its wide, open
esplanade, like the palace of damp and desertion. Lord Dewry bit his
lip, and muttered audibly, "This must be amended. The scoundrels did
not expect me to visit the place, and have been shamefully negligent.
I will send them away."

But as he thought thus, his other purposes crossed his mind, and
brought with it one of those annoying and degrading convictions which
so often follow evil actions and crooked policy. He felt that when he
was about to engage his park-keepers in an action which his own heart
told him was base, he could not dare to treat them severely for the
faults they had themselves committed; and to a proud and violent man
the restraint which he was obliged to put upon his passions was bitter
enough. As the carriage approached the house, hasty symptoms of
opening windows and unbarring doors showed that his coming had been
remarked; and as he had no ambiguous commands to lay upon the old
servants who had been left to keep the mansion in order, upon them
fell the full weight of his indignation. When the first angry burst
was over, he ordered the old man to call the principal park-keeper;
and while he was absent upon that errand, strode gloomily through the
dreary chambers, feeling his heart more dark and comfortless than even
the long-deserted apartments amid which he stood. He then called for
pen and ink, which, after some difficulty, he obtained, and wrote and
despatched the note which we have seen delivered to Marian de Vaux.

At length the park-keeper appeared, a bold and sturdy fellow, with no
inconsiderable portion of shrewd cunning in his countenance, to which
had been superadded at present an air of dogged preparation,
occasioned by the tidings of Lord Dewry's anger, which the old man had
given him as they walked along towards the house.

"Harvey," said the peer, as the man presented himself, "you have
suffered the park to get into a terrible state. I must have all this
changed. Those fences must be put up; those trees cleared away: speak
to Wilson about the road, and tell him if ever I see it in that state
again I shall discharge him; and--do not answer me, but listen; for I
came over to speak to you upon matters of more importance.--What are
you waiting for, John?"

"I thought your lordship might want me," said the old man, who had
lingered in the room.

"No, no, not I," replied the peer: "retire, and shut the door; but
take care what you are about, for in future I shall come over at
least every month; and if I find the house is not properly attended to
after this warning, you and your wife go out of it without another
word.--Now, Harvey, tell me," he continued, as the old man withdrew
with a low and deprecating bow, "have you many poachers here?"

"Why, no, my lord," replied the park-keeper, his face brightening up
to find that the anticipated storm had blown away; "we have not had
much of that work doing lately, though I dare say we soon shall have."

"And why so?" demanded Lord Dewry. "I am glad to hear that poaching is
on the decrease. What makes you think it will revive again?"

"As to revive, my lord, why, I don't know," replied the man; "but I
doubt we shall soon have more of it--so I think. It's just the time,
you see, my lord--long moonlight nights, and a good deal of the
out-door work over."

The man paused; but these were not the reasons the peer had hoped to
hear him assign for his apprehensions of more extended poaching, and
found that he must bring him nearer to the point by some direct
course. "We have a great deal of poaching near the hall," he said:
"Wise tells me that there are a number of bad characters continually
in the woods, gipsies and thieves of all descriptions."

"Ay, for the matter of that we have gipsies enough just now, too,"
replied the keeper; "and that's the reason, my lord, why I said I
thought we should soon hear of more poaching: but I did not like to
mention it, you see. Why, there, I saw no longer ago than yesterday,
up in Morley Wood, I dare say a score of them--lazy beggars! D--n
them, I hate those fellows, and so I told 'em--beg your lordship's
pardon."

Lord Dewry found that he was now on the right course; but, afraid of
pursuing the matter so eagerly as to cause suspicions which might
perhaps tell against himself hereafter, he replied with a tranquil
countenance, "It would not surprise me if these were the same that
have been plundering and poaching in a most desperate manner near the
hall."

"O, no doubt they are the same, my lord," replied the keeper; "and as
to poaching, they were at it last night, or I have no ears: I heard a
gun--I am sure I heard a gun--though I got up, and went all over the
grounds without finding them. But I heard a gun--I am sure enough of
that, anyhow."

"Oh, if that be the case," said Lord Dewry, "we must really take
serious measures for their apprehension and conviction. They once
murdered a gamekeeper, those gipsies, not far from here; and it is
dangerous to honest men to let them be in the country."

"Ay, that it is, my lord," said the keeper; "they'd murder any one as
soon as look at him. They nearly murdered me once. I wish we could get
rid of them, that I do, anyhow."

"And so do I, too," replied Lord Dewry, solemnly; "I do not like men's
lives risked continually, nor their property plundered at every turn,
solely because these gipsies are suffered to continue in the kingdom.
I declare I would give fifty guineas to any one who could convict them
in such a manner as to ensure their being sent out of the country
without fail. I do not like my people continually exposed to their
attacks."

"Your lordship is very kind and very generous," said the keeper; "and
if your lordship would really give the fifty guineas, I dare say we
could find some young fellows that would join in and take a hand in
catching them."

"But we must first be able to prove that they have committed some
offence," replied Lord Dewry, thoughtfully.

"Oh, they have committed offences enough, my lord," answered the
keeper; "and if your lordship give fifty guineas, we shall soon have
plenty to help in catching them."

The peer paused for a moment or two without any direct reply; but he
then answered, "What I have said I mean, Harvey: the fifty guineas I
would give of course to the man by whose means they were principally
brought to justice; but I would do more, and pay handsomely every one
concerned in actually taking them. Do you think they have ever shot
any of the deer?" he added after a short pause.

"No, my lord, no!" answered the keeper, fearful that blame might fall
upon himself; "I will answer for it they have not done that."

"I am sorry for it," said Lord Dewry, dryly. The man stared, and the
peer proceeded:--"I am sorry for it; because, you see, Harvey, the
offence would be the heavier, and we might get rid of them for ever if
we could prove such a thing against them; whereas this poaching,
especially if it be a first offence, will only take them out of the
way for a time, and then turn them back upon us more enraged against
us than ever."

"That's true, my lord, that's true," replied the keeper, whose
perceptions were sufficiently acute, and who began to see that his
master had a very potent distaste to the race of gipsies, although his
mind, proceeding in its habitual train, did not fail to conclude that
the peer's motives for hating them were the same which would have
actuated himself had he been in the peer's situation, namely, wrath at
their having destroyed the peculiar objects of his veneration, game,
and anger at their having outwitted him in his endeavours to preserve
it. He went no further in his investigations of his lord's designs,
though he himself had peculiar motives of his own; but, possessing
goodly powers of detestation himself, he easily conceived that the
baron would not scruple at any plausible stratagem for the purpose of
obtaining his object. "That's true, my lord, that's true," replied he;
"but do you know, I should not wonder if they did some night shoot a
fat buck upon his moonlight walk; and I dare say, for the matter of
that, we could get them to do it very soon."

"Nay, nay," cried the peer in a tone of moderation, "take care what
you are about, Harvey; for if any one were to discover that you
instigated them, you might get transported; and though of course I
would take care that none of my servants was a loser by his zeal in my
service, yet I should not like you to get into any scrape."

"Your lordship is very kind," said the man; "but I will take care that
I get into no scrape; and as to any one hearing me say any thing about
it, no fear of that, for I will never say a word to any one but your
lordship; and but little will I say even now. But I know how to manage
the matter; and if I can get some stout hands to help me and the two
under-keepers in taking the fellows, when once we have found out when
they are about the job, I'll rid the country of them soon enough--a
set of lazy, thieving beggars."

"Why, Harvey," said the peer, with a complacent smile, "you do not
seem fond of these gipsies, I think."

"I fond of them, my lord!" said the man. "No, no! I owe them an old
grudge, which I have long thought to pay. One of them nearly killed me
once when I was a younker, now near twenty years ago, just for being a
little over-civil to one of their women. I might have had my revenge
at the time; but I was weak and sick with the bruises, and I was
spoony enough to let him get off; but he'll not do so again if I catch
hold of him."

"But pray, Harvey," said the peer, "how do you propose to obtain
such information in regard to when and where these men are to be
caught--for they must be caught in the fact, remark--as to enable you
to seize them with any certainty? Do you know any of their gang
personally?"

"Not I, my lord," replied the man; "but, do you see, my lord, I know a
man up in the village, called Harry Saxon, who hears a good deal about
all those sorts of people, and I will get him just to put it into
their heads to--"

"Hush, hush, Harvey!" interrupted the nobleman, but a tone as to
express much disapprobation. "Do not tell me what you intend to do,
but merely how you are to learn when and where to catch them."

"Why, _he_ will tell me all that, to be sure, my lord," replied the
keeper. "He's a good sort of man, and won't disoblige me, I'll
warrant."

"And pray what is his usual occupation?" demanded the peer in a casual
way.

"Oh, he sells venison to the dealers in London," replied the keeper;
and then suddenly perceiving that he was on the edge of a precipice,
he added, "that is, when any of the gentlemen in the neighbourhood
want to kill off some of their bucks, he buys them and sends them up
to London. I have heard, too," he continued, seeing that his lord
listened with an unmoved countenance, as if to something of course--"I
have heard, too, that he sends up many a good brace of partridges, and
many a pheasant and a hare: but he is a good sort of man, upon the
whole; and when he knows a keeper, like, he will not let the people
poach and that upon the grounds that he keeps, and that's what makes
us have so much game here. I'll warrant the game is better preserved
here than anywhere else in the country."

The peer made no observations upon these disjointed pieces of
information; but in his own mind concluded, and not without reason,
that his keeper was a very great scoundrel. He took care, however,
neither by word, look, nor action, to suffer the man he was making use
of to perceive what sort of a character he was establishing in his
opinion; being fully resolved in his own mind, however, to discharge
him as soon after he had served the present purpose as might be found
convenient.

Deceit, like every other art, has been wonderfully perfected and
refined since first it took its origin in the rude, uncultivated human
breast. There can be no doubt whatever that when one man entertains an
opinion which he wishes to conceal from another, the first natural
effort of his mind would be to tell him the direct contrary; and much
refinement and experience in the art must have been acquired before
the necessity was ascertained of doing things more delicately, and
implying, rather than saying, that one believes another to be an
honest man, when one is sure he is a great rogue. As the world
proceeded, however, and the liberal science of deceit became so
thoroughly studied as to force one, with very few exceptions, to say,
as said the Psalmist, "All men are liars," a new refinement was
introduced, and it became necessary to know when to cover one's own
opinion by a skilful implication of the reverse, when, returning to
the original and simple mode, in plain terms to announce the direct
contrary of what one feels, and to deceive the most thoroughly by the
appearance of the utmost candour.

In the present instance Lord Dewry chose the latter means, and ended
the conversation with the keeper by saying, "Well, Harvey, well! I
believe you are a very honest fellow. There are ten guineas for you to
give the men you are obliged to employ, an earnest of their reward;
and if you succeed in catching these gipsies, so as to convict them
either of deer-stealing or aggravated poaching, you may count upon
fifty guineas and my favour, besides having all your _bonâ fide_
expenses paid."

The man made a low bow, though he did not understand at all what _bonâ
fide_ meant; and the peer with a slow step walked to his carriage. The
old man and woman who kept the house followed half a step behind,
troubling him all the way by questions concerning the superintendence
of the place, in regard to which their directions had been full and
explicit years before, but by re-demanding which they meant, as usual
on such occasions, to insinuate a justification of their late
negligence, implying that if they had been properly instructed they
would have behaved better. Short and severe were the replies of the
baron; and when the carriage-door was at length closed, and the
vehicle rolled away, he sunk into thought, feeling that at least one
part of his plan was in a fair way for execution, but feeling,
likewise, deep, deep in his heart's core, the melancholy
conviction--not the less poignant because he strove not to see
it--that one crime was lashing him on with a fiery scourge to the
commission of many more.

The house he had just visited, and the scenes through which he was
passing, had not been without their effect. They had recalled to his
mind his brother, who had there lived so long the object of his envy,
and now of his deep regret. That brother's virtues, his kindness, his
noble generosity, tried to the very utmost by his excesses and
demands, often, often returned reproachfully to his mind. All the good
and affectionate acts which had seemed as nothing while his own
passions and interests existed in opposition, and while his brother
lived, had been estimated with terrible exactness as soon as his own
hand had placed the impassable barrier of death between them; and the
sight of that house now, as it always did, recalled every memory that
could aggravate remorse, and stir into an intenser blaze the
unquenchable fire that burned his heart.

There, too, he had himself been educated from infancy to manhood; over
those lawns and walks he had played in the guileless innocence of
youth; under those trees he had sat a thousand times with the dead, in
the sweet and hopeful summer-days of boyhood. Their arms clasped round
each other's necks, or their hands locked in each other, they had
wandered in their hours of play through the calm green shades of the
park, or sat beneath the stately oak, reading some lighter book than
that appointed for their daily studies. He remembered it all well; and
many an individual day, too, would come forward from the crowd of
early memories, and stand before his eyes bright and distinct as if it
were hardly yet numbered with the past. He could call back even the
feelings of those times, the noble and enthusiastic glow of their
bosoms when they had read together some great actions, some generous
self-devotion, some pious act of friendship, some deed of mighty
patriotism; and now, what had those feelings become? In his brother
they were extinct in death, or, rather, glorifying him in a brighter
world; and with him himself they were but memories; with him it was
the feelings that were dead, while he himself lived but to remember
them. Nor was his a heart to scoff at their memory as some men might
have done. Perhaps, indeed, had his crimes been lighter--had they but
reached the grade of vices--had they been of that character which
man's blind selfishness can dress up in other garbs, and cover beneath
a light robe of wit, or of what we call philosophy, he might have
sneered at the sweet and innocent days that forced themselves upon his
recollection, and have parried all that was painful in them by a jest.
But the terrible, irrevocable, awful deed that he had committed had
been weighty enough, not only to break the elastic spring of gayety in
his heart for ever, but to leave those sweet early hours of guileless
happiness and noble feeling which still flattered him with the thought
that he had not always been base, or cruel, or depraved, the least
painful of all that series of painful things whereof his memory was
alone composed. And yet remorse mingled its poison even with them, and
perhaps rendered the agony they produced on the present occasion more
poignant, because on that point his heart was not hardened to the
lash.

He cast the memories from him as the vehicle rolled on, for he found
not only that they were painful, but that other thoughts of the
imperious present must have way; and that though he trusted by a new
crime to remove some part of the danger of his situation, yet that it
was necessary to contemplate his position in every point of view, in
order to guard against all that might happen. But here, perhaps, his
feelings were even less enviable than those from which he turned.
Personal danger, not abstract and distinct, but accompanied by shame,
and scorn, and detection, was the first image that presented itself
to his mind. To meet the hatred and contempt of the whole world,
to be exposed in a court of justice, and on a public scaffold to be
pointed and hooted at by the rude populace--to be called the
fratricide, the murderer--to undergo the horrors of imprisonment,
suspense, trial, condemnation, and execution--and to plunge, loaded
with a brother's blood and many another sin, into the wide, dim,
terrible hereafter--such were the only objects of his anticipation, if
his present schemes should fail.

Nor was it at all strange that he should feel them now much more
poignantly than at the time which immediately followed his brother's
death, though, perhaps, the years which had elapsed might have
rendered his safety less in danger now than then. But at that period
he had little time to reflect; and his whole mind had been occupied in
acting. He had seen and felt the immediate peril, and had apprehended
many a vague horror; but imagination had not had time to act--she had
not had time to call up and particularize, as she had since done with
terrible minuteness, all the awful and agonizing scenes that await the
detected murderer.

As he leaned back in his carriage, and with closed eyes thought
of all the past and all the future, the mingling emotions that
agitated his breast were dreadful indeed. Bitter, bitter
remorse--strong, lasting, never-sleeping remorse--was for the moment
paramount; and could he have seen any way of avoiding shame and death
but by new evil, he would have resigned much, he would have resigned
all, to follow it. But there was no means before him of escaping all
the horrors that threatened, but either to destroy those he feared or
to destroy himself: he had but the choice of two great crimes; and
the terrors of the endless future, aggravated by the condemnation of
self-destruction, were too great for him to think of attempting his
own life. As we have before said, it was not that he feared death; for
often in his moods of deepest despondency he thought that if some one
were to take away his life as he had taken that of his brother, it
might be received, together with his long remorse, as some atonement
for the past; but he feared to make it his own act, and to double,
instead of diminishing, the load upon his own head; and in the
desperate choice which was before him he yielded to the common
weakness of human nature, and chose that crime of which punishment was
most remote.

Such were some of the emotions which agitated his mind as the
carriage rolled on towards his usual residence; but still the picture
of them is but faint and imperfect, as every picture of agitated
feelings must be. There were a thousand shades that escape the pen, a
thousand sudden changes for which it would be difficult to account.
Nevertheless, it must not be supposed that this varying and uncertain
mood was the general state of his mind, when no outward circumstance
had served to awaken antagonist feelings. On the contrary, he was
generally firm in his despair, with remorse for the predominant tone
of his whole sensations; but at the same time, with a stern
determination to hold all that for which he had paid so deep a price,
and to defend his own safety at any risk. It was only when some
association connected with other days touched a tenderer point in his
heart, and aroused some better feelings from their sleep of years,
that the winds and the tempests dashed against the dark dwelling-place
of his spirit, and threatened to level it with its foundation in the
sand. The mood seldom lasted long, however, and, indeed, could not
have done so without driving him to phrensy; and now, as he came
within sight of the plantations that skirted his other property, he
put on a firmer frame of mind, cast doubt, and fear, and hesitation
behind him, and called up those powers of quick, decisive thought and
vigorous action which had often in former days carried him through
many a scene of difficulty and danger.

"I have been as weak as a child," he said, when he looked back on all
the feelings to which he had given way--"I have been as weak as a
child; and that at a moment when I most need manly firmness: but it is
past, and I will not easily forget myself again!"

On the next day but one, at a very early hour, Lord Dewry again drove
over to Dimden, and had the pleasure of learning, by implications and
hints from his head park-keeper, that the plan which had been shadowed
out for entangling the gipsies was in a fair way for execution; and
yet his spirit was ill at rest, for he felt that his plan was an
imperfect one, and that at a thousand points it might fail. The
gipsies might be too wary; and, at all events, Pharold was not likely
to take part himself in such a scheme. If his companions were
implicated, and he were to escape, the natural consequence would be,
that his roused-up vengeance would take the ready means of sating
itself by betraying the fearful secret that he possessed; and thus the
attempt to remove him would but bring about more certainly the danger
that was apprehended. Yet what could he do? the peer asked himself. If
he could add one other link to the chain in which he had sought to
entangle the gipsy, it might render it complete, and prevent the
possibility of his escape. But what was that link to be? He could not
tell, and yet it served him as food for stern and eager meditation as
the carriage bore him rapidly home again, after having satisfied
himself that his scheme, as far as it went, was already in progress
towards its completion.

As he drove up to the door of the house, he remarked that one of his
grooms was walking a hard-ridden horse up and down upon the gravel,
while the dirty condition of the animal bespoke a long journey. As
such sights, however, were not at all uncommon, and the horse might
either belong to the steward, or to some stranger come on a visit of
curiosity to the house, it excited but little notice on the part of
the peer, who was entering without inquiry, when one of the servants
informed him that a gentleman was waiting his lordship's return in the
small library. Lord Dewry turned a little pale; for there was a
consciousness of danger and of the uncertainty of his condition at the
heart of the peer, that caused the blood to forsake his cheek at any
announcement of a visit, the import of which he did not know. He
rebuked the servant, however, for admitting any one to wait for him
during his absence; and ordered him never to do so again, adding, that
when he expected or wished to see any one, he would always give
intimation of his will.

The servant excused himself on account of the stranger's pressing and
determined manner, motives which did not in the least reconcile the
peer to his admission; but, without any further appearance of
distrust, he walked with slow and stately steps to the library, and
throwing open the door advanced towards a table, determined not to
afford his unwished-for guest a pretext for sitting down by even
approaching a chair himself.

The stranger's person merits some slight description, and even a more
detailed account of his clothing than is required on ordinary
occasions. He was a man perhaps four or five years younger than the
peer himself, thin, light, active, with a twinkling gray eye, somewhat
too full of moisture, and a number of those long radiating wrinkles
which, I believe, are called crows' feet, decorating the corners of
the eyelids. His general complexion was white, of that dry and
somewhat withered appearance which long habits of dissipation leave
behind, when dissipation is not combined with drunkenness. In every
glance there was a quick, sharp, prying expression, joined to a
somewhat subservient smile, which was strangely enough displayed upon
a cast of countenance, the natural expression of which was
pertinacious effrontery.

His dress was well worn, and had not apparently been formed originally
of any very costly materials; but it had withal a smart cut, and a
smart look, which prevented the eye from detecting either the long
services it had rendered, or the coarseness of the stuff. It was of a
rather anomalous description, too, consisting of what was then called
a marone frock with a silver lace, a pair of buckskin breeches for
riding in, thunder and lightning silk stockings, just showing their
junction with the breeches above, and a pair of heavy boots; while
ruffles, and a frill of that species of lace which, seeming all darns
together, admits the most frequently of being mended, decorated his
wrists and his bosom.

Lord Dewry gazed at him as he rose from the chair in which he had been
sitting with a look which, if it did not absolutely express the stare
of utter strangeness, had very few signs of recognition in it. But the
other was neither to be abashed nor discomposed; and his manners,
which were those of a gentleman, softened down a good deal of the
effrontery which his demeanour displayed. Had he not been a gentleman,
and in the habit of mingling with gentlemen, his determined impudence
would have been insufferable; and even as things were, that impudence,
together with a certain affected swagger in tone and language, which
was very generally assumed by the puppies of the day, and which the
visiter caricatured, were quite sufficiently annoying, especially to
such a man as Lord Dewry. Conceiving at once that the peer was not
peculiarly delighted with his visit, the stranger advanced round the
table, and with a low bow addressed him ere he had time to speak.

"I perceive," he said, "that the lapse of time which has occurred
since we met, together with the accession of well-deserved fortunes
and dignities, and the cares consequent thereupon, has obliterated
from your memory, my lord, the person of a former friend. I must,
therefore, announce myself as Sir Roger Millington."

The peer bowed haughtily. "I once," he said, "had some acquaintance
with a person of that name; but, as you say, sir, the lapse of time
has been so great since we have held any communication with each
other, that I certainly did not expect it to be so suddenly renewed,
and far less to be favoured with an unannounced visit at a time which,
perhaps, may not be the most convenient."

"My lord," replied his companion, unrebuffed, "I am happy to find that
your lordship's memory extends to our acquaintance at least; and to
refresh it in regard to the degree of that acquaintance, I think I
could show you some letters in your lordship's hand, beginning, some,
'My dear friend!' some, 'My dear Millington!' some, 'Damn it, my dear
Millington!' with an elegant variety in the terms, whereby your
lordship was kind enough to express your friendship for your humble
servant."

Lord Dewry coloured highly between anger and shame; but he did not
feel at all the more disposed to receive Sir Roger Millington kindly
on account of these proofs of their former intimacy. He had not
forgotten, any more than his visiter, that they had once been choice
companions in both the elegant and inelegant debaucheries of a London
life; but a great change in situation, and a total change in feelings,
had made the peer as desirous of forgetting the past as the other was
of recalling it; and he hated him in proportion as he felt himself
thwarted. Sir Roger Millington, however, had calculated his game with
the utmost nicety; and once that nothing was to be obtained by gentler
means, and determined, therefore, if possible, to force him to the
object towards which he could not lead him. Such had been his motive
in the somewhat pointed and galling manner in which he had repeated
some of Lord Dewry's former expressions of regard, and he was not a
little gratified to see the colour rise in his cheek as he spoke.

Lord Dewry's reply, however, which immediately followed, was not quite
so much to his taste; for the peer also played his part skilfully; and
though, in reality, as angry as Sir Roger desired, he concealed his
anger, and replied in the same cold haughty tone. "You recall to me,
sir," he said, "days of which I am heartily ashamed, scenes of which
we have neither of us reason to be proud, and expressions which I
greatly wish could be retracted."

"I am sorry, as your lordship wishes it, that such a thing is not
possible," answered the persevering Sir Roger; "but I think, if you
will take a few moments to consider, your lordship may find reason to
change some of your sentiments. I may have become an altered man as
well as Lord Dewry; and if so, his lordship will have no cause to hate
or shun an old friend, because he once followed in a course which his
lordship led, and has since followed in his repentance. I hear that a
mutual friend of your lordship's and my own is coming to England soon,
if not already on his way from America--I mean Sir William Ryder; and
I should be sorry to have to tell him, on his return, that your
lordship casts off your old acquaintances. You had better consider of
it, my lord."

"I shall consider nothing, sir," replied the peer, "except that my
time is too valuable to be wasted in idle discourse, which can end in
nothing; and therefore I have the honour of wishing you good-morning."
Thus saying, he stood for about the space of a minute and a half,
expecting Sir Roger to leave the room; but being disappointed, he
himself turned upon his heel, with a curling lip and a flashing eye,
and quitted the library, leaving the door open behind him.

Sir Roger Millington stood for a moment or two in some embarrassment,
but at length impudence and necessity prevailed. "No," cried he; "no:
damn it, it will never do to be beaten when one has resolved on such
an attack. Curse me, if I don't die in the breach, like other heroes.
Why, if I cannot raise a hundred or two I'm done, that's clear. No,
no: I'll not stir;" and casting himself down into a chair, he coolly
took up a book and began to read.




                             CHAPTER XV.


"To be teased with such an insolent scoundrel at such a moment
as this!" thought the peer, as he strode hastily to his usual
sitting-room: "it is insufferable! I have a great mind to order the
villains that let him in to horsewhip him out again for their pains: I
believe that they will some day drive me mad among them!" And stamping
his foot upon the ground, as was his custom when very angry, he
clenched his thin hand as if he would have struck the object of his
indignation. Suddenly, however, stopping in the midst of his passion,
he fell into deep thought, which kept him standing in the middle of
the room for two or three minutes; then approaching the bell, he rang
it calmly. His own valet, whose peculiar province was to attend to
that especial sitting-room, appeared in less time than ordinary. "Is
the gentleman who was in the little library gone?" demanded the peer.

"No, my lord," replied his laconic attendant.

"I shall dine in the larger room to-day," said Lord Dewry: "bid Mr.
Scott have the table laid for two, and tell _le Chef_ that the dinner
must be different."

The man bowed, and withdrew; and the peer, after pausing for a single
moment where he was, re-opened the door, and proceeded through the
neighbouring gallery to a vestibule, whence his eye could rest upon
the door of the room in which he had left Sir Roger Millington. Here
again, however, he paused even for several minutes; and then, raising
his head, which had been sunk somewhat upon his bosom, he walked on
with a calm, dignified step towards the room which he had quitted not
a quarter of an hour before in such great indignation. Sir Roger
Millington was seated exactly in the chair which had received his
person when the peer left him, and was deeply, and apparently
pleasantly, engaged with the book he had taken up. So perfectly
comfortable, indeed, did he seem to have made himself, that Lord
Dewry, notwithstanding strong determinations to the contrary--the
motives of which will be explained immediately--could scarcely refrain
from kicking him through the glass door into the park. He conquered
his passion, however; and, in a tone which was very different from
that which he had used towards the same person a quarter of an hour
before, but which was still sufficiently guarded by haughty coldness
to prevent the transition from appearing excessively abrupt, he
addressed his visiter once more. "Sir Roger Millington," he said, "I
am glad to find that you are not gone; for a little reflection makes
me regret having treated a former acquaintance somewhat hastily: but
the truth is, your arrival has occurred at a moment when I am not only
extremely busy, but also when my feelings have been irritated and hurt
by various occurrences, which may in some degree have made me forget
my courtesy."

"Come, come," thought Sir Roger Millington, "matters are improving!
some fools would have gone away ashamed or affronted! There is nothing
like knowing when to keep one's ground--when to beat a retreat! My
lord," he continued, aloud, "it gives me the greatest pain to think
that I have intruded upon you at such a moment: but I am quite ready
to repair my fault by retiring! only requesting your lordship to name
some hour to-morrow when I can have the honour of conversing with you
on matters of some importance."

"Of importance to yourself or to me, Sir Roger?" demanded the peer,
forcing a half-smile; though there had been something in the
pertinacity with which his visiter had held his ground that made him
almost apprehend that these matters of importance might refer, in some
unpleasant manner, to himself.

Had Sir Roger Millington had the slightest means whatever of showing
that the matters of which he had to speak were in any degree relative
to the peer, he would have ventured the assertion that they were of
importance to him; but as he had not, he judged it expedient to be
candid in the more placable mood which his noble host now displayed;
and he accordingly answered, "Of more importance to myself, my lord, I
am afraid, than to you."

It was a lucky hit, however; for this proceeding not only quieted all
Lord Dewry's apprehensions, but also favoured his views in other
respect.

"I am glad to hear it, Sir Roger," replied the baron; "for, to say the
truth, I have important business of my own enough upon my hands to
tire me of it; and I would rather speak upon any one else's affairs
than have any more of myself. But you must not think of leaving the
hall, though I am afraid I must be absent from you a considerable part
of the day. I shall expect the pleasure of your company for a few
days, and I will order my servant to conduct you to your apartments.
You must amuse yourself as best you may till the evening. Here are
books enough, you see, if you have turned student; and if you are
still fond of field-sports, the gamekeeper will show you where you may
find plenty of game. Use the house as your own, I beg; but only excuse
the master of it for a few hours."

"My lord, your lordship is too good, too kind," replied his companion,
bowing low and lower; "but--"

"Oh, I understand," said the peer; "you have ridden here, and have not
dressing materials: never mind, we will cast away ceremony, Sir
Roger."

"But if any one could be sent over to the village of Barholm, my
lord," said Sir Roger, "since your lordship is so very good, they
would find my valise at the inn."

"Certainly, certainly," said the peer, increasing in courtesy at every
response--"certainly; we will see about it directly." And he rang the
bell once or twice with that air of good-will which was well
calculated to wipe away the memory of any former coldness. "Richard,"
he said, as soon as a servant appeared, "send over the errand-boy on
horseback directly to Barholm, and bid him inquire for the things Sir
Roger Millington has left there at the inn. Bid the groom look to Sir
Roger's horse, and then come here to show him to the yellow room.
Attend upon him while he does me the pleasure of remaining here, and
see that everything is supplied properly.--Now, Sir Roger, I must beg
you to excuse me for a short time, but I shall have the pleasure of
seeing you at dinner."

Sir Roger bowed low: the peer withdrew; and the servant, saying, "I
will be back in a minute, sir, to show you to your apartments,"
followed, to give the orders he had received to the errand-boy and the
under-groom.

Sir Roger Millington cast himself back into his chair, mentally
declaring, "'Pon my soul, he seems a devilish good fellow, after all;
somewhat hasty, and hellish proud, but better at bottom than he lets
himself appear. I should not wonder if this card, which, by----, is
the last in my hand, should turn up a trump, after all. Egad, that
would be queer!"

Such were his first reflections; and he had not time to proceed much
beyond them when the servant reappeared, and begged him to follow. The
visiter immediately complied; and walking through a suite of handsome
rooms, where gold lace, and damask, and pictures, and cabinets, and
brass, and tortoise-shell, and marble, combined to form a very
dazzling assemblage of furniture and decorations, he was led up a fine
flight of stairs to another story, where, through corridors scarcely
less handsomely garnished than the apartments below, he was conducted,
murmuring, "What a splendid house!" to a spacious bedroom and
dressing-room, adorned with yellow damask hangings, and supplied with
everything at which luxury had yet arrived in the days whereof we
speak. Here, after asking his further commands, the servant left him,
and Sir Roger Millington threw himself on one of the sofas, asking,
"Well, what the devil can the fellow want? for want something he
certainly does. However, no matter; all the better for me. I'm the man
for his money, whatever he wants; and, by Jupiter! I'll take good care
not to quarrel with the sort of bread and butter that is to be got in
this house!"

Leaving Sir Roger Millington to speculate upon such very natural
propositions, we may as well follow the peer once more to his private
room, and endeavour to ascertain the cause of a change in his
demeanour towards the poor knight, which had been, as we have seen, no
less sudden than complete.

No sooner had he entered the chamber than he closed the door, and
bolted it; approached a small iron chest, which stood riveted to the
floor and to the wall, and, opening it with a key which was attached
to a strong gold chain round his neck, he folded his arms upon his
breast, and gazed in for a moment, biting his lip and straining his
eye as if it required no small powers of self-command to proceed any
farther. He then drew forth a large holster-pistol, richly embossed
with silver--the fellow to that which had been placed in the hands of
Edward de Vaux by the gipsy Pharold--and held it for a time in his
hand, with his eyes not fixed upon it, but upon some far object in the
distant landscape, which nevertheless, he saw not in the least; for
the intensity of the mind's occupation at that moment had broken for
the time the connection between the intellectual soul and her
servants, the corporal senses; so that his eye was as blind to the
things on which it was fixed as if it had been seared by lightning.
His thoughts were far away--in other years and in other scenes; and as
he laid the weapon down upon a chair beside him, he murmured, "It
_must_ have fallen into the river, or it would have been found with
the hat."

He then sought for a moment among some papers, from which he selected
one; and replacing every thing in the chest as it had been before,
turned to the table and gazed upon the sheet, which seemed alone
filled with memoranda of dates and numbers that certainly could
possess no meaning to any eye but his own. To him, however, their
import seemed of great consequence; for again and again he studied
them; and ever and anon the contemplation would plunge him into deep
fits of thought, from which he only roused himself again to gaze upon
the figures as before.

"It will do," he said at length, "it will do; but I must take care of
what I am about. Yet of this Roger Millington there is no fear. He
would at any time of his life have condemned his own soul for gold,
and now he seems beggared and wretched enough. The other people can
offer him nothing: I can offer him ease and luxury; and he will not
only have no temptation to betray me, but every inducement to keep my
secret till the grave closes over us both. And yet," he added,
thoughtfully--"and yet I must not put it in his power ever to annoy me
hereafter. He must rest in my power rather than I in his. Yet if we
can silence this Pharold for ever, all real danger will be past; and I
must risk something--I must risk much, for that object."

Such were some of the thoughts which passed through the mind of Lord
Dewry; nor were his conclusions formed upon a very wrong estimate of
the character of his present visiter. The better qualities of Sir
Roger Millington were few. The best of them was personal courage, or
rather that total thoughtlessness in regard to death, and what is to
follow death, which in many men supplies the place of a nobler
principle. He had always, too, been what is called generous; and he
did, indeed, possess that curious combination of qualities which makes
a man pillage and ruin the father of a family, and thus bring want,
destruction, and desolation upon a whole household, while at the same
time he is willing, on every occasion, to share the ill-gotten wealth
of the moment with any one who needs it. His generosity, however,
still more displayed itself in wasting, among debauchees like himself,
whatever he possessed, and thinking no means ignoble to dissipate what
he had thought no means dishonourable to obtain.

Born of a good family, introduced early into the best society, and
placed, as a military man, in a situation which should have acted
rather to strengthen honourable principles than to lead him from them,
he had at first, so long as the actual war lasted, gained some credit
and renown as a soldier; but no sooner had a peace succeeded than
various gambling transactions, of a somewhat doubtful character,
rendered it expedient that he should quit the service. This he was
permitted to do without disgrace; but from that hour his progress had
been downwards in fortune and society. He had first mingled with
gentlemen upon equal terms; and during the greater part of his
acquaintance with Lord Dewry had kept himself on the same footing with
his companions, by keeping up the same expenses, and by indulging the
same vices. He was often very successful at play; and, though it was
reported that his scruples were not very great in regard to the
experience or the sobriety of those with whom he sat down, as his
winnings enabled him, generally, to live in luxury and splendour,
there were few found to object to the means of acquirement. He
sometimes lost, however; and, as on one or two occasions his losses
had been to persons of greater wealth than courage, he was said to
have discharged his debt by lending the use of his sword in some of
the numerous disputes which vice and debauchery entail upon their
disciples.

All these things were suspected; but still Sir Roger Millington was
not, on that account, shut out from society. Some people merely
thought that in him they knew where to find a _serviceable man_ when
they wanted such a thing; and others did not choose to quarrel with
one who was in better repute at the Park or the back of Montague
House, the two great resorts of duellists in that day, than in St.
James's-street. Gambling, however, is always a losing trade; and, by
slow degrees, and with many a brief revival of fortune, Sir Roger
Millington was forced down lower and lower in the scale of reputation
and estate. It must be a very honourable spirit, indeed, that poverty
renders more scrupulous; and such was certainly not the case with Sir
Roger Millington. The means of obtaining money seemed to him all
honourable if they led him not to Tyburn; and, at length, he would
fight with or for any man for a very trifling consideration. By this
trade, varied, where he found it necessary, by sycophancy or by
impudence, he contrived for some time to keep himself up, till at
length some one of his adversaries, more wise than the rest, took
courage to refuse to cross swords with a bully and a sharper,
horsewhipped Sir Roger when he posted him, fought and wounded the
first man of honour that looked cold on him for his conduct, and left
Sir Roger Millington no resource but to quit the circles in which he
had been formerly received.

These circumstances had occurred about two years before the knight's
visit to Lord Dewry; and it would be more painful and disgusting than
amusing or instructive to follow him through the shifts and turnings
of the succeeding months. At length the happy thought struck him which
we have seen him execute; and with a horse, the last of a once
splendid stud, a valise containing all that remained of his wardrobe,
three guineas, and some silver in his purse, a vast stock of
impudence, and a packet of the peer's old letters, he set out to see
whether he could wring anything either from the weakness or the
kindness of Lord Dewry, from whom he had won, in former days, many a
sum which he now sighed to think upon.

He came, as we have seen, at the very moment when the assistance of
such a person as himself, who was not in the least scrupulous either
in regard to oaths or dangers, was likely to prove most serviceable to
the peer, provided that any bonds could be invented, so close and
clinging as to restrain a man who had never yet been bound by any
principles of religion, morality, or honour. On their meeting, the
uses to which he might be put had not at first struck Lord Dewry, and
he had given way to the irritable impatience natural to his character:
but the last words of Sir Roger Millington concerning Sir William
Ryder, had struck a chord of association which soon awoke other ideas;
and before the peer had reached his own room he had seen and
comprehended the variety of services which Sir Roger might render him.

Thought, however, was required, both to arrange and give a tangible
form to plans which were yet vague and undefined; and to devise means
of so guarding against the very agent he was about to employ as not to
fall into a new danger in striving to escape an old one. Men who have
involved themselves in the dark work of crime, like those employed in
forging red-hot iron, are obliged to touch the objects of their labour
with tools of steel, lest they should burn themselves with the bolts
they forge. After much thought, however, Lord Dewry believed that he
saw means of rendering Sir Roger Millington, not only obedient to his
every wish, but faithful also; and though the plans in which he was to
be employed, of course required long and intense consideration, the
new views that opened before the peer gave him so much comfort that he
heard the dressing-bell ring, long before he had expected it, without
any feelings but those of renewed security and anticipated triumph
over those who had before caused him so much doubt and apprehension.

Now Lord Dewry was a shrewd and strong-minded man, who, as far as a
violent and proud disposition, and very uncontrollable passions, would
let him, generally acted upon a regularly-arranged and well-considered
system in every thing he undertook: but it is extraordinary how often
a man acts upon system without knowing it; for, after all, as before
said, we are but mere puppets, body and mind, in the hands of our
desires. Lord Dewry had ordered the beggared and threadbare Sir Roger
Millington to be taken to one of the most splendid apartments in his
splendid house; he had ordered such an intimation to be given to the
cook as would place upon the table a rich and luxurious repast; he had
directed that repast to be spread in a room full of magnificence; and
now he dressed himself with scrupulous care and elegance, without at
all being aware that it was all part of a system to re-awaken in the
bosom of the penniless knight that thirst for luxury and ease which
would render him most willingly and eagerly the tool of him who could
bestow it. So it was, however; and though pride had her word too, and
told his lordship that such display would make his visiter more humble
and respectful, yet the principal object was to show him how many
pleasant and desirable things might be obtained by being the very
humble and most devoted servant of the noble lord.

Had Lord Dewry sat and calculated for an hour what system was most
likely to produce the desired effect upon a man of the peculiar mental
and bodily idiosyncrasy of Sir Roger Millington, he could not have
more happily adapted his actions to the circumstances. In his high and
plumy days of fortune, Sir Roger Millington had learned to love and
delight in every good thing of the earth that we inhabit; and in his
days of debasement and poverty he had equally learned to admire and
bow down to, in others, the possession of those things which had given
him so much pleasure when he possessed them himself. The soft tread of
the Turkey carpets, the sight of damask, and lace, and or-molu, an
accidental whiff of the distant kitchen, as he passed the top of a
back staircase--a whiff faint and fragrant as if it came from "the
spice islands in the south"--the very feel of the sofa on which he
sat, were all so many arguments in favour of any plan, action, or idea
which Lord Dewry could possibly suggest; and when, after having
received his goods and chattels from the village, selected the best of
his wardrobe, and made himself look, as he could do, perfectly
gentlemanly, he descended to the drawing-room, it was with an
impression of the greatest possible respect and admiration for the
talents, sentiments, feelings, thoughts, and virtues of his noble
entertainer.

He was almost immediately joined by the peer, who was surprised but
not sorry to see his guest look so much like a gentleman; for though
he sincerely desired that he should be such at heart as to do his
unscrupulous bidding unscrupulously, yet he was quite willing to have
him such, in appearance, as would excite neither wonder nor
animadversion.

Hasty as the peer was by nature, and eager as he was in the present
instance, he had acquired sufficient command over himself to reserve
any more open communication with Sir Roger till a more proper moment;
although, had he given way to the impulse of his own heart, he would
have entered upon the business which occupied his thoughts at once.
But he felt what an advantage such a course of action would confer
upon his guest; and, therefore, without showing the slightest haste or
impatience, he spoke a moment or two upon the weather, and the state
of the nation, and the alarming increase of crime in the metropolis,
and several other things, about which he cared not in the least, and
then turned to some of the pictures that hung upon the walls,
expatiating upon their various merits with as much learning as a
connoisseur, and as much taste as an Agar Ellis. "Yes," he said, "that
is a very fine picture, though not so valuable as it looks. It is by
one of the disciples of Rubens, and artists believe the heads to be by
Rubens himself. But I will show you a real treasure!" and approaching
a small panel opposite, covered with two richly-carved and gilded
doors, he opened them; and, drawing a silk curtain, displayed an inner
frame containing a Madonna exquisitely painted. "That is an undoubted
Correggio," he said; "and one of the most beautiful pictures that
master ever painted. Remark the exquisite bend of that head, so full
of grief and resignation. The beauty of the colouring, too--that tear
upon the cheek, the faint pink of the nostril partaking slightly of
the blue of the drapery, and the drapery itself, how masterly! Look
here, too, at the hands crossed upon the breast! Did you ever behold
such beautiful hands? so small and delicate, yet so soft and full!
every thing graceful and light, yet every thing full of contour and
correctness!"

The doors were thrown open while he still spoke, and dinner was
announced; nor did Lord Dewry, during the whole course of the meal,
deviate from the rule he had laid down, of hurrying his communication
by neither word nor hint. The dinner itself was such as might be
expected from his fortune and his habits--abundant, but not loaded,
showing every delicacy that wealth could procure, and yet taking care
that, as in the Palace of the Sun, the workmanship should excel the
materials. The wines, however, surpassed every thing else; and that
sort of nectar which is called, _sec sillery_ once again greeted the
palate of Sir Roger Millington, after many years of tedious interval.
Sir Roger blessed the stars which had conferred so many good things on
a man to whom he hoped to render service; for though he neither ate
nor drank to excess, he enjoyed to the full, and saw the dessert
placed upon the table only with the expectation of at length hearing
how he might merit a participation in such blessings in future.

The best polished crystal, full of the liquid rubies of rich Medoc,
was set upon the table; and the majestic butler drew off after the
retiring footmen. Lord Dewry recommended the claret; and when he saw
the glass filled, he opened his approaches cautiously.

"Now, Sir Roger," he said, "we have all the evening before us, without
fear of interruption; and though I trust you will give me the pleasure
of your company some days longer, yet, as you spoke of some matter
which was of importance to you, it may be pleasanter to us both to get
rid of the business at once, and devote the rest of our time to less
weighty affairs."

Sir Roger had not prepared for this way of opening the campaign; and
he felt some fear that any demand upon the purse of his noble host
might banish him from a dwelling where he felt himself as yet quite
comfortable. A moment's thought, however, reassured him; for, both
from his general knowledge of the world, and his particular knowledge
of the peer, he felt very sure that such a sudden transition from
rudeness to hospitality, as we have heretofore recorded, could not
have taken place without a motive--that motive he concluded to be a
desire of reaping advantage from some of his numerous and pliant
abilities; and he therefore perceived that the policy now was to make
a bargain as best he might. All this train of argumentation was run
over rapidly in his brain, and he then replied, "The fact is, my lord,
that some of my old evil habits have, as your lordship may have
anticipated, somewhat impaired my property, and put me to temporary
difficulties. Such being the case, and being rather rudely pressed, I
bethought me of your lordship's former kindness and liberality, and
came down in haste to see whether I could not induce you to favour me
with the loan of a small sum."

"A loan!" exclaimed the peer, raising his eyebrows as if something
quite unexpected had broke upon his ear, though there was the dawning
of a half-suppressed smile about his lip that contradicted his tone of
surprise--"a loan! Ah, I dare say we can manage that matter, Sir
Roger. But be candid with me; tell me the state of your finances: it
shall not injure your views, upon my honour!"

"Bad enough, my lord, bad enough," replied his companion, candidly,
and yet shrewdly; for he began to fancy that candour would be best:
"bad enough, I am sorry to say. I have had a sad run against me, and
have not been able to get over it."

"No heavy debts?" said the peer.

"No, upon my honour, no," replied Sir Roger; "I do not owe twenty
pounds in the world; but I find a difficulty in getting one."

"That was always an extraordinary trait of yours, Millington," said
the peer: "you were never in debt, though you spent a good deal, and
played high."

"Because I always paid away my money as fast as I got it," replied his
guest. "As soon as I had a sum, any one might have it that wanted it,
whether a tradesman or a friend; and as I had large sums then," he
added, with a sigh, "I was never long in debt."

This was, indeed, partly true of the times to which he referred, as
the peer well knew; and the reason for his having few debts in later
years was still more simple, though he mentioned it not--it was, that
no one would trust him. Lord Dewry, however, seemed affected by his
reference to old times, and replied, "Well, well, Sir Roger, we will
not let you be hard pressed any longer. What is the sum you at present
want?"

Sir Roger Millington hesitated between the fear of asking too
much and asking too little; and he would have given the three guineas
that graced his pocket willingly to have found out what service was
to be demanded of him in return, that he might shape his request
accordingly. "It cannot be to fight," he thought; "the fellow used
to do all that business for himself, and devilish well, too! but,
however, it must be some pitiful job, indeed, if it is not worth a
couple of hundred. I'll ask fifty more.--Why, my lord," he said aloud,
"the fact is, that two hundred and fifty pounds, I am afraid, will be
requisite."

"Well, well," said Lord Dewry, who, thinking chiefly of Sir Roger's
former style of living, had calculated upon a demand of at least
double that amount--"well, well, that can be managed; and, upon my
honour, it shall be managed: but now let us speak a little upon other
matters."

"Now it comes!" thought Sir Roger Millington; but the peer
proceeded,--"I have now promised you this sum unconditionally; but if
you will explain to me more fully the real and particular state of
your finances, perhaps we may strike out something that may prove
ultimately still more beneficial to you--I mean permanently
beneficial."

Sir Roger Millington sat with his eyes wide open, and the internal
voice of his wonder would have been, could any one have heard it,
"Why, what's the meaning of all this? is he going to turn out really
generous, after all?" He had recourse to the claret jug, however,
which soothed him wonderfully; and he answered, "Why, my lord, as I
have already said, the state of my finances is bad--very bad! In
short, my lord, there is nothing which your lordship can do to mend
them that will not be most gratefully received by Roger Millington."

"We must think of it, Sir Roger; we must think of it well," replied
the peer; "and you will find, Sir Roger, that no man will do more than
I will to remove you from all difficulties, and put you at your ease.
The worst point of the whole business is, I am afraid that all I can
do for you is but for my own life. My estates are strictly entailed. I
live up to my income; and I am afraid that with me would die anything
that I could annually do for you."

"May your lordship live for ever!" replied Sir Roger, with more
sincerity, perhaps, than ever courtier offered such an aspiration in
favour of the kings of the Medes and Persians. "The truth is, my
lord," he continued, "nothing can be worse than the state of my
present fortunes. I certainly did not doubt being able to mend them
with a little assistance; but if your lordship carries into execution
your kind intentions in my favour, and mends them for me, all I can
say is, that you shall find one man at least grateful in this world;
and I hope also that your lordship will point out to me some means of
aiding you in return, for the burden of my obligation to you will be
greatly relieved by being able to show my zeal in your service."

"Oh, we will think of that hereafter," said Lord Dewry; "and as
you are a man of taste and ingenuity, I have no doubt, Sir Roger, in
the various changes and alterations which I am making here and at
Dimden--I have no doubt that we shall be able to find you employment
of a nature the most agreeable to your feelings and the most suitable
to your mind. Nobody need know any thing of the pecuniary arrangements
between us. You shall always be received here as a friend, and the
rest of your days may pass in sunshine and enjoyment."

These were prospects bright indeed to the view of the impoverished
knight; and as he felt that no services on his part would be too great
or too unscrupulous to merit such reward, he very plainly gave his
noble entertainer to understand that such was the case, and explained
to him how willing he would be to undertake any task he chose to
impose. This was the plainest speaking which had been held during the
evening; and the peer was not sorry that it had come on the part of
his guest, for he was anxious now to arrive at the point, and yet he
decidedly wished that the way might be smoothed for him. He smiled
most graciously, therefore, as he replied, "Well, well, Sir Roger,
your offers shall soon be put to the proof. I have upon my hands, at
the present moment, some business which is very difficult to manage;
and as I know you to be both firm and skilful, I will request your
assistance in it. But remember, I beg, that my object, as I shall
explain to you immediately, is perfectly just and upright; and
although the business wants a little shrewd management, yet it is one
in which you may engage conscientiously."

"I doubt it not, my lord, I doubt it not," replied Sir Roger, who,
perhaps, in all the variety of human actions, would have found very
few in which, under his present circumstances, he would not have
engaged quite conscientiously--"I doubt it not, my lord. Pray,
proceed."

"Oh, it is a long story," answered the baron; "and before we proceed
to that, let me ask you, Sir Roger, if you remember, with any degree
of accuracy, the transactions which took place between you and me and
Sir William Ryder, in regard to a large sum of money that we lost to
you in the year 17--?"

"Perfectly, most perfectly, my lord," replied Sir Roger: "my memory
never fails on such points; I could swear to every fact."

"Then, do you remember," said the peer, "receiving a note from me on
the eighteenth of May, telling you that if you would wait another week
I would pay you the whole sum at once, as my brother would be able by
that time to call in money to lend me? and do you remember your coming
to me the same evening to say that you were quite willing to wait, and
our going out together to a party?"

"I remember it all accurately, my lord," replied the poor knight, to
whom the recollection of days when the proud man before whom he now
sat had been his debtor and his humble servant was too gratifying to
be easily forgotten--"I remember it all well--every particular; but
you are mistaken in the date, my lord: it was the nineteenth, not the
eighteenth, of May."

"No, no; it is you who are mistaken, Sir Roger," replied the peer,
with a meaning smile. "It was the eighteenth, I can assure you."

Sir Roger did not comprehend. "Indeed, my lord," he replied, "it was
the nineteenth; I remember it from many circumstances. On that very
morning the great bet had come off between Colonel Hammerstone and the
Nailer, and--"

"Nay, nay, I am positive," said the peer, "from circumstances that I
cannot forget either. It was the eighteenth day of May, in the year
17--."

"But, my lord, I have your lordship's own note," said Sir Roger,
persevering.

"Have you so?" cried the peer. "I wish you would be so kind as to let
me see it."

"Certainly, my lord; I will bring it in a moment," said Sir Roger;
and, rising from his chair, he left the room, in order to bring the
paper to which he referred. While he was gone, Lord Dewry sat silent
and stern, with his hand over his eyes and the upper part of his face;
but his lips, which were uncovered, moved as if he were speaking, and
the working of the muscles of his cheeks seemed to indicate that he
was in bodily pain. As soon as his guest returned, however, he
withdrew his hand, and all was clear and smiling, except, perhaps, a
slight contraction of the brow, and an anxious intensity of gaze in
his eye, which had both become habitual. Sir Roger Millington resumed
his place; and, laying down upon the table a bundle of papers which he
carried, he selected one, and presented it to the peer, saying,
"There, my lord, is the note."

Lord Dewry received it calmly, not only because he knew the contents
exactly as well as Roger Millington, but because he felt perfectly
satisfied that Sir Roger himself was secured--bound hand and foot his
slave--by promises and expectations which no one else had the power or
the necessity of holding out to him. The paper, though it bore the
marks of age in the yellow hue of its complexion and the paleness of
the ink, was in other respects well preserved; and the peer, unfolding
it, perused it attentively, and still held it in his hand when he had
done.

"I see, Sir Roger," he said, "that you are correct, as far as the
dating of this note goes; but at the same time, I can assure you, I
must have dated it wrong at the time by some unfortunate mistake,
which mistake, by an unpleasant concatenation of circumstances, might
prove of the greatest disadvantage to me at present, and might even
deprive me of the power of assisting you in the way that I am so
desirous of doing."

The master-key of self-interest instantly unlocked the door of Sir
Roger Millington's understanding; and he now saw that some very strong
motive must influence the peer in wishing to prove that the letter was
written on a different day from that on which it was dated. He
consequently determined at once that it should be written on any day
whatsoever that his lordship thought fit; but, at the same time,
having a due regard to the friable nature of promises, he extremely
desired to make himself master of his noble friend's secret views, in
order to have some check upon him hereafter. "Indeed, my lord," he
replied, in a tone of much concern, "I am sorry to hear that the fact
should be likely to produce such results. May I inquire how such an
unfortunate state of things is likely to ensue from so simple a
circumstance?"

"Oh, certainly," replied Lord Dewry, with somewhat of a sarcastic
smile; "you may inquire, and I will answer you, Sir Roger: but then,
if I do, I must, I am afraid, demand a bond for the two hundred and
fifty pounds I am about to advance, as I must either have security for
my money or my secrets--which you like, Sir Roger."

"Oh, then, my lord," replied Sir Roger Millington, inclining his head
with a significant bow, "the matter is very simple. As I have no
security to offer for the money, I will beg not to burden myself with
your lordship's confidence any further than you think absolutely
necessary; and in regard to the note which is likely to produce
results so unlucky to both you and me--for I am fain to believe that
my prosperity is now intimately connected with your lordship's--I
think the best way to settle the matter will be to put it in the
fire."

"I do not exactly know that," answered Lord Dewry, musing: "at all
events, let me convince you first that it was written on the
eighteenth, instead of the nineteenth."

"My lord, I am already convinced," said Sir Roger Millington, who,
once having obtained the cue, could go on without the prompter--"I am
already convinced: I see my mistake. I remember it was the day before
the great walking bet came off, which was on the nineteenth, at
Hounslow. Indeed, it is impossible that it could have been otherwise:
for I was present on the ground all day; and if I was at Hounslow all
day, I could not receive your note in London."

"True, true," said the peer; though he very well knew that the note
which he had written after his return to town, the very day subsequent
to his brother's death, had found Sir Roger just come back from
Hounslow--"true, true, Sir Roger; and doubtless you could swear to all
these facts, should it be necessary."

"Beyond all doubt, my lord," replied the knight, "circumstances crowd
upon my memory which all tend to show that your lordship is right; and
it must have been the mistaken date of the note which deceived me."

"Would it not, then, be advisable," demanded the peer, "to rectify the
date which the note bears, instead of destroying it--hey, Sir Roger,
hey?"

"Certainly, my lord, certainly," said Sir Roger; and then, dropping
his voice, he added in a half-whisper, "if it can be done without the
chance of discovery."

"Easily," replied the peer--"easily, Sir Roger: a little acid which I
have in my library will take out the tail of the nine, without leaving
a trace; there will then remain only a cipher, which I will alter to
an eight; so that no one will see a difference between the writing of
that figure and the rest of the letter. You and I, the only persons
concerned in a private letter from me to you, are both convinced that
the date ought to be so rectified; and no one else need know any thing
about it."

"I am perfectly of your lordship's opinion," replied Sir Roger; "had
it not better be done immediately?"

"With all my heart," replied the peer; "follow me, Sir Roger; we will
return here, and conclude our claret when we have done."

The serviceable Sir Roger followed without another word to the peer's
private room. A small bottle of acid was produced, which answered its
object fully: the obnoxious figure was changed into a more convenient
one with ink mingled with water, to render it of the same hue as the
rest of the writing, and the most severe and practised eye could not
have detected a change. When it was done, the peer and his confederate
stood gazing upon the paper with very different feelings: Sir Roger,
totally indifferent to all considerations of right and wrong in the
matter, only wondering what was to come next, and desirous of knowing
whether he himself was to resume possession of the letter, or whether
his noble host intended to keep it for his own purposes; Lord Dewry
feeling at his heart that blessed sensation of security which he had
not known for twenty years.

The peer's next act was calmly to take his pocketbook from his pocket,
and drawing forth five notes, amounting to the sum which Sir Roger had
demanded, he laid them, one after another, down upon the paper which
they had been corrupting; and then, taking up the whole packet, he put
it into his companion's hand. "Sir Roger," he said, "I always like to
be as good as my word, and often endeavour to prove myself better than
my word. In regard to these notes," he added, seeing the knight about
to pour forth thanks, "let us say no more about them; and in regard to
this note," pointing to the one they had altered, "let me beg you to
put it by carefully with the rest of my letters; and should you ever
be called upon to produce it and speak about it, you will remember the
fact accurately, that it was received by you on the eighteenth of May,
the day before the great bet came off at Hounslow. Also, you will
remember that you called upon me in answer to it, and that we sat
together for half an hour. But it may be as well to forget, perhaps,
that we went out in company to Hillier's party. Let all statements be
as simple as possible, with no more circumstances than are necessary
to show that you do really remember the facts. And now let us return
to our claret, for we have more to talk of yet, both concerning your
affairs and mine."

Sir Roger bowed low, promising to act exactly as he was instructed.
"You know I have been a soldier, my lord," he said, "and am well aware
of the necessity of obeying orders without the slightest variation."

The peer led the way back to the dining-room, and rang for more
claret, though there was a good deal still upon the table; but the
cause was, in truth, that he desired a moment or two to think further
before he continued his conversation with Sir Roger Millington. His
original design had been to employ him in a much more extensive and
conclusive enterprise than he had hitherto broached to him; but in the
very initiatory steps, the fact of the letter being still in
existence, the facility which Sir Roger had shown in bending to his
wishes, and the certainty of his following exactly the directions he
had received, seemed to remove the necessity for further efforts. "I
have now," thought the peer, "the most perfect and conclusive proof to
adduce that I was in London on the very day of my brother's death; and
granting that the oath of Sir Roger Millington may be somewhat
doubted, on account of his established character, the letter--the
letter is proof positive. Besides, what can be opposed to it but the
oath of a gipsy and a gambler? neither of them worth more than his, if
so much. The letter is conclusive. Perhaps it may be as well to let
the gipsy alone; and yet it is not to be longer endured--this state of
momentary apprehension of what the next minute is to produce. Nor can
there be any doubt that, as soon as Pharold finds out this business in
regard to the deer-stealing, which has gone too far by this time to be
stayed, his first vengeance will be to tell all, and I may as well be
prepared to cast the charge back upon himself. Besides, if I can crush
him before the other arrives in England, I may set the whole world at
defiance."

As he thought thus he drank a large glass of claret. There never yet
was man who committed a great crime, and did not thenceforth feel that
the predominant longing of his soul was, once more to be able to
"sleep in spite of thunder." He drank another full glass; and then
went on, determined to bring the struggle to an issue at once, now
that he had all his preparations made, and was sure of the result.

"What we have just been speaking of, Sir Roger," he said, as the
servant shut the door after setting down the claret, "brings to my
mind our former acquaintance, Sir William Ryder. I should scarcely
think that he proposes to come back again to this country, as you
hinted this morning, considering that he left many a debt unpaid.
Among other things, you know he was your debtor in the transaction of
which we but now spoke, as well as myself, though not to the same
amount; and you are doubtless also aware that I paid the whole debt.
Pray, when did you hear from him?"

"I did not hear from him directly, my lord," replied the knight, "as
we have, in fact, kept up no correspondence. I wrote to him, indeed,
shortly after his departure, but he never answered my letter. But I
saw a few days ago in an American paper, that the well-known Sir
William Ryder was about to quit his dwelling at some strange named
place in a few weeks, for the purpose of visiting England, in order to
induce the government to take measures for the protection and
instruction of the savage Indians."

A sneering smile curled the lip of the peer, but he made no
observation upon the information he received. "Did you not go down
with him to Holyhead, on his way to embark for America from some Irish
port?" demanded Lord Dewry; "I think I have heard so."

"No, my lord, no," replied Sir Roger; "I met him at Holyhead by
accident. I had just come over from Ireland, where I had been to
settle a little affair with a man in Dublin. I lent Sir William one of
my horses to go out to see some gipsies--what the devil business he
had with them I could never tell--but the horse threw him and broke
his ribs, and hurt himself into the bargain; but a gipsy fellow, the
best farrier I ever saw, cured him in a week--the horse, I mean; but I
believe they cured Sir William too, for I left him in their hands
recovering fast; I myself being obliged to be at Newmarket before he
could get out of his bed."

"I thought I remembered something of the transaction," said the peer.
"Sir William Ryder, with whom I was in some correspondence at that
time, in regard to the very debt of which we were speaking, wrote to
me that he had seen you there, and mentioned the accident your horse
had met with. But now tell me, Sir Roger, did you not receive from the
gipsy farrier a bank-note, in change for money given him in payment?"

"No, my lord, not that I remember," said the knight; "faith, I have
forgot what I gave him, and all about it."

"Recollect yourself, Sir Roger," said Lord Dewry; "I think, if you
remember right, you will find that he gave you in change a note, which
you afterward gave to me when we last settled our accounts together,
about six months after I succeeded to this property."

"Nay, nay, my lord," said the knight, "your lordship is not right
there: it was you gave me the money; I gave you none. It was a round
sum, you know, my lord."

Lord Dewry bit his lip, and Sir Roger Millington could hear his foot
stamp upon the carpet under the table with impatience at his
contradiction. In truth, the noble lord did not at all desire to be
driven to explanations, though, in fact, the dark and fearful scheme
which his mind had formed for the purpose of delivering himself from
all fear for ever was too deep and intricate to be understood by him
whom he intended for his tool in accomplishing it, without a much
fuller knowledge of the subject than the knight possessed.

"You do not understand me," cried the peer, hastily; "you will not
understand me, Sir Roger! Mark me, now!" and then, after thinking for
a moment, he proceeded in a stern, determined tone, and with a dark,
contracted brow:--"You remember my succeeding to this property, Sir
Roger; and you remember the circumstances of my brother's unfortunate
death? The only person who saw the--the business was a gipsy; and at
the time some circumstances made it appear so strongly probable that
that gipsy had been himself the--the murderer, that Mr. Arden--old Mr.
Arden, who is still living--wished to commit him. I, however,
foolishly would believe nothing of the story, as this very gipsy had
always been a protégé of my brother's, and he was liberated. A number
of small particulars, however, afterward appeared to make me regret my
obstinacy, and to convince me that the villain was really the assassin
of my poor brother. I had him sought for in vain; and all the news I
could learn of him was, that he had sailed from Holyhead for Ireland.
There I lost sight of him, till a few days ago, when I suddenly met
him in the park; and I have since learned that he is lingering about
in the neighbourhood of my other place at Dimden. I have laid a trap
for him: we shall catch him this very night; and, if it cost me half
my fortune, I will bring him to justice."

"Your lordship is right, very right," exclaimed Sir Roger Millington;
"but I do not see--"

"Listen to me, Sir Roger, and you shall see," replied the peer: "I
doubt not that I shall be able to convict him; but if my recollections
are right, and can be supported by yours, his conviction is certain.
My brother at his death had a large sum of money on his person. One of
those notes, marked with his name, in his own handwriting, has since
come into my possession; and _I am sure that I received it from you,
while I feel almost sure that you received it from the gipsy!_" He
spoke the last words slowly and emphatically, and then added, rapidly
and sternly, "Now, what I want you to do, Sir Roger, is to recollect
yourself, and--if you can remember the facts of your having received
the note and given it to me--to be prepared to swear to those facts,
should it be necessary."

Sir Roger Millington turned very pale. A light--a fearful light--had
broken in upon him, and how far it served to guide his suspicions
aright matters little. He was a man of few scruples, and vice and
misery had both contributed to harden his heart; for though the uses
of adversity maybe sweet when acting on a virtuous disposition, yet I
am afraid that in this good world of ours the back of that great felon
Vice only gets callous under the lash of affliction. Sir Roger
Millington, however, had, as we have said, but few scruples of any
kind; yet this thing that Lord Dewry now proposed to him was a step
beyond the point at which he had arrived in all the course of evil and
of folly that he had hitherto pursued. He had fought and had slain men
in another man's quarrel, but in doing so he had perilled his own
life, and the corporal risk had seemed in some degree to balance the
moral culpability; but now he was asked to say and do things which,
without any danger to himself, would conduct another to an ignominious
death,--one against whom he had no enmity, whom he had never, perhaps,
beheld, and of whose real guilt there was in his bosom many a terrible
doubt. He felt that it was a fearful and an awful thing that he was
called upon to do, and, in despite of the absence of all moral
principle--of twenty years' hardening in vice, and of a long training
in degradation and dishonour--he turned pale, he hesitated; and,
forgetting all restraint, rose from his seat and walked once or twice
up and down the room in evident agitation.

Lord Dewry saw how far he had committed himself. He saw that,
notwithstanding all his caution, his words, having been spoken to one
whom habitual vice had rendered familiar with all the wiles of crime,
might have put his suspicions on a track from which they could never
be withdrawn, and that although Sir Roger had him not, indeed, in his
power, as the gipsy had, yet that no sacrifice would be too great to
force him on to acts which would make his co-operation irretrievable.
He suffered him then to pace the room for a single minute; and then
rising, he placed himself opposite to him, and laid his hand on that
of the knight. "Sir Roger," he said, "I am inclined to do much for
you, but you know service must have service in return."

"But tell me, tell me, my lord," exclaimed the other, with some
vehemence, "do you really believe that the note you speak of was ever
in the possession of the gipsy?"

"I not only believe it, but I am sure of it," replied the peer. "Hear
me, Sir Roger; I pledge you my honour, my soul, my word, this note
which you now see, and which is marked with my brother's own hand,
must have been in possession of the gipsy after my brother's death;
and if it did not come to me from you, it must at all events have come
through some one who received it of the gipsy." Nor in this assertion
did he speak falsely; for the note was one of those which he had sent
to the gipsy by Sir William Ryder, and which had accidentally returned
to his own possession.

It is wonderful how easily men can sometimes satisfy their conscience.
Sir Roger did not pause to ask any very minute explanation: the
vehemence with which his noble entertainer spoke convinced him that in
some sense he spoke sincerely; and he would have been very sorry, by
any indiscreet question, to have discovered that there was any thing
like a double meaning in the words. "Well, well," he said, "I think I
do remember something of the transaction, my lord; and I doubt not
that a few moments' thought will bring it all back clearly to my
memory."

The peer pressed his hand. "Well, then, Sir Roger," he said, "so much
for my affairs when they are all settled: hear what I wish to do for
you. I propose to give you apartments in my house at Dimden, where you
shall undertake to superintend all my improvements and works of taste,
for which you will favour me by receiving a deed of annuity for one
thousand per annum _during my life_. I am sorry that I cannot make it
permanent, but I have not the power; all I can do can only last as
long as my life lasts."

Bright, bright grew the eyes of Sir Roger Millington; and, bowing low
before the peer, he uttered a few words of thanks, and cast himself
back into his chair to enjoy the glad transition from a state of
beggary and despair to the prospect of affluence and luxury such as he
had never hoped to see again. All scruples were swallowed up in
satisfaction; not even a shadow of them remained; and he was now only
anxious to prove his zeal in those services which were to merit so
noble a reward.

The peer had seated himself, also, with the note of which he spoke
laid on the table before him; and it was not difficult for him to see
that the feelings of the serviceable Sir Roger Millington were
undergoing the exact sort of transition which he desired. He
accordingly entered into further explanations; and Sir Roger, in his
eagerness to merit the favour of so generous a patron, proposed of his
own free will to write his name upon the note in such a manner as to
give every apparent veracity to the recollections to which he was to
swear.

"You will find the butler's pen and ink in the buffet," said the peer,
in reply; "dip your pen first in the claret, Sir Roger, to make the
ink look faint and old. Only put your name; no date--no date; never be
too precise. Thank you--thank you: now he cannot escape me."

"But, my lord," said Sir Roger, "as I am to swear to the person of the
gipsy from whom I received the note, will it not be better that I
should see him first before he is taken up; so that I may identify him
at once without any appearance of connivance?"

"That is, I am afraid, impossible," replied the peer; "for we have
found out that he and his fellows have a design upon the deer in
Dimden Park this very night, and a large party of keepers have been
assembled to arrest them, so that between twelve and one they will all
be prisoners. Otherwise it might have been better as you say."

"But there is time before that," said Sir Roger, looking at his watch,
which--as the dinner hours of that day were very, very different from
those of the present time--only pointed at seven even after this long
conversation with the peer,--"there is time before that, my lord: how
far is it to Dimden?"

"Fourteen miles at least," replied the peer.

"Lend me a strong horse, and I will be over by half-past eight,"
answered Sir Roger. "If I cannot get a sight of him by any other
means, I will join the keepers privately, and as soon as ever the
business is over, come back here; so that I may point out the fellow
at once, if there should be twenty of them. What is his name, my lord?
do you know?"

"Pharold, he is called," answered the peer, thoughtfully. "Your plan
is good, but I am afraid it is too late. Let us take care that by
trying to do too much we do not spoil all."

"Oh, no fear, no fear, my lord," replied Sir Roger, who was not
without hopes of getting a private conversation with the gipsy before
his arrest, and who had an object of his own in wishing to do so; for
although rogues often trust each other in a manner which--with the
knowledge of each other's character that they must possess--is little
less than a miracle, no man covenants with another whom he knows to be
a villain without seeking some check upon him; and Sir Roger was not a
little desirous of having the peer more fully in his power, as some
security for the fulfilment of his promises. "No fear, no fear, my
lord; and remember, it would never do if I were to point out the wrong
man by any chance."

This argument was conclusive with Lord Dewry. The bell was rung, a
swift horse was ordered to be saddled immediately, Sir Roger equipped
himself for riding, received minute directions as to the way to
Dimden, and the peer and his guest were standing before the fireplace,
waiting for the horse, each occupied with his own thoughts, and each
rejoicing at the event of a meeting which had seemed at first so
inauspicious--Sir Roger Millington indulging in dreams of future
luxury and ease, and the baron triumphing in the hope that the means
he had employed, the dark and dreadful scheme which he was prepared to
execute, would bid defiance to accusation, and sweep from his path for
ever the man that he most feared on earth--when the sound of more
horses' feet than one was heard without, the bell was rung violently,
and the servant, entering, announced that a gentleman on horseback was
at the door, urging important business with his lordship.

"Did he give his name?" demanded Lord Dewry.

"Yes, my lord," replied the man: "he bade me say that it was Colonel
Manners!"

"Ho, ho!" said the peer, his lip curling with a haughty smile: "take
him into the saloon. This is a business of no importance, Sir Roger;
do not let it detain you. Fare you well, my good friend, and may
success attend you!"

"I give your lordship back your wish," replied Sir Roger, "and will
wait on you to-morrow at breakfast with all my tidings."

Thus saying, they parted, Sir Roger proceeding to hasten the arrival
of the horse, and the peer walking with a haughty step towards the
saloon, where he was waited by Colonel Manners.




                             CHAPTER XVI.


We must now turn to follow the course of Colonel Manners, from the
time we last left him at Morley House to the moment of his visit to
Lord Dewry, comprising in all a space of about eight hours. While
waiting for his horse he had, as we have already seen, examined
quickly, but not the less accurately, into the story of the peasant
who had heard shots fired in the neighbouring wood during the night
before; and he had thus satisfied himself that there was very little
probability of there being any connection whatever between those shots
and the absence of his friend, except such as the marvel-loving mood
of the old butler and the natural fears of De Vaux's relations had
supplied from the stores of imagination. The shots had been fired, it
seemed, in a direction different from that in which there were many
reasons for believing that De Vaux had gone; and the man himself
acknowledged, not only that he had originally supposed the sounds to
be occasioned by poachers, but that he had heard the report of one gun
on the preceding night.

Convinced, from what he himself suspected, as well as from what Marian
had said, that De Vaux had gone to visit the gipsies on the hill,
Colonel Manners at once determined to turn his horse's head thither,
before he made any examination in the wood where the shots had been
heard; and in this resolution he was strongly confirmed by a short
conversation with the head-gardener, whom he met as he was just
passing the gates.

As soon as Manners saw him he checked his horse, and demanded, "Pray,
in coming through the garden this morning, did you see any marks of
steps in the direction of the small door leading towards Morley Down?"

"No, sir," replied the man; "but I found the key in the outside of the
door this morning, so that anybody might have got into the garden that
liked; but, however, I cannot see that any of the fruit is gone. Did
you hear of any one having got in last night, sir?"

"No, no," answered Manners: "I did not mean to imply that," and
spurring on his horse, he rode forward more than ever determined to
address his first inquiries to the gipsies. Now Colonel Manners was
not a man to pause and wonder what could be the connection between the
Honourable Edward de Vaux and the king of shreds and patches from whom
he had received the letter, till the time was past for rendering
effectual service. Nevertheless, as he rode on, he did wonder much at
that connection, revolving in his mind every thing probable and
improbable which could account for circumstances with regard to which
the reader wants no explanations; but keeping his horse's chest all
the time steadily against the hill, and his spurs to its flanks, to
prevent its resisting a method of progression to which he never
subjected it except on occasions of necessity. The beast panted, but
still Manners, feeling that perhaps too much time had been lost
already, kept it up to the same pace, saying, internally, "You would
have gone unflinching at the heels of the hounds, my good gray, and
the matter is more important now."

The early rays of the sun had licked up the hoar-frost of a clear
autumnal morning, but had left the roads, in consequence, and
especially the road up which Manners's course lay, heavy and
difficult. The sunshine, too, of the autumn--as we often see with the
sunshine of life--had been too early bright to continue unclouded to
the close of the day; and now, even as he rode on, a thin brownish
film of dull vapour began to creep up from the verge of the horizon,
promising rain ere long. Manners spurred on all the faster, not that,
as far as his own person was concerned, he cared whether it rained or
not, but he had served long enough with nations who follow their
enemies by the lightest traces in the dew or in the sand to know that
a heavy rain was often destruction itself to the hopes of a pursuing
party.

At length he reached the level at the top of the ascent; and, pointing
with his hand to the tumulus, he said, turning to those who followed
him, "You, William, ride up as far as you can upon the mound, and keep
a keen eye upon the whole plain. If you see any one skulking about or
watching, give instant notice, and gallop up if you hear me call. You
come with me," he added, to his own man; and, taking the shortest cut
towards the sandpit, he spurred on towards the spot where he had last
seen the gipsies. The bushes, however, were now directly between him
and the bank that had sheltered their encampment, so that he could see
nothing till he was nearly upon the pit.

Then, however, his disappointment was not small to find the usual
relics of a gipsy resting-place, but nothing else. A few rags, a leaf
of an old black-letter book, feathers of many birds, and fur of more
than one sort of beast, several charred spots, and a large stick or
two, were to be seen upon the ground; but nothing else met the eye in
any direction, and Manners paused for a moment to lay out what was to
be done next.

"Go back for a hundred yards," he said, at length, turning to his
servant; "and then make a slow circle at that distance quite round
this pit, seeing whether you can find fresh footmarks in any
direction."

The servant obeyed, and in a few minutes, exclaimed, "Here are a great
many, sir, along this road, which seems to go down the other side of
the hill. Horses' feet, too, and cart-wheels, quite fresh."

"Go on quite round," rejoined his master. "What do you find more?"

"Here are a good many scattered footmarks in this direction, sir,"
replied the man when he had arrived at a spot situated exactly between
Manners and the little tumulus; "but they do not tend in any
particular way that I can see."

Manners rode up; but the footprints were turned in many directions,
and were of various sizes, some seemingly fresh, and some half-effaced
by others. Nothing, therefore, could be discovered from the traces on
that particular spot; but as Colonel Manners had every reason for
believing that his friend must have approached the gipsy encampment
from that side, he took the pains of dismounting, and tracing the
different steps some way upon each of the several paths in which they
led. It was in vain, however; the whole were so puzzled and intermixed
that he could make nothing of them, and had his foot in the stirrup to
mount again when De Vaux's servant came down from the mound, at full
gallop, exclaiming, "There is certainly some one watching there, sir,
at the edge of that wood. I have seen them come out and in three
times. There! there! Do you see, sir? He is coming more forward now."

Could Manners have bent down with his attendants, so as to escape the
attention of the person who approached, he would certainly have done
so; but though they might have hidden themselves among the
neighbouring slopes, their horses were not so easily concealed, and
the sandpit was now too far off to afford them a screen. A moment's
thought showed him that it would be best to stand quite still, as the
man, whoever he was, was still advancing. The next moment, however,
the stranger stopped--went on again a few steps farther--stopped
again; and then, turning precipitately, made his way back towards the
wood.

Manners was in the saddle in a moment; and could speed have
accomplished what he desired, the person who so evidently sought to
avoid observation would not have escaped, but the distance he had
advanced from the wood had not been more than a hundred yards; and
long ere Manners's horse could reach the skirt of the forest ground
all vestige of him he pursued was lost in an intricate labyrinth of
trees and bushes, which set further search at defiance. The two men
came up shortly after, while Manners was pausing disappointed by the
edge of the wood; and De Vaux's servant, touching his hat, called the
colonel's attention to some footmarks, which they had passed as they
followed him. Manners instantly turned back, and in a dip of the
ground, where some mud had been left by a half dried up pool, he
discovered the distinct traces of two different sets of footsteps.
Both were small, and neither seemed to have been left by the tread of
a peasant; but one was evidently the mark of a boot, cut by some neat
and fashionable maker; and De Vaux's servant declared that he could
swear to that print having been made by his master's foot.

Nothing remained, then, but to follow these footsteps as far as
possible; but the difficulty of doing so was not small, for there were
but few spots of a nature similar to that in which the traces had been
found, and the ground around was in general covered by short parched
grass, or long tufts of rushes. At length, however, at the distance of
more than fifty yards farther on, in the exact direction in which the
other steps pointed, Manners discovered the mark of a heel, and this
again led them to more steps. Several times the traces seemed lost
entirely, and several times Colonel Manners was obliged to return to
the last he had seen, and set off anew; but still the positive
assertions of his friend's servant that the footsteps were those of De
Vaux caused Manners to persist, till at length he succeeded in tracing
the prints to the edge of the steep bank, to which, as we have seen,
the gipsy had really led his unfortunate visiter.

Manners now paused, with some very painful apprehensions gathering
thick upon him. Thither, it is true, De Vaux must have come willingly
with some other person, for there was not the slightest appearance
either of haste or resistance in any of the footmarks they had seen;
but it was in that very wood, near which they now were, that the
report of fire-arms had been heard the night before; and, as far as
Manners had been able to discover, it had been in the precise
direction to which the steps had now guided them. What, too, he asked
himself, could be De Vaux's inducement to approach so lonely a place
as this--by a path which led to no other object--in the dead of the
night, and with a person to whom it appeared he must have been a
stranger? What, too, could be that person's object in leading him
hither at such a time?

No answer could he give to either of these questions which was at all
likely to calm the apprehensions that he now began seriously to
entertain concerning his friend's fate; and he gazed round the spot to
which the footsteps had conducted him with more anxiety concerning the
next object that was to meet his view than ever he had felt on the
field of battle.

At length, however, his eye rested on the little rugged path by which
his friend and the gipsy had descended to the scene of their
conference; and Manners at once followed it. Here, again, the two sets
of footprints were distinctly visible, going down towards the
abandoned quarry and the felled oak. There were marks also to be seen,
as of some one coming up; but they had evidently been imprinted by the
tread of one person, and that not of Edward de Vaux. A few drops of
blood next met Manners's eye, as with an attentive gaze he examined
the ground while he descended. Then came more and more, dotting the
sand with red, till they at length led on to a spot where the same
footsteps were thick and many, as if the persons whose course they
marked had stood there for some time. There, too, appeared, however,
an evidence of more import; for close to the spot where De Vaux and
the gipsy had been standing, the sand had drank up a large quantity of
gore, while the patches of short green grass that had rooted
themselves here and there upon the broken ground around were dabbled
with red in various directions.

Manners gazed with horror and with grief on signs so unequivocal of
the fate of his unhappy friend; and if he sorrowed bitterly for De
Vaux, his heart was hardly less afflicted when he thought of her who
was so soon to have become his bride--of her whose father and whose
lover had shared the same dark and melancholy fate. His heart bled for
her; and although, under any circumstances, he would have felt the
same sympathy for De Vaux's family, and the same grief for the loss of
his friend, the pain he personally felt was aggravated by the belief
that he had, in some degree, been made an instrument for the purpose
of decoying him into the trap which had evidently been laid for him.
That feeling, however, and the indignation which that feeling
awakened, made him the more strongly determine never to abandon the
search till he had discovered the murderer and brought him to justice.
He resolved to devote time, and fortune, and life itself, if it should
be necessary, to the pursuit; to trace the offender out with the
pertinacity of a bloodhound, and to run him down as he would a wolf.

Although, to a man of Manners's character and peculiar frame of mind,
the very task of the avenger was a bitter and a dreadful one, yet
there was another duty still more grievous which lay before him for
execution--that of communicating to the family of his unhappy friend
the painful facts he had discovered; and the thought of the tears of
Marian, and the sterner grief of Mrs. Falkland, and the deep, deep
sorrow of her daughter, all thrilled upon him as he contemplated the
course he had to follow. But to such thoughts he gave but a few
moments. No time was to be lost in long deliberation, if action were
to be effectual; and as Manners was not more a man of real deep and
noble feeling than he was a man of active energy, he turned instantly
to the measures for detecting the murderer. His first step was to take
the exact measurement of both the footprints, and the next, to note
down precisely in his memorandum-book every thing that had occurred in
the search.

The man who had been seen watching his party from the wood he felt
sure was implicated in the transaction, if he were not the principal;
and among the gipsies were to be found, beyond all doubt, the
accomplices of the murderer, if not the participators in the deed
itself. After a brief conversation, then, with the servants concerning
the discoveries they had already made, he proceeded to inquire what
was the next village or town to the seat of Lord Dewry; and being
informed by his late friend's servant, who was well acquainted with
the county, that it was called Barholm, he went on to give further
directions.

"You, William," he said, "ride back to the sandpit, which you saw me
examining just now on the top of the common; you will there find the
tracks of wheels and feet going down the opposite road to that by
which we came, indicating the direction the gipsies have taken. Follow
them as fast as you can, making continual inquiries concerning them.
Trace them out, step by step, till you have found them. Then hire any
of the peasantry to keep watch upon them, night and day, paying
whatever sum may be necessary in advance, and giving strict orders to
follow them wherever they go. There is a note to pay the people. Do
not spare either speed or money; and when you have taken these
precautions, ride over to join me at Barholm, where I will be tonight.
Quick! mount, and away!"

The man obeyed, and Manners then turned to his own servant. "You,
John," he said, "lead your horse down the bank to the road--then on to
the village there, with all speed. Gather together as many stout men
as ever you can, and mount them at any price. Establish corresponding
patrols all round this wood, as we did at the wood beyond Montreal
last year, and remember that the great thing is haste. There is money,
and if you need more, refer the people to me at Morley House. When you
have done that, and left the care of the patrol in the hands of the
most intelligent fellow you can find, come back to me at the house."

"Shall I tell the folks what is the matter, sir?" demanded the
servant. Manners mused for some moments. "Yes," he said, at length,
"yes; circumstances fully justify it; and the people, who must love
Mrs. Falkland and her family, will work in the matter with the greater
interest. Lose no time, John, lest the fellow get out of the wood
before you can surround it. He will probably lie there for half an
hour or so, till he thinks we are gone, and then will make an effort
to escape. It will take at least four or five-and-twenty men to watch
it properly, giving each of them half a mile; but I should think that
in the village you can get together as many--at all events, do your
best."

The man bowed, and led his beast down the bank, while Manners,
springing into the saddle, turned his horse's head back towards Morley
House.

With grief and reluctance he did so; and although he felt the
necessity of promptitude in his own proceedings, and that he had no
right to keep those so deeply interested in suspense, yet repugnance
to his painful task certainly rendered his horse's pace slower in
returning than it had been when he set out upon his search.

"How is Miss De Vaux now?" he asked of the servant who presented
himself to take his horse; and it was some relief to hear in reply
that she had not come down. He then ascended the stairs towards the
drawing-room, but in the anteroom he was met by Isadore, who had
already become aware of his return. All the light gay spirit was gone
from her eyes, and her countenance now expressed nothing but intense
anxiety. "You look grave, Colonel Manners," she exclaimed, as soon as
she saw him. "You look sad; for Heaven's sake, tell me what have you
discovered?"

"Nothing at all satisfactory," replied Manners, anxious to break the
matter to her as gently as possible: "the whole business is certainly
very strange; but I still hope and trust that--"

"Hope and trust!" exclaimed Isadore, clasping her hands. "Oh, Colonel
Manners, you know more than you say. Poor, poor Marian! But tell me, I
beseech you, tell me all. Indeed, this suspense is worse than the
truth."

"I have very little to tell, my dear Miss Falkland," he replied; "but
I must acknowledge that what I have to tell is not at all calculated
to remove our apprehensions."

"But the gipsies, Colonel Manners!" exclaimed Isadore; "have you seen
the gipsies?"

"No, I have not," he answered: "they had left the common before I
arrived; but I found traces of the way they had taken, and have sent
your cousin's own servant to pursue them."

"Sent my cousin's servant, without attempting to follow them
yourself!" cried Isadore; but then, instantly lighting upon the right
conclusion, she added, "But, no, no, no, Colonel Manners, I know you
better! You would never have sent my cousin's servant upon such an
inquiry, unless you had discovered something to render your stay here
more necessary. But here comes mamma from poor Marian's room. Now, for
Heaven's sake, tell us all, Colonel Manners."

"I hope Miss De Vaux is more composed," said Manners, turning to Mrs.
Falkland as she entered.

"She is asleep from the effect of strong opiates, my dear sir,"
replied Mrs. Falkland gravely; "and, if I may judge from your
countenance, it is happy for her that she is so. Now, Colonel Manners,
tell me candidly what you have discovered--I require no preparation."

"The facts are simply these, then," replied Manners, "and I will not
attempt to conceal from you that I am deeply uneasy on account of De
Vaux. When I reached the gipsy encampment all was vacant, and nothing
to be found but the place where it had been, together with fresh
tracks of wheels and feet, marking the direction which the great body
of the gipsies had taken. However, in another part of the common we
discovered footmarks, which De Vaux's servant positively asserts to be
those of his master; and, of course, my first care was to follow those
as far as possible. They led us, I am sorry to say, in the direction
where shots had been heard in the wood."

"Good God!" cried Isadore, the tears bursting from her eyes; "poor
Edward! and still more unhappy Marian!"

"Nay, do not weep so bitterly, Miss Falkland," said Manners, "or I
fear I shall not be able to finish my account. Remember, however, that
we have discovered as yet nothing at all certain, and that such
appearances as we have discovered are often, very often, fallacious."

"You must let her weep, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland: "men
never understand how great a relief tears are to a woman; and often I
regret that some severe sorrows have taken from me the power of
weeping as once I could. Pray go on, too; let us hear the worst. Where
did the steps lead to?"

"To a high bank just above a turn in the road," replied Colonel
Manners; "a little more than a mile on the other side of the village."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Falkland, now extremely agitated; "the very spot
where my poor brother was murdered."

"Not exactly," answered Manners; "for that spot was pointed out to me
by De Vaux as we came hither; and the place to which I now refer,
though near it, is not precisely the same. At that bank, however, all
traces of my poor friend's footsteps were lost, and I could only find
those of another person going away from it."

Isadore continued to weep in silence; but Mrs. Falkland, seeing that
Manners paused somewhat abruptly, fixed her eye upon him with a look
of keen inquiry. Manners glanced towards Miss Falkland, slightly
raising his eyebrows, and shaking his head; and Mrs. Falkland,
understanding his meaning, took Isadora's hand, saying, "Go, my love,
and sit by your poor cousin: Colonel Manners may have business with me
which we can better discuss alone."

Isadore obeyed at once, and Mrs. Falkland then turned to Manners with
firm composure, saying, "Now, Colonel Manners, tell me all; what more
did you find?"

"I am sorry to say, madam," he answered, "that I found a great deal of
blood spilt upon the sand."

Mrs. Falkland covered her eyes with her hands, and remained silent for
several minutes. At length she looked up, and Colonel Manners
proceeded:--"I have now, madam, related all that I have done, except
some measures already taken for the apprehension of the persons
implicated. Such appearances as those I have met with, I still say,
are often fallacious; but, nevertheless, it is absolutely necessary to
take the same steps as if they were perfectly certain. If you will
give me the name of the nearest magistrate, I will write to him
instantly to obtain his sanction for what I have already done, and his
assistance in what we may yet have to do."

"The nearest magistrate is old Mr. Arden," replied Mrs. Falkland; "an
active and intelligent man, though somewhat severe. He is the same,"
she added, while some tears came into her eyes--"he is the same who
investigated with so much energy the circumstances attending the death
of my poor brother."

"To him, then, I will write at once, madam," replied Manners. "When I
have done so, I have another task to perform which will lead me to
some distance; but I will be back here to-morrow; for though I would
not willingly intrude upon your family in such a moment of grief, yet
I hold myself bound--"

"Oh, do not call it intruding, Colonel Manners," cried Mrs. Falkland;
"if you will have the great kindness to manage the whole of this sad
business for me, to act as my representative in it, and to add my love
for my poor nephew to your own friendship for him, as motives for
ascertaining his fate and pursuing his murderers, you will confer the
greatest of favours on me and mine. Oh no, Colonel Manners, you must
not think of leaving us at such a moment as this, when we all want the
assistance, advice, and support of one so well calculated to
strengthen and to aid us. But do you know there is another task I am
going to put upon you; and circumstances may render it very painful to
you--De Vaux's father--I could wish these tidings broken to him. His
whole soul was wrapped up in his son; and I am sure Colonel Manners is
too generous not to forget, in moments of affliction, any offence
that--"

"I have already arranged, my dear madam," replied Colonel Manners, "to
go over to Lord Dewry as soon as I have written to Mr. Arden. De
Vaux's servant is to meet me at the village of Barholm; and believe me
that the little dispute which occurred between the father of my friend
and myself rests too lightly on my mind to be thought of for a moment,
when I can, in any degree, blunt the first sharp edge of the sad
tidings he must soon hear."

"I see one cannot calculate too liberally on your good feeling," said
Mrs. Falkland; "nor can I express what a relief it is to me to have
you here, Colonel Manners, at such a trying moment. I cannot, indeed,
in my present state of mind, attend to your comfort as I could wish;
but let me beg you, at least, to take some refreshment ere you set out
for my brother's."

"None, I thank you, my dear madam," he replied; "I do not require it.
But now do not let me detain you. I know that you, too, have the
painful task of breaking the confirmation of our fears to her who will
feel the pang more acutely than any."

"Indeed, I hardly know how to do it," replied Mrs. Falkland. "To a
casual observer, Marian may appear cold and indifferent by nature; but
quite the reverse is known to be the case by those who have better
opportunities of judging. Her heart is all warmth, and tenderness, and
affection; and it is, perhaps, a consciousness of the very excess of
such feelings that makes her put a stricter guard upon the expression
of them. I fear that these tidings, if told entirely, will go far to
kill her."

"Then by no means tell them, my dear madam," replied Manners: "I am no
advocate for concealments or pious frauds of any kind; and where the
strength of the individual is able to bear them up, we should always
speak the truth: but of course we must regulate our conduct by our
knowledge of the person; and both from what I have seen to-day, and
what you yourself say, I would strongly advise you--if you will excuse
my doing so--to tell Miss De Vaux, merely, that I have not succeeded
in my first search for my poor friend, and that I am still following
the same object in a different direction."

"I believe I must do even as you say," replied Mrs. Falkland, "and
suffer Marian's mind to come to the sad conclusion, to which we have
already come, by degrees. Though the suspense may be harrowing, yet it
will not have so bad an effect on her as the sudden confirmation of
her worst fears. Allow me, too, to hint, Colonel Manners, that you
will find my brother less capable of bearing such tidings than you may
imagine, from what you have seen of his demeanour. His love for his
son was as ardent as his other passions."

"Do not be afraid, my dear madam," replied Manners, taking her hand;
"I will do nothing roughly, believe me."

"I do, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland--"I do, indeed, believe that it
is not in the nature of Colonel Manners to act unkindly to anyone. At
what time shall I order the carriage?"

"Oh, not at all--not at all," he answered; "I will ride: it is always
my custom; and as soon as I have written this letter, and my servant
has returned, I will set out. Let me detain you no longer, and God
grant that our fears may have magnified the proofs in their own
support."



                            END OF VOL. I.





                              THE GIPSY;


                               A TALE.




                           BY THE AUTHOR OF


                 "RICHELIEU," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," &c.




   "Ah! what a tangled web we weave,
    When first we venture to deceive."
                            Sir Walter Scott.




                           IN TWO VOLUMES.

                               VOL. II.




                               NEW YORK
                    HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
                           FRANKLIN SQUARE.
                                1855.





                              THE GIPSY




                              CHAPTER I.


Nothing shows us, perhaps, the utter blindness in which we are held by
fate more completely, than the constant fallacy of our calculations in
regard to even the smallest events over which we have not a personal
and unlimited control. A letter is put into our hands in a writing
that we know; and ere we have broken the seal, fancy, aided by the
best efforts of reason, has laid out before us the probable contents:
but as soon as the seal is broken, we find the whole as different
therefrom as it is possible to imagine. A friend, or a stranger, comes
to see us; and ere we can reach the room where he is waiting,
imagination has done her work, and given us a full account of the
person and his errand. We expect some pleasant meeting, or some glad
tidings, and we go but to hear of some bitter loss or sad
disappointment.

Thus, as Lord Dewry walked towards the room to which he had directed
the servant to conduct Colonel Manners, he did not fail to calculate
the cause of his coming. "He is either here," thought the peer, "to
apologize for his conduct, in which case I shall treat him with
contempt, or he has come to proffer that personal satisfaction which
he before refused. I hope the latter; and if so, I shall have a cause
sufficient to assign for demanding Edward's immediate rupture with
him."

As he thus thought, he opened the door of the saloon in the midst of
which Colonel Manners was standing, booted, and spurred, and dusty,
from the road; but with that air of ease, composure, and calmness
which spoke his character.

"My lord," he said, as soon as the peer entered, "I am obliged very
unwillingly to intrude upon you; and, of course, feel more
uncomfortable in interrupting you at this unseasonable hour: but the
business on which I come admits of no delay."

"I am not aware, sir," replied the peer, frowning sternly, "what
business can remain between us, after our last meeting, when you
thought fit--"

"My lord," interrupted Colonel Manners, anxious to put a stop to a
revival of past grievances, which, at the present moment, could only
aggravate the pain he had to inflict--"my lord, my present business is
totally unconnected with the past; and extremely sorry I am that
anything ever occurred between your lordship and myself to render my
present visit disagreeable to you in itself."

"Sir, your expression of sorrow," replied the peer, "as is usual in
such cases, comes too late; but to your business, sir. Do not let me
interrupt that. What is your business with me? for the sooner we
settle it the better shall I be pleased."

There was a pertinacity in Lord Dewry's rudeness that offended
Manners; but he gave no way to his anger. There was a stronger feeling
in his bosom; and pity for the childless old man not barely mastered
every other sensation, but mastered all so completely, that he went on
with as nice a calculation of the best and kindest means of breaking
his loss to the peer, as if not a word had been said but those of
welcome and civility. "My lord," he replied, "I come to you as one
of the principal magistrates of this county, in your quality of
lord-lieutenant--"

"I wish, sir," interrupted the peer, "that you had sought some other
magistrate to whom your presence would have been more welcome."

"I might have done so, my lord," replied Manners, "had the business on
which I had to seek a magistrate not been one so immediately affecting
your lordship, that although, in the first instance, I wrote to the
nearest justice of the peace that I could hear of--Mr. Arden--I
thought it but right to ride over myself to request your co-operation
in the measures we are taking."

Manners observed a change of expression, and a slight degree of
paleness pass over the countenance of his hearer; and, although he
certainly did not attribute it to that consciousness of crime and
consequent feeling of insecurity in which it really originated, he saw
that the first step was gained; and that the peer was, in some degree,
prepared to hear evil tidings. Lord Dewry, however, replied in a
manner which had nearly forced the communication at once. "May I ask,
sir," he said, in a tone grave but less bitter than that which he had
formerly employed--"may I ask, sir, why, when business of importance
concerning myself occurred, my son did not take upon himself the task
of communicating with his father upon the subject, but rather left it
to a person whose visit was certainly unsolicited?"

"Because, my lord, your son was not capable of doing so," replied
Colonel Manners, "from the fact of his being absent from Morley
House."

"Not at Morley House!" cried the peer. "Pray where is he, then, sir?"

"I really cannot inform your lordship," replied Manners, "for I do not
know."

"Good God! this is very extraordinary," cried Lord Dewry, taking alarm
more from the tone of Manners's voice, and the expression of his
countenance, than from anything he had said. "For Heaven's sake,
explain yourself, sir. Where is my son? What is your business? Sit
down, sir, I beg! What is it you seek?"

By the agitated manner in which the baron spoke, Manners saw that he
must proceed cautiously.

"May I ask you, my lord, if you have ever heard of a person named
Pharold, a gipsy?" he demanded, intending by this question to lead his
hearer's mind away, for a moment, from the real subject of
apprehension; but, without at all wishing it, by that very inquiry he
redoubled the agitation of the peer.

For an instant the thoughts of Lord Dewry were all in confusion and
uncertainty,--doubtful of the end to which Manners's interrogatory
tended, and fearful that a man to whom he had given such just cause
for anger had become acquainted with some of the dreadful secrets
which oppressed his own bosom. His first impulse was to lift his hand
to his head, and to gaze with some degree of wildness upon the
countenance of his questioner; but almost instantly recalling his
firmness, and recollecting the measures he had taken, and the schemes
he had laid out, he recovered also his composure, and replied, with a
forced smile, "You have alarmed me about my son, Colonel Manners; but
you ask me if I know a gipsy of the name of Pharold. I do: my family
have, I am afraid, too good reason to know him."

"Then have you any cause to suppose that he bears an ill-will towards
your family?" demanded Manners again.

"I have, sir, I have!" replied Lord Dewry; "I have the strongest
reasons to believe that he bears us ill-will,--that he has already
injured us, and seeks but the opportunity to do more and more for our
destruction."

"Does his ill-will particularly point against your son, my lord?"
asked Manners, deeply interested by an answer which to him was both
mysterious and painful.

"No, no!" exclaimed the peer, starting up from the chair into which he
had cast himself when he had invited Manners to be seated--"no, no!
certainly not! What is the meaning of this? You have some darker
meaning, sir! What of Edward? Tell me, I beseech you, tell me, where
is my son?"

"My lord, I am grieved to repeat, that I cannot tell you where he is,"
replied Manners; "and it is for the purpose of concerting means for
discovering him that I now wait upon your lordship. He went out, it
appears, to see this gipsy Pharold, and has never returned."

Manners acted for the best; and having not the slightest idea of all
that was passing in the bosom of De Vaux's father, he thought that by
concealing for a few moments the proof he had obtained of his friend
having been murdered, he would allow the mind of the unhappy parent to
come by degrees, and less painfully, to a knowledge of the truth: but
the result was by no means such as he anticipated; for to Lord Dewry
the bare idea of his son having any communication whatever with the
eyewitness of that dreadful deed which he had committed in other
years, was agonizing in itself; and, without remembering that any one
was present to remark the agitation to which he yielded, he clasped
his hands together, and strode up and down the saloon, muttering,
"Villain! scoundrel! it is all over!" Then, again, recollecting that
he was observed, he found it necessary to curb his emotions, and to
make anxiety for his son the apparent cause for that agitation which
he had already displayed. "Colonel Manners," he said, "you alarm me
much. For Heaven's sake, tell me the particulars! Something more than
a temporary and ordinary absence must have occurred to excite
apprehensions in an officer so much accustomed to danger as yourself.
Nor is my sister a woman to yield to idle fears. Tell me, then, what
has happened to my son, and why you are led to suppose that there has
been any communication between him and a person in regard to whom I
have more than suspicions of very terrible deeds--who is, I believe, a
villain of the blackest character, and who would scruple at nothing to
injure a race who were his first benefactors."

"The facts are these, my lord," replied Manners: "but I trust we shall
find that your son's absence is owing, notwithstanding its
strangeness, to some accidental circumstance of no importance. As I
was about to say, however, the facts are these:--It appears that last
night De Vaux did not go to bed; that he left Morley House during the
night, and that he has never returned during the day. He also, I find,
mentioned yesterday to his cousin, Miss De Vaux, his intention of
visiting a gipsy named Pharold, who had sent him a letter that
morning; but his purpose, as he then stated it, was to go to Morley
Down, where the gipsies were, to-day, and not during the night; and
his prolonged absence has, of course, greatly alarmed Mrs. Falkland
and her family."

"But has no search been instituted? Have no traces been found?" cried
Lord Dewry, his fears taking a new direction. "No time should be
lost."

"No time has been lost as yet, my lord," replied Manners: "I myself
have been to the place where the gipsies were last seen; but they are
there no more, and, to all appearance, must have either decamped in
the night or early this morning. But it appears certain, from the
evidence of Mr. De Vaux's servant, who was with me, that some
footprints which we traced on the ground, in different parts of the
common, were from my poor friend's boot; and in the same track are
those of another person, who was apparently with him during the
night."

"But whither did they lead?" exclaimed the peer, whose agitation was
becoming dreadful. "Speak out, sir, for God's sake! You call him your
poor friend: you have discovered more. Whither did the footsteps lead?
I can bear all."

"They led, my lord," replied Manners, "to a high bank, overhanging a
part of the road, about a mile or more to the west of Morley House,
near a point of wooded land which causes the river to take a singular
bend in its course."

Lord Dewry shook in every limb; but, by a strong effort, he uttered,
"Go on, sir; go on: let me hear the worst."

"Thank God, my lord, I have little more to inflict upon your
lordship," replied Manners. "At that bank the steps ended; but--"

He paused, and the peer eagerly demanded, "But what--what found you
more?"

"It must be told," thought Manners. "We found, my lord," he added,
aloud, "a good deal of blood spilled upon the sand."

The peer groaned bitterly. "My poor boy! my poor boy!" he cried; but
for some minutes he said no more.

While Manners had been in the act of telling his tale, the conflict
which had taken place in the bosom of Lord Dewry can better be
conceived than described. Every moment produced a change of sensation;
every word a new and different apprehension. Now he fancied his son
made acquainted with his guilt; now feared that the very means he had
taken to conceal it might have made the gipsy to wreak his vengeance
on his unoffending child. That Pharold was capable of committing any
or every crime was a conviction which had been brought about in the
mind of the peer by one of those curious processes in the human heart
whereby great guilt seeks to conceal its blackness from even its own
eyes, by representing others in colours as dark as it feels that it
itself deserves; and while at one moment he suspected that Pharold
might have obtained information of the trap laid for him by the
gamekeeper, and to avenge himself might have revealed his whole
history to Edward de Vaux, at another he believed that the destruction
of his son might have been the means which the gipsies had determined
upon, in order to punish himself for his designs against them.

As Colonel Manners concluded his account, however, the latter opinion
predominated over all others; the peer's own heart acknowledged that
the means they had taken was that which was the most fearfully
effectual; and he beheld no other image than the heir of his name, the
child of his love, murdered in cold blood, within sight of the very
spot where his own hand had slain his brother. All his first emotions
were consecrated to deep grief. He had loved his son; he had admired
him; and affection and pride had united to give him the only green
place in a heart that angry passions had left arid and desolate; and
now he was alone in all the world. He had been hitherto like a mariner
ploughing the waves in the midst of storms and darkness, with one
small point of bright light in the wide dark vacancy before him; but
now the clouds had rolled over that light for ever, and the past and
the future were alike one lurid night. There was nothing left in life
to live for; and during one moment all was despair: but the minute
after, the most overpowering passion of human nature rose up, and
rekindled with its own red and baleful light the extinguished torch of
hope. Revenge became his thirst; and the remembrance that it was
nearly within his grasp, and that another day would give it to him,
was the only consolation that his mind could receive. It seized upon
him at once; it compelled every other feeling and passion to its aid:
grief gave it bitterness; pride gave it intensity; wrath lent it
eagerness. "He has smitten me to the heart," he thought; "he has
smitten me to the heart. But I will smite him still deeper, and he
shall learn what it is to have raised his hand against a son of mine."
It was but for one instant that he had given way to despair, and the
next revenge took possession of his whole soul, and became almost more
than a consolation--a joy. All its dark and cruel pictures, too, rose
up before his mental vision, and he pleased himself with gazing forth
into the future, and seeing him he most hated within the gripe of his
vengeance. He painted to himself the agony which long and solitary
imprisonment would inflict on a heart which he knew to be wild and
free; he thought over all the tyrannical details of a trial in a court
of justice; and he gazed even into the gipsy's bosom, and saw the
burning indignation and despair that would wring his heart, exposed a
public spectacle to the eyes of a race he detested, tried by laws he
condemned and had abjured, and exciting the curiosity and the loud
remark of the idle and the vulgar. He followed him in imagination to
the scaffold, and saw him die the death of a dog; and only grieved
that there revenge must stop, and that the cup contained not another
drop of ignominy and suffering to pour upon the head of him who had
destroyed his son.

Occupied with these thoughts, he remained silent for several minutes;
but his features worked, and his limbs even writhed, wrought
unconsciously by the intensity of the emotions within. Colonel Manners
saw the strong and painful degree of his agitation; but he had no key
to the secret sources of feeling which, opened wide by the news of his
son's loss, were gushing forth in streams of bitterness upon his
heart. He attributed, then, all that he saw to deep grief; and
although his application to the peer, in his magisterial capacity, had
been but to bring about the disclosures he had to make as gently as
possible, yet he still thought it best to continue the same course
with which he had begun, in order to engage the unhappy nobleman in
those personal and active exertions which might in some degree divert
his mind from the sole and painful contemplation of his recent loss.

"My lord," he said, feelingly, "believe me, no one feels more deeply
and sympathizes more sincerely with your lordship than myself; but
allow me to recall to your mind that great and instant exertions are
necessary to ensure the arrest of the murderer; the pursuit of whom I
have determined never to quit till I have seen him brought to
justice."

Lord Dewry, with his own burning hand, clasped warmly that of Colonel
Manners, the object of his former hatred. The fact is, however, that
circumstances had established between them two strong ties since the
death of Edward de Vaux. The one was wholly composed of good feelings,
and sprang from their mutual affection for the deceased,--affection
which had, of course, risen in value in each other's eyes since death
had hallowed it; and the other,--composed of feelings which, though
noble and virtuous on the one part, were terribly mixed with evil on
the other,--was the desire of bringing the murderer to justice. Lord
Dewry then grasped Colonel Manners's hand, and said, "I have much to
thank you for, sir, and I am afraid that I have somewhat to apologize
for in the past; but--"

"Do not mention it, I beg, my lord," replied Manners. "It is forgotten
entirely; only let us bend our energies with a common effort to pursue
this sad affair to an end, to discover, as far as Heaven shall enable
us, what has really occurred, and above all, to ensure the immediate
apprehension of this gipsy Pharold, whom every circumstance, hitherto
apparent, points at as the murderer."

A gleam of triumph broke over the thin sallow countenance of the peer.
"If I am not very much mistaken, Colonel Manners," he said, "this very
Pharold will be in our hands to-night. He and his gang are not famous
alone for one sort of crime. My park-keepers at Dimden informed me a
few days ago that they had discovered a plan which these gipsies had
laid for robbing my park of the deer; and I immediately took measures
to ensure the arrest of the whole of them in the very fact. Nor was
my purpose alone to save my game, Colonel Manners, nor to punish
deer-stealers," continued Lord Dewry, raising his head and speaking
with determined firmness; "no, I had a weightier object in view; I had
a more serious offence to avenge."

The peer paused; for although he was anxious to make the charge which
he had determined to bring against the gipsy, boldly and distinctly to
as many private individuals as possible, before he urged it in a
public court of justice, yet he felt a difficulty, a hesitation,
perhaps we might say a fear, in pronouncing for the first time so
false an accusation against a fellow-creature, which was to be
supported, too, by so many dark, and tortuous, and deceitful
contrivances. There was in his bosom a consciousness of the fallacy,
of the futility, we might say, of all human calculations, which
produced an undefined dread of rendering his schemes irretrievable by
once making the charge to any one. It was to him the passing of the
Rubicon; and that step once taken, he felt that he should be involved
in a labyrinth of obscure and unknown paths, from which there would be
no retreat, and which would conduct him whither he knew not. And yet
he saw that it must be taken; that the gipsy's first act after his
arrest would undoubtedly be, to charge him with the crime which he had
committed; and that it was absolutely necessary, in order to give all
his future proceedings a firm basis and a commanding position, to be
the person to accuse rather than the person accused. He knew how
inferior defence is to attack; how much more faith men are naturally
inclined to give to a charge than they give to a recrimination; and
from the first commencement of his reply to Colonel Manners he had
determined to make it boldly; but when he came to the immediate point
where it was to be spoken, he hesitated and paused irresolute.

The next moment, however, he went on. "Colonel Manners," he said,
resuming his firmness, "as I believe that the culprit may be
considered in our power, and that therefore no indiscreet
communication of my suspicions can give him warning to escape, I do
not scruple to say that I have many, many reasons to suppose that this
gipsy, this Pharold, is not only the murderer of my son, poor Edward,
but that my brother's death also may be laid to his charge; and with a
view of bringing him to justice for that offence it was that I, this
very morning, took the surest measures for his apprehension, and not
for any pitiful affair of deer-stealing, which might have gone long
unpunished ere I exerted myself as I have done."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Manners, gazing upon the peer in much surprise.
"How strangely do events sometimes come round!"

"Perhaps you are not acquainted with the circumstances of my brother's
death," replied the peer, marking some surprise in Manners's
countenance, and in his anxiety to show the probability of the charge
he had made, overcoming his repugnance to speak upon a subject of all
others the most dreadful to him. "However, Colonel Manners," he
continued, "he was killed by some one unknown many years ago; and the
suspicions against this man Pharold were then so strong, that good Mr.
Arden, the magistrate, would fain have had him committed, had not I
foolishly interfered, from a weak conviction of his honesty. That
conviction, however, has been since removed, and I may say that I have
in my hands the most decided proofs of his guilt."

Such was the explanation to which the apparent surprise of Colonel
Manners led on the peer; but that surprise proceeded both from the new
charge which the peer made against the gipsy being totally unexpected
by his hearer, and from another cause which must be explained, as it
touches upon some of those little weaknesses of our nature, which
Colonel Manners possessed in common with other human beings.

Through the whole affair, since he had discovered the traces of De
Vaux's footsteps on the common, and the marks of bloodshed at the
quarry, hope had offered to the mind of Charles Manners but one
suggestion to diminish his apprehensions for the fate of his friend;
and that suggestion, strange enough to say, was that the countenance,
the demeanour, and the language of the gipsy Pharold were not those of
a man familiar with guilt or designing evil. Colonel Manners was too
much a man of the world, and too much a man of sense, to suffer such
impressions to affect his conduct in the slightest degree. He knew
that this earth contains every grade and every sort of hypocrisy; and
that Satan himself will occasionally assume the form of an angel of
light: but at the same time, although his behaviour was on all
occasions guarded by what he had learned from experience, yet through
life he had preserved his natural enthusiasm unblunted by the hard
world in which we live; and there was thus in his character a rare
mingling of ardent and energetic feelings with calm and well
calculated actions, which formed the specific difference between him
and the general herd with which he moved. During his conversation with
Pharold he had remarked a dignity, not alone of manner, but of
thought, in the gipsy, opposed to all the habits of his tribe, and
which must have been difficult to retain among them at all, but still
more difficult to assume, if it was not natural and habitual,--if it
sprang not from a heart at ease in itself, and a consciousness of
virtue and intellect superior to the things through which it passed.
His countenance, too, had appeared to him open and frank, though wild
and keen; and Manners wished much to believe that vice or crime, in
general, more or less affect the expression of the human face. All
this had struck him; and though, as we have said before, he suffered
not these impressions to affect his conduct in the least, opposed as
they were to known facts, and circumstances of great probability, yet
hope still whispered, surely that gipsy was not a man either to plan
or to commit so dreadful a deed as the indications he had met with
would have naturally led him to suspect. It may well be supposed,
then, that the numerous and dark charges brought forward so boldly by
the peer startled Manners not a little; and as he had no cause to
believe that Lord Dewry was instigated by any motive to prefer a false
accusation against the gipsy, he could only conclude that he himself
had been deceived in his estimation of Pharold's character by the most
skilful and consummate hypocrisy.

"I have heard some of the events to which your lordship alludes," he
replied, as soon as the peer paused; "and was only surprised to hear
such an unexpected aggravation of the suspicious circumstances which
have already appeared against this man Pharold. I trust, too, that the
measures which your lordship has taken may be successful for his
arrest; but allow me to suggest, that the unhappy news which I have
had the melancholy duty of communicating ought to point out more
extensive operations for the apprehension of the offender, as it is
not at all impossible that this new offence may have entirely changed
the circumstances, and may have put a stop to the attack upon your
lordship's park, of which you received intimation."

Lord Dewry struck his hand upon the table, perceiving suddenly the
probability of Colonel Manners's suggestion, and anticipating with
rage and disappointment the possible escape of the gipsy, or at least
his evasion till such time as the arrival of Sir William Ryder in
England might render the schemes he had planned, if not entirely
impracticable, at all events highly difficult of execution, and
dangerous to himself in the attempt.

"He shall be taken, if it cost me life and fortune," he exclaimed;
"but how, how?--that is the question, Colonel Manners. What you say is
true; the murder of my poor unhappy boy may have scared them away from
the scene of their crimes, and most probably has done so ere this.
What is to be done? how can we trace them? Pray, advise me, Colonel
Manners, if you had any regard for your unhappy comrade."

His agitation was dreadful; and Manners saw that the only way to
tranquilize him was to give him fresh hopes of the apprehension of
those who had been instrumental in the death of his son. "Most
willingly will I give you any advice and assistance in my power," he
replied; "but your lordship will be better able to judge what is most
fitting to be done when you hear what I have already endeavoured to
accomplish. My proceedings have been those of a soldier, but perhaps
they may not be the less likely to be successful on that account."

"The more, the more," cried Lord Dewry; "but let me beg you to give me
the details."

"In the first place, my lord," he replied, "I have sent my poor
friend's own servant, who is a keen and active fellow, to trace out
the gipsies, and to follow the tracks we discovered on the common as
far as possible. I have furnished him also with money to hire
assistance and to buy information; and I directed him, as soon as his
object was accomplished, to join me at Barholm with all speed. He had
not, however, arrived when I passed the inn, and I ordered him to be
sent on here as soon as ever he appeared."

"Thank you, thank you, sir," reiterated Lord Dewry; "but do you think
there is any hope of his discovering the road the villains have
taken?"

"Every chance, my lord," replied Colonel Manners: "in the first place,
the tracks of the wheels, and the feet going in one particular
direction, was too evident to leave a doubt in regard to which path
they had taken at first. That path, I find, leads down to a hamlet
where they must have been seen, and where the servant will most
probably obtain the means of tracing them farther. But my next step,
my lord, is, I think, likely to produce the still more desirable
result of placing in the hands of justice the particular individual
whom we have the greatest reason to suspect. While we were examining
the sandpit, where these gipsies had been assembled, we discovered
some one apparently watching the common from the wood; and whether at
first he mistook us for some of his own tribe or not, I cannot tell;
but he advanced some way towards us. As soon as I saw he was again
retreating to the wood, I galloped after him; and though I
unfortunately had not time to overtake him, yet I had an opportunity
of satisfying myself very nearly to a certainty that this was that
very Pharold whom I had once before seen on another occasion. I took
measures as soon as possible for having the wood surrounded by a
mounted patrol of as many men as it was possible to obtain, and I
directed that any one who was apprehended in coming out of it should
be instantly carried before Mr. Arden, to whom I had written a concise
account of all the circumstances."

The peer mused; for, as in every dark and complicated scheme of
villany, the slightest alteration in the events which he had
anticipated was likely to produce the most disastrous results to the
schemer. "If Pharold be carried at once before Mr. Arden," thought the
peer, "the accusation which he has it in his power to bring against me
may be made before I am aware of it, and that, too, to the very man
who has the best means of comparing minutely, in the first stages of
the proceeding, the present charge with the past circumstances. That
the gipsy will ultimately tell his own tale, there can be no doubt;
yet to make the first impression is the great object--to be the
accuser rather than the accused--to attack rather than defend." With
such views, the probability of the gipsy being carried before Mr.
Arden ere he had been prepared was anything but agreeable to the peer;
and for a moment the anguish occasioned by his son's death was
forgotten, in apprehensions for the failure of his own deep-laid
schemes.

"I will write myself to Mr. Arden," he said, at length, after long
thought--"I will write myself, and send off the letter this very
night. Colonel Manners, excuse me for one moment. I have but a few
lines to write, and will be back with you in a few minutes." Thus
saying, he proceeded to his library, and with a hasty hand wrote down
that bold and decided charge against the gipsy which was to bring the
long apprehended struggle between them to an end at once. Nor did he,
in this instance, feel any hesitation. The words had now been spoken
to Colonel Manners--the charge had once been made; and it is wonderful
the difference that exists between the first and the second time of
doing anything that is wrong. He wrote, too, though without any effort
at policy, yet with the most exquisite art--with that sort of
intuitive cunning which much intercourse with the world, and its worst
part, gives to the keen and unscrupulous. He referred, directly, to
Mr. Arden's former opinion concerning the culpability of the gipsy; he
took shame and reproach to himself for his own incredulity at the
time; he declared that subsequent events had shown the wisdom and
clear-sightedness of the worthy magistrate's judgment, and he finished
his letter by directly accusing the gipsy of the crime which Mr. Arden
had suspected, doubting not that vanity would establish in the mind of
the magistrate such a prepossession against the object of his wiles as
to give everything in the important first steps that were to ensue a
strong tendency against Pharold.

This done, he read the note over with satisfaction, sealed it, and
sent it off, raised his head, and, gazing upon vacancy, thought, for a
moment, over all the stern and painful circumstances that surrounded
him, and then turned his steps back to the room where he had left
Colonel Manners. He had now, however, made the course he was to pursue
irretrievable; his son's death had been the only thing wanting to give
all his determinations the energy of despair; he had chosen his path,
he had passed the Rubicon, and never hereafter, through the course of
this history, will be found in his character any of those fluctuating
changes of feeling and resolution which we have endeavoured to depict
while his fate was unfixed and his purpose undetermined. Deeply,
sternly, from that moment, he pursued his way, driven at length to
feel that one crime must be succeeded by many more to render it
secure.

"I have now, Colonel Manners," he said, as he entered the saloon, "to
apologize for leaving you so unceremoniously; but you will, I am sure,
make excuse for feelings agitated like mine. To guard against the most
remote chance of Mr. Arden suffering this Pharold to escape, I have
formally made a charge, which I shall be able to substantiate, I am
sure, concerning the death of my poor brother; and next, let me beg
you to give me your good advice in regard to what more should be done,
in case the measures which you and I have separately taken should
prove alike insufficient."

"I would not wait, my lord," replied Manners, "to ascertain whether
they were sufficient or not; but I would instantly take measures to
guard against their insufficiency. You have, I think, only three
contiguous counties here; had you not better send off messengers at
once to the sheriffs and magistrates of those three, informing them of
the circumstances, and begging them to stop any party of gipsies, or
any person similar in appearance to this man Pharold? Your messengers,
well mounted, will soon be far in advance of the murderer, or his
accessories, whose mode of travelling cannot be very rapid."

The suggestion was no sooner given than it was assented to; and with
all speed the necessary letters were written by the peer, who took as
active and energetic a part in the whole proceedings as if he had been
in his prime of youth. But it was a part of his character to do so. He
could feel deep grief, it is true--and did feel it for the loss of his
son--but grief with him led not to languor and despondency, but, on
the contrary, to hate and to revenge; and as hunger, instead of
weakening, only renders the tiger and the wolf more ferocious and more
tremendous, so sorrow, instead of softening, only rendered him more
fierce and more vehement. The activity, the energy, and the fire he
displayed in his whole proceedings not a little surprised Colonel
Manners; and had he had time or inclination for anything like gayety,
he might have smiled to think that he had refused, on account of age,
to cross his sword with one who, in passions, at least, seemed
anything but an old man. Ere the letters were sealed, however, it was
announced that Mr. De Vaux's servant had arrived from Barholm, and
inquired for Colonel Manners. With the peer's permission he was
brought in; and bowing low to his master's father, by whom he was well
known, he gave a full account of his search in answer to Manners's
questions.

"Well, William," demanded Manners, "have you been successful?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man; "I believe I have seen the scoundrels
housed, and have left those to watch them who will not watch them in
vain."

A glow of vengeful pleasure passed over the countenance of the peer,
and nodding his approbation, he leaned his head oh his hand, listening
attentively, while Manners proceeded. "Give us the particulars,
William," he said. "How did you first discover the gipsies?"

"Why, first, sir, I went back to the sandpit," replied the man, "and
then I followed the tracks of wheels down to the bottom of the hill,
by the road that leads to Newtown. At the bottom I found traces up the
green lane, and I went on there for a mile, till I came to what they
call Newtown Lone; but since I was there last, some one has built a
cottage there; and I asked the woman in the cottage if she had seen
any gipsies, and which way they had gone. She said yes, she had seen
them that morning, just after daybreak; but that when they had found a
cottage there, they had turned down by the other side of the lone,
through the lane that leads but again upon the high-road beyond
Newtown. So I followed them down there, and I tracked their carts
across the high-road, up the other lane, till I came to where it
splits in two, the one going down to the water-side, and the other
sloping up the hill to the common at the back of Dimden Park. Here
there were wheels and footmarks both ways; and, after puzzling a
little, I took the way down by the water, thinking they might have
gone to lie among the banks there, as they used to do when I was a
young boy in that neighbourhood. But after looking about for an hour,
I could find nothing of them."

"Then where did you find them at last?" demanded the peer, growing
somewhat tired of the servant's prolixity: to which, however, Manners,
who knew how important every little particular is in obscure
circumstances, had listened with patience and attention.

"Why, my lord," replied the man, "I went back directly to the parting
of the roads, and then took the one towards the common, above Dimden,
which I had not chosen before; and there I rode on as hard as I could,
with the cart ruts and footmarks before me, till I came within about
twenty yards of the common. Thereabout, there is a bit of low coppice,
with some tall trees in the hedgerow; and my horse picked up a stone,
so I got off to clear his hoof; and as I was just going to mount
again, I heard some one call in a low voice, 'William! William
Butler!' so I looked round, but could see no one, and I said, 'Well,
what do you want? come out of the coppice, if you want me.' So, then,
from behind one of the tall trees, where he had planted himself on the
lookout, comes Dick Harvey, your lordship's head park-keeper at
Dimden; and he began asking after my health, and all I had seen in
foreign parts. So I told him I would answer him another time: but I
took leave to ask him in return what he was after, bush-ranging in
that way; and he answered, 'Oh, nothing; he was only seeing that
all was right.' So, then, I asked him again if he had seen e'er a
set of gipsies in that direction; upon which he asked why, and I told
him outright. 'Don't go any farther, then,' answered he, 'for the
blood-thirsty rascals are lying down there, between the park wall and
the common; and it is them that I am watching.' And he told me that he
had discovered they were to steal the deer in the park that very
night, and had laid a trap for them. However, I did not choose to come
away without seeing them myself. So, asking Dick when they had come
there, I told him he must get me a sight of them. He said that they
had not been there much above an hour; and he took me into the coppice
to where he had been standing himself. There I could see the whole
party of them well enough, lying about three hundred yards farther
down the park wall, some of them still putting out their tents, some
of them sitting on the wall and looking over into the park."

"Was the park-keeper alone?" asked Manners, as the servant paused.

"He was alone just at that minute, sir," replied the man; "but he told
me that he had five others within whistle, and that he had sent away
the man who had been mounting guard where he then was to bring more.
By this time, however, the sun was getting low; and Dick said he was
sure enough the gipsies would not budge till they had tried for some
of his deer. I told him not to let them go even if they had a mind;
and he said to make my mind easy, for that before one o'clock in the
morning, he would answer for having the whole party of them in what
used to be called the strong-room at Dimden House. I thought,
therefore, sir, that I could not leave the matter in better hands than
his; and I came away here to report myself: but as the horse was very
tired I thought it best to take my time."

"You have done well, William," said Lord Dewry. "Now go down
and get some refreshment.--It seems to me, Colonel Manners," he added,
as the servant retired, a gleam of triumph lighting up his dark
countenance--"it seems to me that these men are in our power--that
they cannot escape us now. It may be unnecessary, therefore, to send
the letters which I have written."

"I think not," replied Manners. "If you will consider a moment, you
will see that, although some of the gipsies have been seen in the
neighbourhood of your park at Dimden, yet we have no reason to be sure
that the very man we seek is with them. Indeed, from the resemblance
of the person I saw in the wood to this Pharold, we have some cause to
imagine that even if he have joined his companions since, he was not
with them in the morning."

"You are right, you are right," said the peer. "In such a business as
this no precautions can, indeed, be superfluous, and I will send off
the letters at once."

The bell was accordingly rung, and the epistles despatched by mounted
servants, who each had orders to spare no speed, but to ride all night
rather than suffer the communication to be delayed; nor should we be
unwilling to show how these directions were obeyed, and what sort of
speed is commonly practised by persons on such errands,--how they all
and several stopped to drink here, and to gossip there, and to feed at
another place,--but that the regular matter of our history is now of
some importance.

As soon as the servants had been despatched, Lord Dewry bethought him
that Colonel Manners might himself require some refreshment, and
apologized for his previous forgetfulness. Manners, however, was
fatigued, but not hungry, and he preferred some strong green
tea--though not very soldier-like fare--to any thing else that the
peer's house could afford. This was soon obtained, and by the time it
had been brought and taken away, the clock struck ten.

Manners then rose. "If your lordship does not expect news from Dimden
to-night," he said, "I will now take my leave; but should anything
occur in which I can be of the slightest assistance, if you will send
a servant, you will find me at the little town of Barholm, where I
have ordered rooms to be prepared for me at the inn."

No two men that ever lived were more different in mind, in character,
in tastes, and feelings, than Colonel Charles Manners and Lord Dewry;
yet, strange to say, the peer did not like the idea of Manners's
quitting him. Their views were as distinct as light and darkness; and,
though for a moment they were pursuing the same object, could the
hearts of both have been seen, how different would have been the
spectacle presented--how different from those in the bosom of the
other would have been all the springs, and motives, and designs, which
actuated and guided each! And yet Lord Dewry felt uneasy when Manners
proposed to go. A part of his uneasiness might arise in his dislike to
be left alone, in the long, long hours of expectation which were to
intervene ere he could hear of the first step, in all his dark and
complicated designs, having been safely taken; but there was something
more in it too. Manners had assisted him with zeal, and talent, and
energy, in the very pursuit which he was following: by an
extraordinary concatenation of circumstances, he, unbribed, unbiased,
independent, upright, and noble, had been led to give his whole
support to the very first object which the peer had in view; and for
which he had already been obliged to hire and to intrigue with the
low, and the mercenary, and the vile; and Lord Dewry felt a support
and an encouragement in the presence and assistance of Colonel Manners
which a thousand Sir Roger Millingtons could not have afforded. Had he
had to explain his views and wishes to Colonel Manners as he had done
to Sir Roger Millington, he would have shrunk from the task in shame
and fear; but when Manners came willingly forward to aid him
voluntarily, even for a few steps on the way he was pursuing, it
seemed as if his actions were vouched and justified by the concurrence
of so honourable a man.

"I believe, Colonel Manners," said the peer in reply--"I believe that
I am about to make a very extraordinary request; but I really cannot
allow you to leave me: a room shall be prepared for you here
immediately, and it will be a real consolation to me if you will stay
I shall myself sit up till I hear from Dimden," he added, in a tone of
hesitation, as if he would fain have asked Manners to do the same, had
it been courteous; "but I am afraid that news cannot arrive till
between one and two o'clock, and as you must be fatigued, I cannot ask
you to be the partner of my watch."

"I will be so most willingly, my lord," replied Manners; "for though I
certainly am fatigued, still I am not sleepy, and I shall be anxious,
too, to hear the news as soon as possible."

They waited, however, longer than they expected: three, four o'clock
came, and no tidings arrived. The moments, notwithstanding
expectation, flew more calmly than might have been imagined. Lord
Dewry, although he knew that there were few subjects on which he could
speak with Colonel Manners without meeting feelings and opinions
different from any that he now dared to entertain, knew also that
there was one topic, and that one very near to his heart at the
moment, on which he might discourse at ease. That topic was his son;
and on that--with all his feelings softened, with every asperity done
away, and with the pure natural welling forth of parental affection
and grief over his deep loss--on that he conversed during the greater
part of the night, effacing from the memory of his companion the rude
and disagreeable impression which their first interviews had caused,
and leaving little but grief, and sympathy, and regret.




                             CHAPTER II.


From sunset till about nine o'clock there had been a light refreshing
rain--not one of those cold autumnal pours which leave the whole world
dark, and drenched, and dreary, but the soft falling of light pellucid
drops, that scarcely bent the blades of grass on which they rested,
and through which, ever and anon, the purple of the evening sky,
and--as that faded away--the bright glance of a brilliant star, might
be seen amid the broken clouds. Towards nine, however, the vapours
that rested upon the eastern uplands became tinged with light; and, as
if gifted with the power of scattering darkness from her presence,
forth came the resplendent moon, while the dim clouds grew pale and
white as she advanced, and, rolling away over the hills, left the sky
all clear. It required scarcely a fanciful mind to suppose that--in
the brilliant shining of the millions of drops which hung on every
leaf and rested on every bough--in the glistening ripple of the river
that rolled in waves of silver through the plain--in the checkered
dancing of the light and shadow through the trees, and in the sudden
brightening up of every object throughout the scene which could
reflect her beams--it required scarcely a fanciful mind to suppose
that the whole world was rejoicing in the soft splendour of that
gentle watcher of the night, and gratulating her triumph over the
darkness and the clouds.

It was a beautiful sight on that night, as, indeed, it ever is, to
see the planet thus change the aspect of all things in the sky and on
the earth; but, perhaps, the sight was more beautiful in Dimden Park
than anywhere around. The gentleman's park is likewise one of those
things peculiarly English, which are to be seen nowhere else upon the
earth; at least, we venture to say that there is nothing at all like
it in three out of the four quarters of this our globe: the wide
grassy slopes, the groups of majestic trees, the dim flankings of
forest-ground, broken with savannas and crossed by many a path
and many a walk, the occasional rivulet or piece of water, the
resting-place, the alcove, the ruin of the old mansion where our
fathers dwelt, now lapsed into the domain of Time, but carefully
guarded from any hands but his, with here and there some slope of the
ground or some turn of the path bringing us suddenly upon a bright and
unexpected prospect of distant landscapes far beyond--"all nature and
all art!" There is nothing like it on the earth, and few things half
so beautiful; for it is tranquil without being dull, and calm without
being cheerless: but of all times, when one would enjoy the stillness
and the serenity at its highest pitch, go forth into a fine old park
by moonlight.

The moon, then, on the night of which we have lately been speaking,
within half an hour after her rise, shone full into the park, and
poured her flood of splendour over the wide slopes, glittering with
the late rain, along the winding paths and gravel-walks, and through
between the broad trunks of the oaks and beeches. The autumn had not
yet so far advanced as to make any very remarkable difference in the
thickness of the foliage: but still, some leaves had fallen from the
younger and tenderer plants, so that the moonbeams played more at
liberty upon the ground beneath, and the trees themselves had been
carefully kept so far apart that any one standing under their
shadow--except, indeed, in the thickets reserved as coverts for the
deer--had a view far over the open parts of the park; and, if the eye
took such a direction, could descry the great house itself on one
hand, or, on the other side, the park-keeper's cottage, situated on a
slight slope that concealed it from the windows of the mansion. At the
same time, though any one thus placed beneath the old trees--either
the clumps which studded the open ground, or the deeper woods at the
extremes--could see for a considerable distance around, yet it would
have been scarcely possible for anybody standing in the broad
moonlight to distinguish other persons under the shadow of the
branches, unless, indeed, they came to the very verge of the wooded
ground. This became more particularly the case as the moon rose
higher, and the crossing and interlacing of the shadows in the
woodland was rendered more intricate and perplexed, while the lawns
and savannas only received the brighter light.

At a little before eleven o'clock, then, by which time the moon had
risen high in the heaven, a rustling and scraping sound might have
been heard by any one standing near that wall of the park which
separated it from the neighbouring common, and in a moment, after, the
head and shoulders of a man appeared above the parapet. He gave a
momentary glance into the walk which was immediately contiguous, and
then swinging himself over, dropped at once to the ground. Pausing
again, he looked round him more carefully; and then gave a low
whistle. No one followed, however; and the intruder, who was
apparently a lad of eighteen or nineteen, advanced cautiously across
the walk, and was soon placed beneath the shadow of the tall elms.
Every two or three minutes the lad paused to look around him; but as
his eyes were more frequently bent upon the ground than raised, it
appeared that he rather feared losing his way than apprehended the
appearance of any other person in the place to which he had somewhat
furtively introduced himself. Humming a tune as he advanced, he
approached that part of the park from which, as we have before said, a
view could be obtained both of the mansion and the park-keeper's
house; and here, fixing his eyes upon the latter, he seated himself at
the foot of a sturdy chestnut-tree at a little distance within the
extreme edge of the wood.

There was a wreath of white smoke still curling up from the chimney of
the peaceful-looking dwelling of the park-keeper; and through two of
the cottage casements a full yellow light was streaming, so that it
was evident enough that some of the inmates were up and awake. For
about half an hour the young man kept his post with perseverance and
tranquillity, ceasing to hum the air with which he had amused himself
as he came along, and apparently regarding nothing but the cottage of
the park-keeper.

At the end of that time, however, he rose, muttering, "I'll stay here
no longer. I might as well have been with Lena all this while. If Dick
would but wait till one o'clock, they would be all abed to a
certainty;" and he walked two or three steps resolutely away. Ere he
was out of sight, he, nevertheless, turned to look once more. The
light was still burning; but as he was in the very act of resuming his
retreat, it was totally extinguished, and nothing was to be seen but
the dark outline of the cottage in the clear moonlight. He now paused
again for a moment or two, to be sure of the facts; and then retracing
his way as fast as possible to the particular part of the wall over
which he had obtained ingress, he stopped, and whistled louder than
before. For some minutes there was no reply, and he then whistled
again, which instantly produced a corresponding signal from without,
and a voice demanded, "Is all right?"

"Ay, ay, Dick," replied the lad, carelessly; "all's right--come
along." The moment after, another head and shoulders appeared above
the wall; and the gipsy whom we have seen with the old woman called
Mother Gray, scheming the destruction of the deer belonging to some of
the neighbouring gentry, swung himself up to the top of the wall, and
gazed round with a more anxious and careful face than that displayed
by his younger comrade.

"When he had satisfied himself by examination, he handed over two guns
to his companion, who was within the park; and then, dropping down
again on the inside, gazed round him with more trepidation than his
bold and confident language would have led one to anticipate. He was
not alone, however; for no sooner had he effected his descent than
three others, each also armed with an old rude fowling-piece, followed
from without; and a whispered consultation took place in regard to
their further proceedings.

"Where did you see the deer herding to-night, Will?" demanded their
leader; "I mean at sunset."

"Oh, those I saw were down at the far end of the park," replied the
boy, "a mile off and more; up this wall will lead us."

"The farther off the better," replied Dickon; "are all your guns
loaded?"

An answer was given in the affirmative; and, led by Dickon and the lad
William, the party of gipsies crept stealthily along the walk that
proceeded under the wall to the far extremity of the park. Once or
twice the leader stopped and listened, and once he asked, in a low
tone, "Did you not hear a noise? there to the left!" No sound,
however, was heard by his companions, who paused as he paused, and
gave breathless attention with bended head and listening ear. A light
breeze stirred the tree tops, and a leaf would now and then fall
through the branches, but nothing else was to be distinguished; and as
they passed the end of many a vista and moonlight alley, and looked
cautiously out, nothing which could excite the least apprehension was
perceivable, and they walked on, gaining greater courage as every step
familiarized them more to their undertaking. By the time they had
reached the end of the park wall, they ventured to carry on their
consultation in a louder tone; and they also turned more into the
heart of the wood, following paths with which none of them seemed very
thoroughly acquainted, and the perplexity of which often caused them
to halt or to turn back, in order to reach the spot which they had
fixed upon for the commencement of their exploits among the deer.

The lad Will, however, who had apparently reconnoitred the park by
daylight, at length led them right; and taking a small footway towards
the east, they found themselves suddenly upon the edge of an opening
in the wood, through the midst of which ran a stream of clear water. A
space of about five acres was here left without a tree; but on every
side were deep groves of old chestnuts, and to the east some thick
coverts of brushwood. It became necessary now to ascertain the
direction of the wind, lest the deer should scent their pursuers, and
take another road; and for this purpose, wetting his finger in the
water, Dickon held it up high, till he discovered by the coldness that
ensued which side it was that the wind struck. As soon as this
important point was known, he disposed his companions in separate
stations, but each by one of the old chestnuts, in such a manner and
at such distances as would render it impossible for the deer to cross
the open space before them without receiving one or more shots from
some of his party. The sort of sport in which he was now employed
seemed not altogether unfamiliar to the gipsy Dickon, whose
instructions, if oral rather than practical, must have been very
accurate and minute, as he wanted none of the skill or knowledge of an
old sportsman.

As soon as his men were all properly disposed, and he had likewise
taken up his own position in the most favourable spot that the place
afforded, he sought out upon the ground a beech-leaf, and having found
one with some difficulty, bent it in the middle and applied it to his
lips. A quick percussion of the breath upon the bent leaf instantly
produced a sound exactly resembling the cry of a young doe. After
calling thus once or twice, he ceased, and all was attention; but no
noise followed to indicate that any of the horned dwellers in the wood
had heard or gave attention to the sound. Dickon again made the
experiment, and again waited in breathless expectation, but without
avail. After a lapse of some minutes the beech-leaf was once more
employed, and the next instant a slight rustling sound was heard among
the bushes beyond. The poacher repeated his cry, and there was then
evidently a rush through the brushwood; but the moment after all was
again still, and he began to think that the buck had scented them and
taken fright.

In a minute more, however, not from the bushes, but from the opposite
chestnut-trees, which the low wood joined, trotted forth, at an easy
pace, a tall splendid deer, bearing his antlered head near the ground,
as if trying to scent out the path of his mate, whose voice he had
heard. The moment he came into the full moonlight, however, he stood
at gaze, as it is called, raising his proud head and looking
steadfastly before him. Then, turning to the right and to the left, he
seemed striving to see the object that he had not been able to
discover by the smell; but, as he was still too far distant for any
thing like a certain shot, Dickon once more ventured a low solitary
call upon the beach-leaf. Had it been loud, or repeated more than
once, the poor animal was near enough to have detected the cheat; but
as it was, he was deceived, and trotting on for fifty yards more,
again stood at gaze, with his head turned towards the trees under
which the poacher was standing. Dickon quietly raised his gun, aimed
deliberately, and fired just as the buck was again moving forward. The
ball struck the deer directly below the horns, and, bounding up full
four feet from the ground, he fell dead upon the spot where he had
been standing.

All the gipsies were now rushing forward to see their prize, but
Dickon called them back; and keeping still under the shade of the
trees, he made his way round to them severally, saying, "We must have
another yet. Let him lie there! let him lie! That one shot has not
been loud enough to scare the rest, and I am sure there is a herd
there down at the end of the copse: so we must have another at all
events; and if we go making a noise about that one, we shall frighten
them. You, Bill, go round under those trees for five or six hundred
yards, and then come into the thicket, and beat it up this way."

Bill did not undertake the task without grumbling and remonstrance;
asserting that everything that was tiresome was put upon him, while
Dickon and the rest had the sport. A little persuasion, however,
overcame his resistance, and he set off accordingly to perform the
part assigned to him. The others, in the meantime, resumed their
places, and now had to wait a longer time than at first; for the
youth, not very well inclined to the task, was anything but quick in
his motions. At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, a rustle and
then a rush was heard in the bushes; and then the bounding sound of
deer in quick flight, and, in a moment after, the whole herd sprang
into the moonlight, and crossed the open ground at the full canter.
They came fairly within shot of two of the gipsies in their passage,
and two guns were instantly discharged. Both took effect; but one of
the deer was only wounded, and was struggling up again, when the whole
body of poachers rushed forward and ended its sufferings with the
knife.

"Now, now!" cried Dickon, hastily recharging his gun, "we have got
enough for once, I think; let us be off as soon as we can. We can
hitch the venison over that nearest wall," and he turned to point in
the direction to which he referred; but the sight that met his eyes at
that moment almost made the powder-flask, with which he was in the act
of priming, fall from his hands. Advancing from the chestnut-trees
under which he himself had just been standing, was a party consisting
of at least twelve strong men, apparently well armed, and he at once
saw that all chance of escape for himself and his comrades, without a
struggle, was over, as the keepers were coming up between them and the
common, while on the other side lay the thick bushes from which the
deer had issued, and in which his party must be entangled and taken if
they attempted to fly in that direction, and to the westward, beyond
the chestnut-trees, were the river and the park-keeper's house. Now,
however, that the matter was inevitable, Dickon showed more resolution
than he had hitherto done. "Stand to it, my men!" he cried: "they have
nosed us, by----! there's no running now; we must make our way to that
corner, or we're done."

His companions instantly turned at his exclamation; and whatever might
be their internal feelings, they showed nothing but a dogged
determination to resist to the last. The man who had fired the last
shot instantly thrust a bullet into his gun, which he had already
charged with powder; and, giving up their slain game for lost, the
poachers advanced towards the angle of the wood nearest to the
park-wall, keeping in a compact body, and crossing the front of the
other party in an oblique line. The keepers, however, hastened to
interpose, and came up just in time to prevent their opponents from
reaching the trees. Thus, then, at the moment that they mutually faced
round upon each other, the left of the gipsies and the right of their
adversaries touched the wood, but the odds were fearfully in favour of
the gamekeepers.

"Come, come, my masters, down with your arms!" cried Harvey, the head
keeper; "it's no use resisting: do you not see we are better than two
to one?"

The first reply was the levelling of the gipsies' fowling pieces; and
notwithstanding the superiority of numbers and the anticipation of
resistance, the keepers drew a step or two back; for under such
circumstances no one can tell whose the chance may be, and the thought
of unpleasant death will have its weight till the blood is warm.
"Stand off!" cried Dickon, boldly: "master keeper, let us go free, or
take the worst of it. We leave you your venison, and a good half-ounce
bullet in each buck to pay for our pastime; but be you sure that the
guns which sent those bullets can send others as true, and will send
them very speedily, if you try to stop us."

"A bold fellow, upon my honour!" cried Sir Roger Millington,
advancing, and standing calmly before the very muzzles of the gipsies'
guns. "But hark ye, my good man, you came to get the venison; we came
to get you; and, as we are rather more in number than you, it is not
probable we shall let you escape. However, I will tell you what--to
spare bloodshed, we will come to a compromise with you."

"You are the spy of a fellow, are you not," cried Dickon, "who came
this evening asking for Pharold? Well, my knowing cove, be you sure
the first shot fired you shall have one."

"But he speaks of a compromise, Dickon," cried one of his companions,
lowering the gun a little from his shoulder; "better hear what he has
to say."

"Don't you believe a word," cried Dickon; "he's a cheat, and will only
humbug you if you listen to him. We can bring four of them down, at
all events, and then must take our chance with the but-ends of our
pieces."

"Yes, yes, listen to him," cried another of the gipsies. "What have
you to say about a compromise?"

"Simply this, my men," replied Sir Roger, who had still kept his
place, unconcernedly, within a couple of yards of the gipsies'
guns: "if you will lay down your arms and surrender, we will make a
bargain with you, that we will let each one free on account of the
deer-stealing against whom we cannot bring some other charge."

Sir Roger's purpose was to catch Pharold: but he had not accurately
calculated upon the state of a gipsy's conscience; and as each
man present very well knew that something else--if not many other
things--might be justly laid to his charge, the proposed arrangement
was any thing but satisfactory to the poachers. Nor was it more to the
taste of Harvey and the other keepers, who had not been empowered by
their employer to make any such compromise.

"No, no, sir," cried Harvey, aloud, "that won't do. My lord gave me no
authority to make such a bargain. I dare say you came from him; for,
indeed, no one else could tell you all about it: but, howsoever, I
can't consent to that. No, no, I cry off. Damme, lay down your arms,
my lads, or we will fire on you directly."

"Take that, then!" cried Dickon, pulling the trigger of his gun, the
report of which was followed instantly by those of the fowling-pieces
in the hands of the other gipsies, though at the very same moment--or
rather, indeed, before the guns were discharged--a loud voice was
heard shouting from a distance, "Do not fire, villains! Dickon, I
command you not to fire!"

Sir Roger Millington and one of the keepers dropped instantly; and a
good deal of confusion took place among their party, though a
straggling and ill-directed fire was returned, which only wounded one
of the gipsies slightly. In less than a moment, however, the keepers
had recovered themselves; and, hurrying the wounded behind, were
rushing on to close with their adversaries before they could reload,
when a reinforcement of eleven or twelve strong men appeared behind
the small party of the gipsies, and Pharold, rushing forward, thrust
Dickon vehemently back, exclaiming, "Mad fool! you have ruined us all
for ever!--Hold back!" he continued, addressing the keepers in the
same stern and imperative voice--"hold back, fools! we are too many
for you. Richard Harvey, when you plotted to entrap these poor foolish
young men, you should have secured the means of taking them. But get
you gone while you may! We are too many for you, I tell you; and you
know of old I am not one to trifle with."

"I know you of old, sure enough, Master Pharold," replied the head
keeper, running his eye doubtfully over the group of powerful men who
now stood before him--"I know you of old, and I know you now; and one
thing more I know, that you will come to be hanged before the year be
many weeks older: I know that, too, Master Pharold."

"Lift me up! lift me up!" cried a faint voice behind. "Lift me up,
fellows, I say! I want to see him!" and in compliance with this
command, one or two of the men who had accompanied the keepers raised
Sir Roger Millington in their arms, and brought him a little forward,
so that he could obtain a sight of what was passing. He gazed intently
upon Pharold, who was still standing prominent, waving the head keeper
and his party back with the air more of a prince than of one in his
station and class. But the knight was unable to continue his
observation of what was passing for more than a moment, as the
agony he seemed to be suffering--although he had sufficient power
over himself to prevent any expression of pain from escaping his
lips--caused him to writhe so dreadfully, that, after one brief stern
glance at the gipsy, he slipped out of the arms of those who supported
him, and fell again to the ground. The sight of what he suffered,
however, was not without its effect upon the keepers. Had they known
him, and been interested in his fate, it might, indeed, have stirred
them up to greater exertions in order to avenge the injury he had
sustained; but unknown and indifferent as he was to all of them, his
situation but served as an example of what they might themselves
encounter if they persisted in their attack of the gipsies; and
Harvey, who was the best inclined of the party to undertake the risk,
soon gathered from the countenances of his companions that he would be
but feebly supported, if not abandoned, in any further attempt.

Unwilling, however, to yield the task he had undertaken, and inspired
as much by sincere hatred towards the gipsies as by hope of recompense
from his lord, he lingered, still glaring upon Pharold and his
companions; and every now and then, in the bitterness of his
disappointment, uttering such words as were likely to draw the adverse
party themselves on to the attack which he feared to make upon them.
"You are a pretty set of blackguards!" he exclaimed. "It would do my
heart good to see you all hanged up in a row: why can't you mind your
kettles, and not come stealing other folks deer? You go kidnapping
people's children, you do, you thieves of human flesh! Ah, you'll not
go long unhanged, that's one comfort!"

Pharold's lip gradually curled into a look of bitter scorn; and,
turning to one of his elder comrades, he whispered a few words to him,
and a movement was instantly made on the part of the gipsies
themselves to evacuate the ground. They performed their retreat,
however, slowly and in good order; four of the party, directed by
Pharold, bringing up the rear, and facing round upon the keepers
whenever they approached, so as to render their flight secure. Harvey,
with several of his companions, followed, somewhat encouraged by the
sight of a retreating enemy; but two or three of the more charitable
remained with Sir Roger Millington and the wounded keeper, though the
latter was only slightly injured. At every two or three steps, also,
as the others advanced in the pursuit, either weariness of the
business altogether, or the better part of valour, caused one or two
of the head park-keeper's comrades to fall off, and return to the spot
where they had left the wounded men. Thus, by the time the gipsies
reached the park wall, only three persons followed Harvey; and
Pharold, somewhat irritated by his close pursuit, turned round upon
him with not the most placable expression in the world. In truth, he
had been crossed and pained; and, for a moment, the evil spirit, which
has a secret tabernacle in the heart of every one, came forth, and
thought that the dominion was all his own. But the gipsy drove back
the fiend; and restraining his inclination to take vengeance on the
keeper, he merely commanded him, sternly, not to advance another step
till all his people had cleared the wall. Harvey only replied by
imprecations, and Pharold calmly proceeded to station four of the
gipsies, who had guns, upon the top of the wall, to protect the
retreat of the others. Then, one by one, the gipsies passed over,
their leader following the last, and the keeper, after giving way to
one or two bursts of impotent wrath, turned on his heel, and joined
his companions.

Pharold and his party proceeded in silence to their encampment, which
was not far distant, when, to the surprise of those who had been
engaged in the deer-stealing, they found everything prepared for
instant departure. The horses were to their carts, the tents were
packed up, and only one fire appeared lighted, beside which old Mother
Gray and the other women, protected by only one man, were standing,
watching with somewhat downcast countenances the solitary pot which
was suspended above it. This group made instant way for Pharold and
his comrades; and the former, advancing into the midst, folded his
arms upon his breast, and bending his brows sternly upon the old
woman, he said, after a bitter pause, "See, woman, what your
instigations have produced,--strife, bloodshed, murder; and, very
likely, ultimately, the death of this poor fool, who suffered himself
to be led by your bad counsels--very likely his death upon the
gallows!"

"A very good death, too," muttered the beldam, sullenly and low. "His
father died the same."

"For you, Dickon," said Pharold, not noticing her speech--"for you,
however ill you may have acted, your punishment is like to fall upon
you soon; but you must hear my reproaches too. You have scorned
authority throughout your life--you have forgotten the laws and habits
of your fathers--you belong not to our people. Here we must all
separate into small bodies, and take different ways, to avoid the
consequences of your faults; but you shall go out from among us for
ever, never to return. Answer me not, but hear! Had I not, by
returning sooner than you expected, learned your errand, and hastened
with the wiser and better of our people to stay your folly, and to
bring you back--had I not come up in time, not, indeed, to prevent
your crime, but to rescue you from the consequences, you would now
have been lying, tied hand and foot, and waiting to be judged by those
who hold us in hatred and contempt. From that you have been saved; but
you must fly far, and conceal yourself well, to make such safety
permanent. Go from us, then--go from us! and with whatever race of men
you hereafter mingle--whether abjuring your people, as you have
violated their rules, or whether seeking again some other tribe
of the Romanicheel race--let the memory of all the evil that follows
disobedience to those who have a right to command you, keep you from
follies like those you have this night committed."

Pharold paused, and one of the other gipsies whispered a word in his
ear. "True!" he said, "true! as he has to wander far and long, he must
not go unprovided. We will all contribute to help him."

"No, no!" murmured Dickon, with his head sunk, and his eyes bent upon
the ground--"no, no! I can do without." But the collection among the
gipsies was made without giving any attention to his words. Each
contributed something from the part he had received in the
distribution of the preceding evening, and a considerable sum was thus
collected. Pharold, perhaps, feeling that the boon from his hand would
come poisoned, suffered one of his companions to give the money to the
culprit, and then proceeded: "Go forth, Dickon! go forth! I warned you
long ago; I counselled you while counsel might avail: you heeded not
my warning--you rejected my counsel; the time is past; and I have only
now to bid you go forth from among us for ever!"

With his head still bent, and his eyes upon the ground, Dickon took
two or three steps away from the rest. He then turned, and raising his
head, fixed his eyes upon Pharold, apparently struggling to speak.
Words, however, failed him: the stern glance of their leader met
his--calm, but reproachful; and suddenly turning a look full of fury
at the old beldam who had misled him, the unhappy young man shook his
hand at her, with a loud and bitter curse, and bounded away over the
common.

"And now," said Pharold, turning to his companions, "let us separate
quickly--to the east, and the west, and the north, and the south, in
the same parties into which we had divided ourselves last night before
the unfortunate accident made us change our plans. Let us travel
rapidly and long, for be sure that we are followed by many and keen
pursuers, who will spare neither gold nor speed to catch us. Let all
of us that are alive meet this day three months at our old tryste on
Cheviot; and we may then, perhaps, pursue our way in peace."

While he spoke, a light hand was laid upon his coat; and, as he ended,
he found the beautiful eyes of Lena looking up in his face, with a
glance of mingled apprehension and irresolution, as if she wished but
feared to speak. "What is it, Lena?" he demanded. "You, of course, go
with me and mine."

"But William!" said Lena, in a timid voice, "William!"

Pharold's brow contracted. "He goes with Brown!" he said, sternly.
"What is it to you?" She coloured highly, and cast down her eyes; but
still replied, "Nothing, nothing! But where is he? I meant to ask. He
went with Dickon and the rest--they made him go--and he has not
returned."

Pharold started, and looked round, anxiously searching with his eyes
for the lad among the groups that stood near, over whose wild
countenances and figures the declining moon and the half-extinguished
fire were casting together a flickering and uncertain light.--"Where
is William?" he exclaimed, at length, turning to one of the men who
had accompanied Dickon on his predatory excursion against the deer; "I
saw but four of you when I came up. Where was William then?"

"Dickon had sent him round into the copse, a quarter of a mile off, to
drive up the deer," replied the man; "but I am afraid they have caught
him, for I heard a bit of a struggle in that direction, as we were
making for the wall."

Pharold clasped his hands in angry disappointment. "We must not leave
the poor boy," he said: "I, for one, will stay at any risk, and try to
help him."

"And I, and I, and I!" cried all the gipsies.

"Well, then," said Pharold, "we must take means to make them think
that we are gone; so that the nearer we lie to them, the more
completely will they be deceived. The wood on the other side of the
common is thicker than anywhere else. Thither away, my men, on
foot--all but five of you. Let those five take the carts down, by the
back of the park, to the river. Turn them as if you were going down
the road that leads along the bank. Then take out the horses, and
carry the carts over the gravel to the ford, so that no wheel-marks be
seen. Put the horses in again when that is done; but mind to fill up
the hoof-prints with fresh gravel. Thus they will lose your track. You
then take the ford, and cross the river. The water is low, and you can
drive along the gravel-bank, on the other side, for near a mile,
keeping in the water all the way. When it gets deep again, take the
road, and, crossing back by the bridge, come round to the wood by
Morley Road. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes; I do," replied the man he had called Brown. "I know the
country well. But where go you, Pharold, yourself?"

"I go back into the park to seek the boy," replied the gipsy, "and
will join you all in the wood before daybreak. But, on your lives,
keep to that wood behind us there; and go not near Morley Common or
Morley Wood; for there are people on the watch there already. I should
have been back in time to have prevented all this, had they not penned
me in, in that very wood."

"Well, well, we will do your bidding, Pharold," replied Brown. "You
are a brave heart, and always take the danger upon yourself."

"Quick, quick, then," replied the gipsy: "there is no time to be lost.
Sarah Brown, take care of Lena; and see that that old woman," he
added, sternly, pointing to Mother Gray, "works no more mischief among
us. Bad has been the fruit which all the seed of her planting has
hitherto borne. You lead them to the wood, Wilson, and light a fire,
that I may see the smoke as I come back."

So saying, he sought in one of the carts for a moment; and drawing
forth what is called a cut-and-thrust sword, buckled it under his
coat, took the path to the lowest part of the park wall, and, vaulting
over, was lost to the sight of his companions.

His orders, however, were now as promptly obeyed as if he had been
present. Each of the gipsies who were destined immediately for the
wood hastened to unload the carts as fast as possible. The women took
their children on their backs, and large bundles in their hands; the
men charged themselves with the heavier packages; and the carts,
greatly lightened, having set off in the direction assigned to them,
the rest of the party proceeded across the common towards the wood.
They set off silently, and in straggling parties, that their footsteps
might not betray their path; but they had not gone far ere the tongue
of the old woman was heard, addressing one of the men who walked near
her--at first in few words and a low tone, but gradually increasing in
power and volubility as it became encouraged by its own sound.

"He's a cruel, hard hand, that Pharold," said she, looking carefully
round. But her companion made no reply, and she went on: "It's a hard
thing for poor Dickon to be sent out to starve or be hanged, just
because he was a spirity lad, and had different notions from that
Pharold." Still the other was silent. "I often do wonder," she
continued, "how a number of strong hearty men, every one a better man
than Pharold, should submit to be led, and bullied, and ill-treated,
by an ill-looking thief like that, only because he comes from our old
dukes that are dead and gone.[5] It's all your own faults. If two or
three of you were but to lay your heads together, and to say--"


---------------------

[Footnote 5: The gipsies of all countries still hold the persuasion
that they were originally led into Europe by persons whom they term
Dukes or Lords of Upper Egypt.]

---------------------


"Come, come, you old rip," broke forth the man angrily, "none of such
talk to me, if you have not a mind to be pitched into that pond. Hold
your tongue, now, and give us no more of it. I am not one of your
Dickons to be made a fool of; and if I hear you saying another word of
such matters, I will have you sent after him you have got turned out
from among us."

Muttering a few words about "tame fools," Mother Gray slunk behind,
and for a little while walked on in silence, only interrupted by
occasional internal grunts and growls, expressive of her
dissatisfaction and wrath. From time to time, however, she cast her
eyes towards the straggling parties of her companions to the right and
left; and for a while her attention seemed principally directed
towards a group of two or three, who walked on immediately upon her
right, and among whom was one of those who had accompanied Dickon in
his unfortunate expedition. But on the left, again, was a line of four
or five other gipsies, principally women, followed by Lena, two or
three steps behind the rest, with a large handkerchief cast over her
head, and tied beneath her chin, in a manner which would have
concealed the greater part of her beautiful face, even if it had been
day, but which now served to veil it entirely from all observation.
Her head leaned forward, however: it was evident, too, that her eyes
were cast upon the ground; and from these, and many another little
symptom, the beldam, as she gazed upon her, concluded, and concluded
rightly, that she was weeping. She hesitated no longer which of the
two parties to join; but, dropping slowly behind, she sidled quietly
up to Lena, almost unperceived by the girl herself. After walking on a
step or two by her side in silence, she ventured to say, in a dolorous
and sympathizing tone, "Poor Bill! only to think!" Lena started, and
for a moment said nothing in reply; but after awhile she asked, "Do
you think they have caught him, Mother Gray?"

"Ay, ay, they must have grabbed him," replied the other; "else he
would ha' been back 'afore this time. Poor Bill! he was as handsome a
spirity young chick as ever I set eyes on."

There was something in hearing him spoken of in the past tense, as of
one gone for ever, that brought a deep sigh from Lena's bosom; and the
old worker of mischief went on, satisfied that she was now, at least,
upon the right track. "Ah, poor Bill!" she said; "there was only one
that was fit to match with him among us, and she was snapped up by a
kite before her right mate could come to her."

Lena took no notice of her allusion, though it was sufficiently
direct; but asked, "What do you think they will do to him, Mother
Gray, if they have caught him?"

"Hang him, perhaps," replied the old woman, "or at all events
send him to what they call the colonies, to work their work like a
slave--that's to say, if no one gets him out; but if he is so minded,
Pharold, who is so sharp, will get him out fast enough."

"If Pharold can get him out," replied Lena, rousing herself at the
name of one whom she revered, if she did not love--"if Pharold can get
him out, he will not be long in."

"I dare say not," replied the old woman, "if it be not too dangerous,
and cost too much time and trouble; and then Pharold, you know, will
not like to risk the other people to save poor Bill, unless, indeed,
some one coaxes him to do it."

"But how can I speak to him about it?" demanded Lena, holding down her
head; "he would only give me hard words if I did, as he did to-night."

"But Lena might risk a little for poor Bill," rejoined the other; "I
know Bill would risk his life for her." Lena was silent; and after a
pause of some minutes the old woman went on, in a low voice almost
sunk to a whisper. "Come, come, my pretty Lena," she said, "do try
your hand with Pharold; else poor William may lie there for months in
prison, with nothing to comfort him but songs about Lena--which he
will sing sweetly enough, poor chap--and then may go to the gallows
thinking of her. Do you think I do not see and know, my chick, all
that is going on?"

"Then you see and know, Mother Gray, that I want to do nothing wrong,"
replied the girl, turning half round upon her.

"Yes, but I saw you, Lena, when you stood by the park-wall this
evening," replied the beldam, "talking to Will for half an hour; and
do you think I do not know what is in your heart, my pretty Lena?"

"Then why should I strive to get him out of prison at all?" said Lena,
in a melancholy tone. "It is better that he were away; and I can tell
you what, Mother Gray, it was I made Pharold determine to send him
away with Brown's people rather than have him along with us."

"And I can tell you what, too, Lena," replied the old woman, "I saw
you standing together by the wall, and I saw him come away, and I am
very sure that it was because you were unkind to him that he went with
Dickon and his people after the deer; so that it was your fault that
he went at all, and your fault that he got into prison; so you should
but help him out of it."

What Lena might have replied, Heaven knows; but at the moment she was
about to speak, she was interrupted by the approach of others of the
tribe; and the whole party shortly after entered the wood, and took up
their camp in one of the deepest and most unfrequented spots that it
contained.

In the mean time Pharold had, as we have seen, entered the park;
and here he spent the whole hours of moonlight that remained in
searching for the youth who had accompanied Dickon and his companions.
He searched, however, in vain; and although he often risked the
low peculiar whistle which he knew would be recognised by his
fellow-gipsy, yet no sound was returned from any quarter. Long and
anxiously did he seek--the more anxiously, perhaps, because he felt
that some undefined feelings of dislike and animosity had lately been
rising in his bosom towards the unfortunate youth, who had now
apparently become the sacrifice for the faults of others. With much
disappointment and regret, then, he saw at length the morning dawn;
and certain that, had the youth escaped, he would by this time have
joined the rest, he prepared to quit a place in which any longer delay
might prove dangerous to himself, and could be of no service to him he
sought.

There was, however, in his bosom a misdoubting in regard to the lad's
fate, an apprehensive uncertainty, which moved him, perhaps, more than
if he had been assured of his capture; and ere he quitted the park, he
approached as near as possible to the mansion, to see if any such
signs of unusual bustle were apparent, as might furnish information to
a mind habituated to extract their meaning rapidly from every vague
and transient indication that met his eyes. As he stood beneath the
trees, the first thing he beheld was a boy run up the steps of the
house, and Pharold instantly concluded that it was a messenger
returned with some news. The moment after three or four men issued
forth; but instead of taking any of the roads that led from the house,
they began to traverse the lawn between the mansion and the nearest
point of the park-wall. One man halted half-way between, the others
went on; but at the first trees again another paused, and Pharold
thought, "They have discovered me and think to surround me, but they
will find themselves mistaken;" and with a quick, stealthy step, he
glided through the wood towards the angle of the park next to the
common. None of his senses, however, slept on such occasions; and ere
he had emerged from the bushes his ear caught the sound of low voices,
speaking in the very direction which he was taking, showing him that
he had been discovered and pursued before he had perceived it, though
the persons who were now before him must have come from the
gamekeeper's house, and not from the mansion. Wheeling instantly, he
retreated in a direction which led to one of the most open parts of
the park; but Pharold was well aware of what he did, and knew the
ground even better than those who followed him. As soon as he reached
the savanna, he emerged at once from the trees, and with a quick step
began to traverse the green. A man who had been stationed at the angle
instantly caught sight of him, and gave at once the shout which had
been appointed as a signal. The other keepers came up at a quick pace,
narrowing the half circle in which they had disposed themselves, and
penning the gipsy in between their body and the river. He scarcely
hastened his pace, but allowed them to come nearer and nearer, till at
length his purpose seemed to strike the head keeper suddenly, and,
with a loud imprecation, he called upon the man nearest the water to
close upon the object of their pursuit, adding, "He is a devil of a
swimmer!" But Pharold had been suffered to go too far. He sprang
forward at once to the bank, plunged in without a pause, and in a few
strokes carried himself to the other side, where, amid thick brushwood
and young plantations, he was perfectly secure from all pursuit.




                             CHAPTER III.


I know no reason why we--the readers and the writer--should not now
quit those characters which have lately been occupying us, and return
to others not less worthy of our care, till we have brought their
actions and their feelings up to the same point of time whereunto we
have conducted our other personages. The best form, perhaps I might
say the most classical, in which a tale like the present can be
related, with the exception of the autobiographical, is the dramatic;
and holding strongly with the liberty accorded to British dramatists
against the straight-waistcoat of Aristotelian unities, I believe that
he who sits down to write a book like this has as much right to shift
his scene and change his characters when he pleases as a playwright.

The necessity of so doing exists in the very state of being in which
we live in relation to one another. Everyday we find that in five or
six families, the actions of each of which have mutually a great
influence on the others, events are occurring, and words are being
spoken, which bring about great and important results in the general
fate and relative position of those five or six families, and, in
fact, work out their united history, without one house knowing at the
time what was doing in the other. The task, then, of the writer, if he
would follow the best of guides, nature, is to take such a group of
five or six families, whose fate some common bond of union has linked
together; and, changing from house to house as soon as the interest of
the events in each requires the scene to be shifted, to paint what he
there sees passing; and thus, in a series of pictures, to give the
general history of the whole. Stupid must be the man, and impotent the
imagination, weak the judgment, and treacherous the memory, which
cannot bear the change of scene without a long refresher in regard to
the people about to be seen again, or the events of which the writer
is once more going to take up the thread!

Could not this change be made, the circumstances which were taking
place at Morley House, and, what is still more important, the feelings
which were thrilling in the bosoms of its inhabitants, would of
necessity be all left untold, or be related in a long unnatural
resume. In truth, the feelings of which we speak are worth some
consideration; as feelings, indeed, always are: for, could one write
the history of man's heart and its motives, how much more interesting,
and instructive too, would the record be, than the brightest volume
that ever was written upon man's actions!

For some time after Colonel Manners quitted Morley House, Marian de
Vaux continued to sleep under the influence of strong opiates, which
the medical man had found it necessary to give her in the morning.
Whether he did right or wrong--whether it would have been better to
let her meet grief boldly face to face, or was better to shield her
from the violence of its first attack--each must judge as he feels;
but he had known her from a child, and he had a notion that hers was a
heart which would be easily broken if sorrow was suffered to handle it
too roughly. At all events, while this state continued, she enjoyed a
cessation from grief and apprehension; but still, how different was
her slumber from the calm and natural repose of a heart at ease! The
dull poppy with its leaden weight seemed to keep down and oppress
feeling and thought, not to relieve and refresh them; and in her
beautiful face, even as she slept, there was something which told that
the slumber was not natural. Oh! the sweet profound sleep of infancy,
how beautiful it is! that soft and blessed gift of a heart without a
stain or a pang, of a body unbroken in any fibre by the cares and
labours of existence, of a mind without a burden or an apprehension.
It falls down upon our eyelids like the dew of a summer's eve,
refreshing for our use all the world of flowers in which we dwell, and
passing calm, and tranquil, and happy, without a dream and without an
interruption. But, alas! alas! with the first years of life it is
gone, and never returns. We may win joy, and satisfaction, and glory,
and splendour, and power--we may obtain more than our wildest ambition
aspired to, or our eager hope could grasp; but the sweet sleep of
infancy, the soft companion of our boyish pillow, flies from the
ardent joys as well as the bitter cares of manhood, and never, never,
never returns again.

The apothecary had ventured on large doses of the drug, and Marian's
slumber continued for many hours; but at length she woke, pale,
languid, sick, with her ideas all confused, and yet her heart not the
less ill at ease. "Is that Isadore?" she said, gazing towards the
window at which some one was standing, and over which the shades of
evening were coming dim and fast. Isadore approached her bed, and
Marian asked eagerly, "What news?" She could not put her question in a
distinct form, for her mind refused to fix itself precision upon
anything; and besides, with the common self-cheatery of fear, she
loved not to give her apprehensions voice.

"I have no news, dear Marian?" replied Isadore, sitting down by her.
"Sorry I am to say that Colonel Manners has returned without any
tidings; and he has since gone over to my uncle's, to see whether
anything may be known there in regard to these extraordinary
circumstances."

Isadore had framed her answer, with a view of alone hiding from Marian
that anything had been discovered to confirm their fears, and of
turning her mind from the search on which Colonel Manners had been
employed: but the result went further than she had expected, or even
wished; for it was her purpose only to break the force of grief, not
to raise expectations which were likely to be disappointed. Hope,
however, is the most adroit of diplomatists, and takes hold of the
slightest word or circumstance in its own favour with skill and
agility unparalleled. The words of Isadore, simple as they were,
lighted again in a moment the half-extinguished flame in the bosom of
her cousin. She remembered the suspicions concerning the illegitimacy
of his birth, with which Edward had gone to visit the gipsies; she
remembered his fiery and impatient nature, and the agitation into
which even the apprehension had thrown him; and hope instantly
suggested that he might have found his fears confirmed, and, wild with
anger and distress, might have flown instantly to his father's house.

It is true he was on foot; it is true he had quitted the house during
the night; it is true that he was not likely to take such a step
without writing to relieve her mind; but it is the quality of hope to
trample on improbabilities, and Marian de Vaux obtained a momentary
relief. Still she would fain have had her hopes confirmed by the
opinion of others: but she could not expect to do so without
explaining the reason why she entertained them; and that reason could
not be explained without entering into some details in regard to
Edward's communication with the gipsy, which she knew not whether she
were justified in making. Her mind was so confused with the effect of
the remedies employed to obtain sleep, that she was long in
determining what was the best to do, and remained silent, while
Isadore kindly and gently strove to suggest as many motives for
consolation as she could imagine. At length, however, as Marian
revolved all the probabilities in her mind, she recollected that other
causes might render the disclosure of Edward's feelings and intentions
necessary; that he might not be found at his father's house; that
strict and immediate investigation might be required; and that, under
those circumstances, a knowledge of all that her lover had proposed to
do previous to his sudden disappearance might be requisite to those
who were employed in searching for him, in order to render that search
at all effectual; and although she shrunk from the idea of betraying,
in the slightest degree, the confidence he had reposed in her, yet she
felt it necessary to give every information in her power which might
lead to the result they sought. She determined, then, at length, to
speak of what had passed between De Vaux and herself on the preceding
day; and only hesitated whether to relate it to her aunt or to her
cousin. Mrs. Falkland's kindness and strong good sense were not to be
doubted; but yet Marian knew Isadore thoroughly, and knew that there
was more judgment and tact under her usual gayety than was apparent.
She knew, too, that with her she should be able to relate and to keep
back just as much as she thought proper; while her aunt's keen and
rapid questions, she felt, might draw from her more than she was
justified in communicating.

"Do you know, Isadore," she said, at length, "I am in some hopes that
Edward may be heard of at his father's house: it would not surprise me
if he had gone thither."

Isadore felt that she had a delicate part to play. She was glad to see
that Marian was more composed than she could have expected; and, of
course, she would have wished to maintain that state of composure,
till apprehension gradually changed into grief, without any new shock
to her feelings: but she still felt that she had no right to encourage
hopes which must soon be broken; and she replied, "I am very happy,
dearest Marian, that you do think so; but is it not strange that he
should go thither, and be so long absent, without letting any one
know, when he must have felt that so many would be uneasy?"

"It is strange," replied Marian; "but I think I can account for that.
I am about to tell you something, Isadore, which you must make what
use of you think fit, in case Colonel Manners has not found poor
Edward at Dewry Hall; but as it refers to matters which he might not
wish told to any one, you must ask me no more than I am inclined to
speak; and unless it be necessary, perhaps, had better not mention it
to any one but my aunt."

"I will obey you to the letter, dear cousin," replied Isadore; "but I
foresee that you are going to speak of his visit to the gipsy, which,
indeed, surprised us all."

"It is the cause of that visit I am about to tell you," answered
Marian; "for perhaps the facts connected with it may throw some light
on the business, if Edward be not at his father's. But you remember,
Isadore, that Colonel Manners went up yesterday morning to the
gipsies--I believe, because you teased him about them."

"Yes, indeed, I believe it was one of my silly jests," replied
Isadore, with a sigh, "that made him go at all. I shall leave off
jesting for the future, Marian."

"Nay, nay! never, Isadore!" replied Marian, shaking her head.
"However, Colonel Manners brought Edward down a letter from one of
them called Pharold, which distressed him a great deal; for it told
him things concerning our own family, and his part of it particularly,
which would be very terrible if true. He determined, after speaking to
me upon the matter, to go up to the common this morning, in order to
investigate the whole; and if he found any reason to believe that the
gipsy spoke the truth, his mind, I am sure, would be in such a state
that he would hardly know what he was doing. Under these
circumstances, it is very likely that he might go over at once to
inquire more of his father, without thinking of anything else in the
pain and anxiety of the moment."

"No, Marian, depend upon it, he would think of you," cried Isadore,
somewhat incautiously.

"I could easily forgive him for not doing so," replied Marian,
"notwithstanding all the pain I have suffered, if I could be sure that
he is safe at the Hall."

"Pray God it maybe so!" replied Isadore; "and if it be, we shall
undoubtedly hear from Colonel Manners to-night."

There was something so despairing in the tone with which Isadore
pronounced--"Pray God it may be so!" that Marian took alarm.
"Isadore," she said, looking at her steadily, "I hope you are not
deceiving me. Your heart is not one to be so easily cast down; your
lips, dear cousin, are not accustomed to such sad sounds. Tell me the
truth, Isadore, I beseech you. Have you heard anything of Edward?"

"No, indeed, Marian!" replied Isadore, glad that she had put her
question in such a shape that she could give it a negative; and yet
hesitating a little at the utterance of one word approaching
insincerity, a vice that her mind had never known. "No, indeed," she
said, "no one has heard anything of him as yet."

Marian marked her hesitation, however, and replied, in a low voice, "I
should always like to know the truth, Isadore; and I am sure you would
tell it me, dear cousin. You know how I love Edward; and I think it no
shame to acknowledge to you, Isadore, that I do not believe there ever
was a human being that loved another as I have loved him." She paused;
and though she knew that Isadore needed no new insight into her heart
to see how totally that heart was given to Edward de Vaux, yet, as she
spoke, the crimson came again into her cheeks, and mottled her brow
and temples, even to speak her love in the hearing of one who already
knew it so well. "Nevertheless, Isadore," she continued, "feeling
afraid of my own heart, and my own great happiness, I have schooled
myself to remember that the blessings of this world are anything but
permanent, and have prepared myself to say, if God should require me
to yield them, 'Thy will be done.' Of course, since Edward went into
active service, I have felt it the more necessary to be always thus
prepared; and though I have tried not to imbitter existence by
apprehensions, nor to keep myself in continual fear, I have
endeavoured never to forget that Almighty Wisdom may hourly require
sacrifices, at which we must not repine."

"You are indeed a sweet creature!" cried Isadore, casting her arms
round her cousin's neck; "I wish that I were half as good!" Marian
leaned her brow upon her cousin's shoulder; and when Isadore again
looked at her, she found that Marian was weeping.

In a few moments Marian wiped away her tears, and went on: "You will
think that, after boasting of all this preparation, I ought not to be
so overcome now--nor, indeed, so much as I was this morning; but the
truth is, when Edward returned, half my fears vanished. I thought that
all danger was over; and little remembered that he who had escaped
from battle and from storm, might be snatched from me in the bosom of
peace, and in his own home. But I am better now, Isadore, and firmer,
and stronger; and therefore I will beg you and my aunt to let me hear
at once everything that occurs; for though you are interested too, I
know, deeply and sincerely, yet you can neither of you feel as I do."

"Perhaps that is the very reason, dear Marian," replied Isadore, "why
it would be better to keep from you all the rumours and reports, which
could only rack all your feelings with alternate hopes and fears,
without leading you even to any certain conclusion."

"Oh, no!" said Marian; "no! let me hear all, Isadore! I am now again
prepared. I do not say that I shall not weep--I do not say that I
shall not be anxious--I do not say that I shall not tremble with hope
and fear: but I do say, Isadore, that the knowledge of whose hand it
is that guides the whole--and my firm, perfect, undoubting,
unchangeable belief that His will is mercy, and His way is wise--will
be my support and consolation to the end."

"And I will never believe," said Isadore, warmly, "that He will leave
such confidence unrewarded and unprotected."

"Oh, no!" answered Marian; and she then added, in a sadder tone, "But
He, seeing more wisely than we do, may yet think fit to afflict us,
Isadore. However, I am still prepared, and will meet whatever may
come, as little repining as I can."

The conversation proceeded for some time in the same tone, nor was its
effect small in soothing the mind of her who suffered; for, in moments
of grief, the human heart forgets all the treasured consolations which
reason, and philosophy, and religion have garnered up in years of
tranquillity; and it is not till we examine the stores that we have
gathered that we remember the sources of comfort which we ourselves
possess.

Marian then expressed her intention of rising, and begged Isadore to
send her maid from the dressing-room. Her cousin would fain have
dissuaded her; and proceeded to inform her mother of Marian's
intention of coming down to the drawing-room; but Mrs. Falkland did
not disapprove of the idea, especially when she learned from Isadore
the state of her niece's mind. "We must endeavour," she said, "to keep
any sudden tidings of evil from our poor Marian; but in other
respects, perhaps, occupation of any sort may do her good; for I know
too well, Isadore, that nothing can be worse than the fears and the
pains with which our own imagination fills up the interval of
suspense, when, alone and sleepless, we sit and watch away the weary
hours, till doubt and fear have grown into the too painful certainty."

Marian was not long in following her cousin to the drawing-room; and
though a few tears rolled over her cheeks as Mrs. Falkland pressed her
to her bosom, she soon regained at least the appearance of composure.
By degrees she learned all that Colonel Manners had discovered, except
the indications which most strongly tended to confirm his
apprehensions for De Vaux; and she heard, also, all that he had done
towards obtaining further and more certain information. Marian,
however, inferred, from the measures that had been taken, that both
her aunt and Manners did entertain serious fears; and her heart sunk
to find her own alarm confirmed by that of persons so much more
thoroughly acquainted with the world than herself. Soon after she
had come down, the servant, who had been despatched to Mr. Arden,
returned with the tidings that he was absent from his own house, and
was not expected back till the next morning. Inquiries, too, were made
by the people who had been left to guard the wood, whether it were
necessary to keep up their patrol all night; and in Manners's absence,
Mrs. Falkland ordered it to be done at any expense. Many a rumour,
too, of many a likely and many an unlikely occurrence, reached the
drawing-room through the old butler, who, with one other man-servant,
had been retained in the house while the rest had been despatched to
reinforce the people on watch round the wood.

Thus passed the evening, but no tidings arrived from Colonel Manners;
and as minute after minute and hour after hour went by after the
period which they calculated might have brought them the news of De
Vaux's being at his father's house, the hopes of all the party sunk
lower and more low, and at a late hour Mrs. Falkland persuaded Marian
again to go to bed.

Sleep, indeed, visited Morley House but little during that night; and
the next morning early, a note was received from Colonel Manners,
informing Mrs. Falkland that nothing as yet had been heard of De Vaux.
So far Mrs. Falkland communicated the tidings she had received to
Marian, before she had risen; and, notwithstanding all the fortitude
she had endeavoured to assume, and the most careful guard she had been
enabled to put upon her heart, yet Marian had so far encouraged hopes
which now suffered disappointment, that medical aid was again obliged
to be called; and it was judged expedient once more to dull her sense
of grief and fear by strong opiates. The latter part of Colonel
Manners's communication, which spoke in plain terms of the murder of
poor De Vaux, Mrs. Falkland did not, of course, read to her unhappy
niece. In it, however, he informed her, that when he arrived at Dewry
Hall, he had found measures already in progress for arresting the
supposed murderers upon another charge, and had waited to know the
result. They had proved, unfortunately, without effect, he said; as no
one had been taken but a lad, from whom he was afraid little
satisfactory information was likely to be gained: but still it was his
purpose, he added, to go over to Dimden with Lord Dewry, previous to
returning to Morley House, in order to hear personally what evidence
could be extracted from the prisoner. In conclusion, he recommended,
if Mr. Arden had not taken measures for searching the wood in which
the gipsy had been seen, before his letter arrived, that such a step
should be resorted to directly; as the messenger who brought the news
of the affray at Dimden had not been able to say whether Pharold were
present or not.

After the receipt of this letter, Mrs. Falkland waited anxiously for
the arrival of Mr. Arden; but it was late ere he came. He then asked
eagerly what further discoveries had been made, and Mrs. Falkland
communicated to him the substance of Colonel Manners's letter. The old
gentleman, whose heart was warm and kind, notwithstanding a certain
degree of severity of manner, and a persevering adherence to the
letter of the law, which often made him appear harsh and unfeeling,
sympathized truly with De Vaux's family; and spoke of Marian, and the
state of bereavement and distress into which her cousin's loss must
have cast her, with words of tenderness and pity which brought a
bright drop or two even into his own eyes. He then touched as
delicately as his nature permitted upon the subject of Lord Dewry's
letter to him, which he had received that morning; and triumphed a
little in the accuracy of the opinion he had formerly given in regard
to Pharold the gipsy being the real murderer of Mrs. Falkland's late
brother.

Mrs. Falkland started, and combated the idea with various arguments,
which had been satisfactory to her own mind at the time. Mr. Arden,
however, informed her, that in his letter of that morning, Lord Dewry
had asserted, that he had acquired positive proofs of the gipsy's
guilt; and Mrs. Falkland was silent, but not convinced. That Pharold,
either in some fierce dispute, or in some accidental affray, might
have killed her unfortunate nephew, or that his companions might have
done so, without his will or concurrence, Mrs. Falkland did not doubt:
but she had heard too much of his character and behaviour in youth to
believe that, twenty years before, when he was still a young man, he
could have been so hardened in guilt as, for the purpose of paltry
plunder, to take the life of the only man for whom, with the exception
of his own tribe, he had shown affection. For Lord Dewry's fierce
accusation on the present occasion, she accounted easily by a
knowledge of his character, and conceived it very possible that the
rage and hatred which he felt at the very idea of the gipsy having
murdered his son, might make him regard as proof positive any slight
additional suspicions which he had found cause to form against Pharold
in regard to his brother's death. However, as she took no pleasure in
speaking of her brother's weaknesses, she made no answer; and Mr.
Arden began his proceedings for the purpose of causing the wood in
which Colonel Manners imagined he had seen Pharold to be so thoroughly
searched as to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the gipsy still
remained in it or not.

As all those who have attempted to search a wood must know the task is
not an easy one; and before a sufficient number of people could be
collected, and all the orders and directions could be given, it was
late in the day. As the men, however, who had kept patrol for so many
hours were now weary of the task, and there existed many doubts
whether any inducement would make them undertake it during another
night, there was no possibility of delaying the search till the
following morning; and Mr. Arden accordingly set out, taking as many
of Mrs. Falkland's servants with him as could by any means be spared,
in order to make their proceedings as effectual as the short remaining
space of daylight permitted.

During his absence Mrs. Falkland and her daughter remained in that
painful and exciting state of suspense in which every minute has its
expectation, and every minute its fear; and as Marian still slept,
Isadore walked out into the garden, in hopes of finding some
refreshment in the cool air of the autumn evening. When she had passed
about half through the garden, with her eyes turning mechanically from
time to time upon the flowers, but with her thoughts far otherwise
occupied, she perceived a boy of about ten years of age, who worked
under the gardeners, approaching her, cap in hand.

"Please, miss," he said, "I think I have found out something."

"And pray, what have you discovered, Harry?" demanded Isadore, as he
paused.

"Why, ma'am," answered the boy, "I heard the gentleman yesterday, and
all the folks, indeed, talking of footsteps, and asking where there
were any to be seen, in sorts of unlikely places--"

"And have you found any?" exclaimed Isadore, speaking eagerly, from
some of those vague, and often fallacious anticipations which rush
upon the mind in thousands when it is excited by any strongly-moving
cause.

"Why, yes, ma'am, you see," replied the boy; "the gardener, when he
was going away to search the wood, sent me down to the other side of
the park to cut some box for the borders; and by the little door close
by the river, which has not been opened these two years, I saw the
marks of a gentleman's foot in the gravel, which is softish down on
that walk, and greenish, too, for it ha'nt been turned this autumn."

"But how do you know it was a gentleman's foot?" demanded Isadore. "It
might be either the gardener's, or the under-gardener's, or the
gamekeeper's, for anything you know, Harry."

"No, no, miss," answered the boy; "I know it was a gentleman's, for
they have little feet, and this was not bigger than mine; and it was
not a woman's foot, because the heel was different."

"And a boy's?" said Isadore; "why might it not be a boy's?" The youth
rubbed his head, saying, "It might be a boy's, miss; but I do not
think it, miss, any how: I am sure it was a gentleman's--quite sure."

Isadore endeavoured to discover the grounds of this certainty; but
when people whose ideas are not very clear upon a subject are pressed
by those who would fain help them to disentangle the ravelled skein of
their thoughts, they not unfrequently take refuge in a sort of blank
stolidity, which prevents others from finding out the causes that they
themselves are not able to explain. Such was the case in the present
instance, and the only answer that Isadore could obtain to her
questions, shape them how she would, was, that he--the boy--was sure
that the footmarks were those of a gentleman.

With these tidings, however, with every willingness in the world to
believe that they were true, and with a long train of phantom hopes to
boot, Miss Falkland returned to her mother, taking the boy to the
house with her. Mrs. Falkland listened with attention, and replied
that it would be at least worth while to send down the old butler
directly, to ascertain the facts more precisely.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, do not send him, mamma!" exclaimed Isadore.
"He is so fond of miracles, that he will declare it is the foot of an
elephant. We shall never come at the truth from him."

"But whom can I send, then?" demanded her mother. "All the other
servants are away; and both the gardener and under-gardener are with
Mr. Arden."

"I will go myself, mamma," replied Isadore. "I shall have plenty of
time to get there and back before it is dark; and I will take the boy
with me to show me the place."

"You are right, Isadore," replied Mrs. Falkland: "the fact may be of
no importance, but it may be of much; and, consequently, it is worth
our own examination. I will go with you, my love, if Marian be still
asleep. Wait one moment, and we will go and judge together."

Mrs. Falkland was not long absent. Marian was still lying overpowered
with the opium; and the two ladies, having joined the boy in the hall,
set out upon the search. While her mother was absent, however, Isadore
called her own maid, and stationed her at one of the windows, whence
she could see the spot to which the boy referred, and the path leading
to it. She gave her also directions to remain there, and, in case of
either Mrs. Falkland or herself making a signal, to send or come down
to them in all haste. "I feel a sort of presentiment," thought
Isadore, as she gave the orders, "that this expedition will end in
something of importance."

Whatever it was likely to end in, the maid obeyed her orders as
punctually as such orders generally are obeyed; that is to say, she
remained two minutes at the window; and having seen Mrs. Falkland and
Isadore walk about a hundred steps upon the path, she thought, "Dear
me! I can just get the cap I was trimming, and be back again here long
before they are at the other side of the park." But, as she crossed
the hall, she met with the old butler, who detained her just to ask
her where his mistress and Miss Falkland were gone; and then told her
a story, which he had heard when he was young, and the incidents of
which were very like those connected with the fate of poor Mr. Edward
de Vaux. Every hair on the maid's head stood on end, and gave her so
much occupation, that, ere she could get back to her post, it was too
dark to trim the cap any further; she therefore, immediately and
punctually, turned her eyes on the spot which her mistress had
directed her to observe, and watched most carefully, now that she
could see nothing at that distance.




                             CHAPTER IV.


Isadore and Mrs. Falkland, in the meantime, took the little path
towards the brink of the river, in the immediate neighbourhood of
which lay the spot where the boy had remarked the footsteps. Mrs.
Falkland had lived too long in the great school of disappointment,
human life, to suffer her expectations to be greatly excited; but
Isadore, with a spirit naturally more enthusiastic, and as yet
unchastened by any deep sorrows, felt her heart beat high, and her
hopes struggle up against her fears, as she set out to take a more
active part than she had hitherto been able to assume in the search
for her cousin. The path wound along through the park, meandering
considerably, perhaps in conformity to the taste of some ancient layer
out of parks, or perhaps in consequence of the usual roundabout and
circuitous nature of man's paths. Isadore, like all ardent minds, was
tempted to make a more direct way for herself across the lawns; but
Mrs. Falkland, in a more practical spirit, remembered that the grass
was damp, and that it was not worth while to wet her feet for the
purpose of saving half a minute. She adhered, therefore, to the
gravel; and, as her more venturous daughter met with a little swamp
occasioned by a spring, which obliged her to go round, they arrived at
the spot they sought about the same time.

The spot itself, however, needs some description, and, indeed, it has
been already described once before, with a special injunction to the
reader to remember all the points and bearings which were then
detailed. However, lest memory should be treacherous, we will once
more take a view of the scene, as it was presented to the eyes of Mrs.
Falkland and her daughter, who were at that moment looking exactly
west-north-west. Before them was a little shrubbery of evergreens and
indigenous plants, kept as low as possible, so as just to hide the
wall of the park, against which it rested, and yet not to cut off from
the windows of the house a beautiful rocky bank, which rose on the
other side of the wall to the height of a great number of feet. This
bank formed one of the faces of a small wooded promontory, or rather
peninsula, which was joined on to the hills by a narrow neck, over
which the high-road passed after having skirted the other wall of the
grounds. It was surrounded everywhere but at that point by the river.
The summit was covered with rich wood; and down the sides also, in
every place where the rock did not rise up abrupt and bare, a thousand
various trees and shrubs had rooted themselves in the clefts and
crevices, or towered up like pinnacles from the top of every detached
fragment, and overhung the calm, still bend of the river, which served
as a mirror to all the beauties round about it. The setting sun, with
his lower limb just resting on the western hills, was pouring a flood
of splendour down the valley of the stream; and his full light
bursting upon the face of the rock to the left of Mrs. Falkland and
Isadore, found its way round in bright catches of purple light,
illuminating every tree and angle of the rock that stood forward
before the rest.

Pouring on, too, the beams streamed down the little footway which--cut
through the low shrubbery to a door in the wall--led out to another
path running from the high-road to the river, between the park and the
cliff; and by the clear light thus afforded it was easy to see the
marks of which the boy had spoken. They seemed to have been made by
some one coming from the grass on the side of the river upon the soft
gravel of the path, and had turned suddenly towards the door, where
they disappeared, as if the person had passed through. They were
small, too, as the boy had described, and were evidently not a
woman's; but neither Mrs. Falkland nor Isadore were sufficiently well
acquainted with De Vaux's footprints to feel anything like certainty
concerning them. It were vain to deny, however, that the hopes of both
were raised, though Heaven knows those hopes were vague and indistinct
enough. Had either Mrs. Falkland or Isadore been asked what they
expected to find, they would probably have answered, "Edward de Vaux;"
but had they been required to assign a reason for such expectations,
to account for his absence, or to point out any principle upon which
he could have abandoned the society of those he loved, and yet linger
in their neighbourhood, they would have been embarrassed for a reply.
But affection does not pause to argue. Hope, too, is ever most
powerful when she triumphs over reason, and, though it may seem a
paradox, expectation is never so vivid as when we know not what we
expect. Hope, then, as bright as sunshine, but as vague and undefined
as that sunshine when it streams through the morning mist, was lighted
up by the sight of those footsteps. As Mrs. Falkland gazed on them,
and traced them distinctly to the door, she exclaimed, "How very
stupid it was of me not to bring the key!"

"I have a key, ma'am," said the boy, groping in the pocket of his
jacket; and producing it accordingly, he advanced to the door and
opened it. Mrs. Falkland now looked eagerly for more traces; but none
were to be seen close to the door, though the ground was composed of a
reddish sort of sand, which would easily have taken the print of even
a light foot. At the distance, however, of about five feet were to be
seen two deep marks of the same kind, but close together, with the
heels more profoundly indented in the sand than the front of the foot;
and it became evident that some one had leaped from the top of the
wall. This was made still clearer, when, turning back, Mrs. Falkland
examined the door, on the top of the lock of which several patches of
gravel had been left by the foot of some one who had taken that means
to reach the summit of the wall. In the mean time Isadore was eagerly
tracing on the footprints, which led straight from the deeper marks to
the bank; and on one of the large stones close by the river, she soon
found the impression of a foot in red sand stamped upon the green
mould with which the fragment of rock was covered.

"Here, mamma, here," cried Isadore. "He must have passed here, and
that since the rain of last night, too; for if you look, the marks are
quite sharp, while some old ones going down towards the water are
nearly washed away. I should not wonder if he were here now."

"Hark!" said Mrs. Falkland; "did you not hear a noise above there?"

They listened, but all was silent; and at length Mrs. Falkland added,
"We have done wrong, my love, in not bringing more people with us,
even if they were but women. The wood is so small and so shut in by
the river that it might be searched easily."

"Send the boy back to the house, mamma!" cried Isadore, quickly: "he
can bring down the butler, and probably some of the others may have
returned. We can remain here, and watch till they come."

"But, Isadore," said Mrs. Falkland, gravely, "it is growing dusk and
late, and the place is lonely and obscure: I do not see any good that
two women can do here alone."

"Oh, Harry will be back in a moment, mamma," cried her daughter; "and,
besides, nobody could hurt us. Any one on the high-road would hear a
scream from this place."

Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued eagerly,--"I will
tell you how we can manage it then, so that there can be no danger.
Send him back for the people, and you go into the park to the little
mound; there you can see the high-road quite across the point."

"But I will not leave you here alone, my love," cried Mrs. Falkland,
in some surprise at the proposal: "indeed I cannot think of doing
that."

"But, mamma, I have been here a hundred times alone before," replied
Isadore; "and, besides, what I mean is, to get up to that little point
where Marian and I have sat many a day. When I am there, you will be
able both to see me and to hear me if I speak to you; and if any
danger were really to happen, I could make the people with the cattle
in the opposite meadow hear me, while you could also make them see or
hear you from the house; and I set Charlotte at the window to watch."

Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued rapidly, "Run,
Harry, up to the house as fast as ever you can go; bring down Mr.
Gibson and any of the men you can find, and do not lose a minute."

"I am afraid that this is not very prudent, Isadore," said Mrs.
Falkland, as the boy ran off like lightning; "but I suppose your plan
is the best one to follow now that he is gone. I will turn back to the
mound then, while you go up there. But if the boy does not return
before the twilight grows thicker, come down, by all means."

"I will come down whenever you tell me, mamma," said Isadore; "and I
can hear everything you say at the mound."

Without more words, then, Mrs. Falkland hastened to take up her
station at a little rising ground in the park, from the summit of
which she could see, not only the whole of that part of the high-road
which crossed the neck of the little promontory, but also the extreme
angle of the cliff above the river. Isadore, in the meanwhile, climbed
up by a steep and somewhat rugged path, which had been made at her
request some years before, to a small point of rock which commanded a
view both up and down the river, and afforded one of the most
picturesque landscapes, on either side, that the country possessed.

The height was not more than ten or twelve feet above the stream, and
the distance from the mound in the park not a hundred yards, so that
any one speaking in a loud voice could be heard from one spot to the
other. The ascent, however, while it continued, was steep, and
Isadore's heart beat when she reached the top--nor, perhaps, was it
the exercise alone that made it palpitate. Although she had not
displayed any fear, she was not without some slight degree of alarm;
and felt not a little of that sort of excitement and agitation which
is not indeed fear, but which often produces very similar effects. She
looked back as soon as she reached the point of the rock, but Mrs.
Falkland was not yet in sight. Another instant, however, brought her
mother to the top of the mound, and Isadore demanded, "You can see the
high-road, mamma, can you not?"

Mrs. Falkland did not at first distinguish what her daughter had said,
and Isadore repeated the question. Not that in this inquiry she was at
all influenced by fear, although it might appear so; but, in truth,
Isadore's eagerness to send back the boy for aid, and remain upon the
watch, had originated in a little stroke of strategy which was not
ill-conceived, considering that it sprang from the brain of a young
lady.

That there was some one in the wood above them Miss Falkland was quite
convinced; and to ascertain who it was she knew was a great object at
the time being. It had instantly struck her, therefore, that, by
dividing their forces, her mother taking up a position on the little
mound, whence she could see along the whole of the high-road, and down
a considerable portion of the little lane under the wall, while she,
Isadore, placed herself on the point which commanded a view of two
other sides of the promontory, no one could well escape from the wood
without coming under the eyes of one or the other of the fair
watchers. She did forget, it is true, that, supposing the fugitive to
be a man, and that man not her cousin Edward de Vaux, neither herself
nor her mother were the least capable of making him stay, and that
their hunt might very likely end, while the boy  was absent, like a
famous hunt of yore, in the catching a Tartar. A vague sort of
consciousness, it is true, that such might be the case, impressed
itself upon her mind as she climbed to the little point above the
river; but still her first question was directed to ascertain whether
their line of watch was, as she hoped, secure and complete.

She repeated her inquiry then, in a louder tone, and Mrs. Falkland
replied, "Oh, yes, I can see to the river on the other side. But,
indeed, Isadore, it is growing very dark. I can scarcely distinguish
the house."

Isadore still lingered, however; for the spot where she stood, looking
eastward, caught more light than the rest of the scene. She thought
she heard a slight rustling sound, too, above her, as of some one
creeping through the bushes; and it must be confessed that her heart
beat violently. Although, in truth, she now began to think her scheme
a little rash, yet curiosity and anxiety for her cousin's fate still
kept her where she stood. The next moment, however, she saw some one,
indistinctly, pass through the bushes on the edge of the higher part
of the bank, and imagination did much to persuade her that she
recognised the figure.

"Oh, mamma," she exclaimed, "I see him, I see him!" but the figure was
instantly lost behind some more trees. It was evidently still passing
on to the eastward, as if to escape in that direction, for the
branches rustled as it forced its way through; and Isadore took two
steps back to catch another sight of it as it passed before a bare
facing of rock at the extreme point. At that moment there was a sudden
rush through the brushwood; and ere Isadore could see that it was
nothing more than a fragment of rock given way under the foot of the
person above, she started back, thinking that it was he himself
springing down upon her, lost her footing on the edge of the bank,
and, with a shrill scream, fell over into the river.

Mrs. Falkland shrieked also, and rushed forward to the stream; but the
height from which Isadore had fallen had caused her instantly to sink,
and nothing was to be seen by the mother's eye but the clear
glistening expanse of the water, with the reflection of the cliffs,
and trees, and banks, and of the fading purple of the sky, broken by a
thousand rippling circles, where her child had disappeared. With the
loud, piercing, thrilling cry of maternal agony, she shrieked again
and again; and, as she did so, springing from rock to rock, with the
swiftness and certainty of a wild goat, appeared the figure which
Isadore had seen above her. He stood for a single moment on the spot
whence she had fallen, and then exclaimed to Mrs. Falkland, below,
"Where is she, woman? where is she?"

"There, there!" cried Mrs. Falkland, pointing to the spot; but as she
spoke a bit of white drapery floated up to the top of the water, a
little farther down the stream. Pharold paused no longer, but leaped
from the bank--sank--rose again--and in the next moment, with his
left arm round the slender waist of Isadore Falkland, and her head
thrown back upon his shoulder, he struck with his right towards the
margin, where the soft, meadowy sloping of the park afforded an easy
landing-place. There, springing on shore, he laid his fair burden on
the grass, but she was pale, and moved not; and Mrs. Falkland gazing
with agony on the colourless countenance of her daughter, wrung her
hands, exclaiming, "Isadore! Isadore! she is dead! oh, she is dead!"

"No, lady," said Pharold, kneeling down, and looking intently upon the
fair face before him--"no, lady! she is not dead, nor has the water
had any effect on her. That is not the face of a drowned person. She
must have fainted through fear, and will soon recover."

"For God's sake, then, help me, sir, to bear her to the house," cried
Mrs. Falkland; "do not, do not hesitate. You who have rendered us such
infinite service, do not pause there, but make it complete by bringing
her to a place where she may be recalled to life."

"What!" cried the gipsy, "to be taken and thrust into a prison! Do you
not know that they are pursuing me on a charge of murder--pursuing me
as if I were a wolf? Have you not, yourself, been sending out men to
take the murderer Pharold?"

Mrs. Falkland had forgot all other fears in her fears for her
daughter; but as Pharold suddenly recalled them, she involuntarily
drew a step back, and gazed on him with terror; but it required
scarcely the thought of an instant to make her remember that he had
saved the life--at least she trusted so--of her only child; that he
had risked his own existence to rescue a perfect stranger, and she
exclaimed, boldly, "No, no! I will never believe it! You are not--you
cannot be guilty. But we waste time--we waste the moments that may
save my child. For pity's sake, for God's sake, aid me to carry her
home. I have sent, but I see no one coming--they may be long--she may
be lost ere they arrive. If you will come," she added, seeing the
gipsy still hesitate, "I promise you that you shall go free, and well
rewarded,--you shall be as safe as if you were in your own house."

"House!" exclaimed the gipsy; "I have no house! but I will believe
you, lady--I will trust you;" and taking Isadore once more in his
arms, he strode rapidly and powerfully forward, followed at the same
quick pace by Mrs. Falkland.

He took not the way across the green, however, believing that he might
there be met by the servants, and his retreat cut off; but passing
through the low shrubberies, which were almost as near, he walked on
towards the house in silence. Every moment the light was becoming less
and less, but he threaded the walks as if he had known them from
boyhood, and took all the shortest cuts to abridge the way. At length,
however, he paused for an instant, and turning to Mrs. Falkland, he
said, in a low voice, "She revives! I feel her breath upon my face!"

"Thank God! thank God!" replied her mother, in the same low tone; and
the gipsy then abruptly added, as he resumed his way, "You believe me
innocent, then."

"I do, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "I cannot believe a person
guilty of a cool, deliberate murder, who could so boldly and
generously risk his own life to save that of a fellow-creature,--it is
not in human nature."

"It is not, indeed," replied Pharold, still striding on; "but why then
did you send out men to hunt me as you would a wolf?"

"I sent them not out," she answered; "but when they went, I, too,
thought that you might be guilty."

"The memory of your brother," said Pharold, "the memory of him who
loved me, and whom I loved as I have never loved any other man, should
have made you think differently. Was he a man to love one whose nature
led him to deeds of blood?"

"He was not, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "but they charge you
with his death, too."

"Ha!" cried Pharold, in a tone of unfeigned astonishment--"ha! that,
then, is the well prepared, long-digested lie, is it? That they should
accuse me of the gamekeeper's death I thought natural--though I would
have given a limb to save him. That they suspected me of Edward de
Vaux's, I heard without surprise; for men are always the fools of
circumstances, and there were circumstances against me: but that,
after twenty years, they should accuse me of the death of him that I
loved more than any other thing but liberty, I did not think that
villany and impudence could bring about,--and did you believe that,
too?"

"No," replied Mrs. Falkland, very willing, by speaking the exact
truth, to sooth the irritated mind of a man who had just rendered her
so inestimable a service--"no, I did not believe it; and as soon as
the charge was made in my hearing, I expressed my disbelief of it
entirely."

"So, so!" said the gipsy, "there is some justice left! Lady, when you
were four years old, I have carried you in these arms, as I now carry
your daughter; and I thank you, at this late hour, for doing justice
to one who was loved by those who loved you. No, no; I am not a
murderer; and never believe it, whatever they may say."

They were now coming near the house; and Mrs. Falkland, with fears for
Isadore somewhat relieved, would fain have asked the fate of her
nephew; but at that moment the gipsy spoke again; and though, from the
shadow cast by the trees of the shrubbery, she could not see in which
way his eyes were directed, the tone of his voice, as well as the
words themselves, showed her that he was addressing her daughter. "Be
not afraid, lady, be not afraid," he said: "you are quite safe, though
in hands that you know not; your mother is behind: lean your head on
my shoulder, and keep quite still."

"Are you there, mamma?" said a faint voice, that went thrilling
through all the innermost windings of Mrs. Falkland's heart. "Yes, my
beloved Isadore; yes, my dearest child," replied the mother, "I am
here, close beside you; and, thank God, you are quite safe!"

"Hush!" said the gipsy, "hush! If I am seen, I am lost, remember; and
keep silence, if you feel that I have served you."

"Inestimably," replied Mrs. Falkland, in a low tone; and the gipsy,
now emerging from the shrubbery, crossed a part of the lawn that lay
between the angle of the wood and the house.

In the gray of the evening, a party of two or three persons might now
be seen, though indistinctly, following the open path, about half-way
across the park towards the cliff. But though he turned his eyes in
that direction, the gipsy took no further notice of them; and,
approaching the house, directed his course towards a glass door which
led out from a small breakfast-parlour upon the lawn. Mrs. Falkland
took a step or two forward, and opened the door; and Pharold carried
Isadore up the steps into the room, and placed her in safety upon a
sofa.

Her first action was to hold out her arms to her mother, with all that
flood of gratitude, and tenderness, and joy flowing from her heart,
which we feel on being restored to "this pleasing, anxious being,"
after having thought that we were quitting for ever the warm precincts
of the cheerful day. Mrs. Falkland caught her to her bosom, and,
locked in each other's arms, they wept as if they had lost a friend.

Well may philosophers say, that man never knows what joy is till he
has tasted sorrow. Isadore and her mother had loved each other through
life, without one of those petty rivalries, either for authority or
admiration, without one of those jarrings of different purposes and
opposing wishes which sometimes sap the affection of child and parent.
They had loved each other through life dearly, and they knew it; but
they did not know how dearly, till fate had nearly placed the barrier
of the grave between them, and Isadore, safe and rescued, held her
mother, weeping, in her arms. Who can explain such tears? Who can tell
why the same drops which flow from pain or sorrow should be companions
of the brightest joy? For who can trace the workings of the fine
immortal essence within us, in its operations on the frail, weak
tabernacle of earth in which it is enshrined?

However, they wept, and wept in silence; for both felt the bosom too
full for speech, and both, from the still oratory of the heart,
offered up thanks to God for the joy and relief of that moment. Nor
was their happiness unfelt by him to whom, under the Almighty, it was
owing. The gipsy stood and gazed upon them, with his arms crossed upon
his chest, and the light of internal satisfaction glistening in his
eye. There was something in the scene before him, and in those who
were the actors therein, which connected itself with the long, long
past; which woke up the memories of many a year, and which called up a
thousand thrilling sensations that long had slept. But he had neither
time nor inclination to let his mind rest upon all that chaos of
pleasures, and regrets, and wishes, and hopes, and sorrows, and
disappointments, which, when memory, awakened from her sleep, draws
back the veil from the past, is presented to the eyes of every one who
has lived an energetic and stirring existence. While one might count a
hundred, perhaps, he paused, and gazed upon Mrs. Falkland and her
daughter, giving way to the purest feelings of human affection, and
suffered his thoughts to wander wildly over the years gone by; but
then, starting from his revery, he remembered that he must depart.

"Lady, I go," he said. "May God bless you and yours, and send you
ever, at your moment of need, one as willing and as able to help you
as the gipsy has shown himself."

"Stay, stay one moment," said Mrs. Falkland. "You must not, indeed,
leave my house unrewarded for the infinite service you have rendered
me."

"I am rewarded already, lady," he said; "I am rewarded by what I have
seen, I am rewarded by what I have felt, I am rewarded by knowing that
there is one at least that can do justice, in her own heart, even to a
gipsy. Lady, I must go: my stay is dangerous. Fare you well."

At that moment, however, there was a powerful hand laid upon his
shoulder, and as he turned quickly round, he found himself faced by
Colonel Manners, who still kept his hold of the gipsy's collar and
shoulder, notwithstanding the sudden jerk he gave himself.

"You are my prisoner," said Manners, sternly. "Surrender at once, for
resistance is in vain."

"Doubtless, doubtless," answered the gipsy, bitterly. "I have fallen
into the trap, and it is useless to writhe. Oh, God of heaven! how
often have I sworn never again to do a service to any of these human
worms; for, if not punished by their own base ingratitude, some other
evil is sure to follow, as if thou hadst sworn vengeance on every one
that did an act of kindness to their outcast race!"

"You shall not suffer, however, for your service to me," said Mrs.
Falkland, advancing. "I have pledged you my word, and I will redeem
it.--Colonel Manners," she continued, "listen to me for one moment:
this man has, within this quarter of an hour, saved my daughter's
life, at the risk of his own."

"Indeed!" cried Colonel Manners. "May I ask how? I trust Miss Falkland
is not hurt."

"No, not at all, I believe," replied Mrs. Falkland. "She fell from the
bank into the stream--sunk before my eyes, Colonel Manners; and had it
not been for his instant aid, she would have been now no more."

"I am most delighted, indeed, to hear of her escape," replied Manners;
"and would to God it had been my fate to render her the assistance,
instead of this person, for I should then have avoided a most painful
duty. But, indeed, my dear madam, as it is--"

"Nay, say not a word more, Colonel Manners," interrupted Mrs.
Falkland, "but hear my story out. He saved my daughter from the
stream; he swam with her to land; but she was without sense or motion.
I had nobody with me to help me, and I besought him, for the sake of
Heaven, to do what my strength was, of course, not sufficient to
perform, and to bear her home. He then told me his name; informed me
that people were hunting him like a wolf among the woods; and asked if
I could expect him to venture into the very midst of his enemies. I
plighted my word for his safety--I promised him by every thing sacred
that he should meet no impediment in quitting my dwelling; and upon
that promise alone he came."

"I am sorry, my dear madam," answered Manners, calmly, but gravely,
"that such a promise can only be binding upon yourself. Did it involve
merely an act of politeness, of friendship, or of personal sacrifice,
I would do anything in my power to oblige you: but there is a higher
duty calls upon me than either courtesy or friendship, and I must obey
its voice. I have a duty to perform towards the laws of my country--I
have a duty to my dead friend; and, at any risk and all risks, I must
and will obey it. I wish, with all my heart, that I had met this man
anywhere but here; but wherever I meet him, I am not only empowered,
but bound, by every principle of law and justice, to arrest him."

"Is there either law or justice, then, in arresting an innocent man?"
demanded the stern voice of the gipsy.

"Of your innocence or guilt the law has still to decide," replied
Manners. "An accusation of the gravest kind has been made against you,
circumstances of strong suspicion have already been discovered to
justify the charge. If you be guilty, it is but fit you should be
punished; and if you be innocent, doubt not that you shall have equal
justice."

"I did not expect this from you, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland,
bitterly. "Have you no regard, sir, to my plighted word? Have you no
consideration for my honour? I have used entreaties, sir; but I now
insist that he shall go; and, if necessary, I will call my servants
and make them set him free. He has saved my daughter's life, Colonel
Manners; he has come hither in my service, at my prayer, and upon my
promise of safety; and if he had killed my brother, he shall go hence
unimpeded."

"Madam, I believe you risk that supposition without a suspicion that
it may be true," answered Manners. "But I must now inform you, that
one of the principal charges against this man is the very fact of
having murdered your late brother."

"And the charge is false, Colonel Manners," answered Mrs. Falkland,
vehemently. "Whatever he may be now,--whatever he may have become
since,--he was not then a man to shed blood, much less the blood of
his friend and benefactor. He could have no motive but lucre, and that
motive was wanting; for from my brother he might have had whatever
sums he required. Nay, more, I have often heard my brother declare,
that he would not take what he offered. But, as I have said, Colonel
Manners, all other considerations apart, my word is pledged, and he
_shall_ go free."

"Noble heart! noble heart!" cried the gipsy. "On my hand rests not one
drop of innocent blood, as there is a God above the stars! Neither do
I fear death nor dread inquiry; but my liberty is more than my life,
and what should I do, for months, a prisoner among stone walls and the
vermin of the earth! He talks boldly of arresting me now, when he has
got me here with dozens at his back; but let him take me five hundred
yards hence, where I was ere I carried your daughter hither,--let him
take me to the wood, or the bare hill side, where there are no odds
against me,--and then, strong as he thinks himself, let him arrest me
if he can."

Mrs. Falkland was going to speak again; and might, perhaps, have
spoken angrily, for she was less calm than usual: but at that moment
Isadore's voice made itself heard, though but faintly. "Colonel
Manners," she said, "Colonel Manners, speak with me for a moment."
Manners looked towards her as she lay on the sofa at the other side of
the room; and he felt that to hear what she had to say distinctly he
must, by going nearer, release the gipsy from the grasp which he still
continued to maintain upon his collar. He felt also, what perhaps
Isadore had at her heart felt too, that her voice was likely to have
more effect with him than that of any one else; and as Manners had a
strong inclination to do his duty rigidly, he somewhat feared her
persuasions. However, he could not, of course, refuse to comply;
but to guard against his prisoner's escape, he instantly locked both
the doors of the little breakfast-room ere he approached her. He
then--seeing the gipsy stand calmly with his folded arms, as if
prepared to wait his decision--drew near, and bending down his head,
"I am most happy, indeed," he said, "that you have not suffered any
injury."

"And yet you would ruin the person who saved me," said Isadore; "but
do not reason with me, Colonel Manners, for I have neither strength
nor wit to contend with you. I want to persuade, not to convince you."

"That is what I am most afraid of," answered Manners with a smile.

"Do not be afraid," said Isadore, "but listen. Do you think, Colonel
Manners, that a man who could murder Edward de Vaux would risk his own
life to save Edward's cousin?"

"It is strange, certainly," answered Manners, "but--"

"Do you think, then," continued Isadore, interrupting him, "that a man
who felt himself guilty of murder would go voluntarily to the midst of
the friends and relations of the person he had killed, solely for the
purpose of carrying home a poor girl that he had just saved from
drowning? Your murderers, Colonel Manners, must be curious
characters."

Could Isadore have beheld the face of her hearer distinctly, she would
have seen that his cheek glowed a little with something like shame;
but he answered, "I did not say, my dear Miss Falkland, that I thought
him guilty. I only said, that the law required me to keep him a
prisoner till he had proved his innocence."

"Well, then, Colonel Manners," rejoined Isadore, "since you do not
think him guilty--and I know you do not--since there is every reason
to think him innocent--since mamma has plighted her word--since he has
saved my life--since he came hither solely to aid me--you must let him
go, indeed you must--"

Manners hesitated, and looked doubtfully at the gipsy, as he stood,
dark and shadowy, with his arms still crossed upon his bosom, and his
eyes bent upon the ground. Isadore saw that a word more would conquer;
and though her heart fluttered and her voice trembled to think how
important that word might, perhaps, become at some future time, she
made up her mind and spoke it, though in so low a tone that it fell on
no other ear but his for whom it was intended. "Colonel Manners," she
said, "you must let him go, indeed you must--" the words she added
were, "for my sake!"

Manners was embarrassed in every way. Who shall say what he would, or
what he would not have done "for the sake" of Isadore Falkland? but
that was not all--had he really believed the gipsy guilty, he would
have had no hesitation; but he did not believe him guilty. The manner
in which Mrs. Falkland repelled the idea of his being the murderer of
her brother was enough to make Colonel Manners entertain many doubts
on a subject where his convictions had never been very strong; and the
fact of the gipsy having saved Isadore's life at the risk of his own,
and carried her home at the risk of arrest, were so irreconcilable
with his guilt, that Manners began to doubt too in regard to the
murder of De Vaux. He knew, undoubtedly, that he himself was not the
person called upon to judge; but still, of course, his conviction of
Pharold's guilt or innocence made a great difference in the degree of
eagerness with which he sought to apprehend him.

But there were still several other motives for hesitation, when once
he began to doubt. He felt that Mrs. Falkland was perfectly right in
asserting, in every way, the inviolability of the promise she had made
to the gipsy--he felt that the gipsy had a right to expect that it
would be kept. He knew, also, that if Mrs. Falkland chose to call her
servants, and order the liberation of the gipsy, in all probability
any attempt to detain him would be in vain; and he was conscious, too,
that in making the attempt, he was acting, at least, a very ungracious
part. Still none of these motives, singly, would have restrained him,
had he not felt the strongest doubts of the gipsy's guilt; but when a
great many different motives enter into a conspiracy together to
change a man's opinion, they are like smiths engaged in forging a
piece of red-hot iron,--one gives it a stroke with his sledge-hammer,
and another gives it a stroke, till, hard as it may be, it is moulded
to their will. Manners, however,--although he might be led by many
considerations to temper the stern rigidity of duty,--was not a man to
abandon it altogether; and, therefore, he sought a mean which, as it
was only at his personal risk, he thought himself justified in
following, in order that Mrs. Falkland's promise might be held
inviolate, and, perhaps, that Isadore might be obeyed.

"Well!" he said, after a moment's consideration. "All this business
has happened most unfortunately, that I should meet a man here whom I
am bound to apprehend, and who yet is guarded by a promise of safety.
However, Mrs. Falkland, although I cannot abandon my own duty, yet I
must do what I can to reconcile it with the engagement under which
this person came here. I think you said," he added, turning to
Pharold, "that if I would take you to the wood, or the bare hill-side,
with no odds against you, I might arrest you if I could--did you not?"

"I did," said Pharold, "and I repeat it."

"Then we are agreed," said Colonel Manners. "I will do so, although I
am fatigued and exhausted."

"Who has a right to be the most fatigued?"' cried the gipsy. "Have I
not been hunted since the morning from wood to wood? Have I not had to
double and to turn like a hare before the hounds? Have I not twice
swam that quick stream? Have I had repose of mind or body, that you
should talk of fatigue?"

"Well, well," said Manners, "all this matters little. I accept the
proposal which you have yourself made; and I thus specify the terms.
Though accompanied by me, you shall go free from this place in any
direction that you please for one quarter of an hour; a space of time
fully sufficient to put you out of all danger of being overpowered by
numbers. At the end of that time you are my prisoner."

"If you can make me so," cried the gipsy: "if you can make me so."

"Agreed," replied Manners: "that is what I mean, of course; otherwise
our agreement would be of no use."

"Colonel Manners," exclaimed Isadore, calling him back to her, for, in
speaking, he had advanced a little towards the gipsy and Mrs.
Falkland, "for God's sake, do not go. You do not know what may happen.
Indeed, indeed, it is risking a valuable life most rashly. Let me
persuade you not to go."

She made Colonel Manners's heart beat more rapidly than ever it had
done in his life; for to a man who felt as he did, and who had
nourished the fancies that he had, to hear the voice of beauty, and
worth, and gentleness pleading to him for his own safety, was
something much more agitating than the roar of artillery, or the rush
of charging squadrons. Isadore spoke, too, in a voice low, from an
effort not to appear too much interested, and a little faint, too,
perhaps, from late agitation and exhaustion; so that there was, in
fact, a great deal more of tenderness in her tone than she at all
wished or intended.

"Nay, nay, Miss Falkland," answered Manners, who, in this instance,
though gratified, could resist--"nay, nay, I have yielded as much as I
can, indeed. I must either arrest this man here, or, out of respect to
your mother's promise and to your entreaties, must let him depart to a
spot where we may stand man to man, and then do my best to apprehend
him there."

"Oh, let him go altogether, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland; "the
one charge made against him is false, depend upon it; and in regard to
Edward de Vaux, surely his conduct in saving Isadore may be taken as a
proof that he is innocent there also. Why should you risk your life in
a struggle where you know not how many may come against you?"

"Lady, you do me justice and injustice in the same breath," said the
gipsy; "not one hand should be added to mine against his, if the whole
world were inclined to assist the gipsy, instead of to oppress him.
But at the same time, I tell him, as I have told you, that not a drop
of innocent blood is upon this hand; that it is as pure as his own,
and that I am more truly guiltless than those who boast their
innocence and sit in high places."

"I think," said Manners, turning to Mrs. Falkland, "that we must here
end all discussion, my dear madam. My mind is perfectly made up as to
what it is my duty to do. The risk, in this instance, is merely
personal; and from such I will never shrink; and I feel very sure,
also, that there is no chance of failure."

"Be not too sure," said the gipsy.

"But, Colonel Manners," urged Isadore, "if this person will give us
what information he possesses--if he will tell us what has become of
Edward--if he will explain all, in short, will it not be better to
gain those tidings, and let him go quietly, than to hazard so much on
a chance which may be productive of no results?"

"But will he make such a confession?" said Manners; "will he give
such information?"

The gipsy was silent; but Mrs. Falkland anticipated his answer.
"Doubtless he will," she said, "if you will undertake to let him go
free when he has done."

"Solely, if he can prove that Edward de Vaux is alive," answered
Manners. "Words, my dear lady, can be of no use--I must have proof
before I let him depart. He must not alone tell me what has become of
my poor friend, but he must convince me that what he has told is true;
otherwise I part not from him."

"I know not well," replied the gipsy, "whether I have even a right to
tell what I know; and how can I prove it, without remaining in your
hands, and under the curse of a roof where I can scarcely breathe,
till those come who would thrust me into a prison, one month of which
were worse than a thousand deaths? No, no! I neither will speak to be
disbelieved, nor stay to be tortured, if I can win liberty by facing,
singly, a thing of clay like myself. If you will keep your word with
me, keep it now. If you would not play me false, throw open your door,
and go out with me to a place where you shall see whether, with God's
free air blowing on my cheek, and God's pure sky above my head, any
single arm on earth can stay me, if I will to go." As he spoke,
however, two or three dim indistinct forms passed across the windows,
which still admitted the faint lingering twilight of an autumn
evening, and the gipsy, dropping his arms by his side, listened for a
moment attentively. "It is too late," he exclaimed, at length--"it is
too late. You have kept me till the bloodhounds have come back; and
you shall have the joy of seeing them worry their quarry before you."

"What is it you mean?" cried Manners. "Of what bloodhounds do you
speak?"

"He means what, I am afraid, is too true, Colonel Manners," said Mrs.
Falkland, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "that Mr. Arden and the
people sent to search the wood have just returned; and that,
therefore, notwithstanding my word and your proposal, his apprehension
in my house is the recompense he will receive for saving my daughter's
life."

"Do not be afraid, my dear madam," said Manners, "I will find means to
keep my word with him; but let us be sure that it is as you suppose,
before we risk going out into the park. I think I hear sounds in the
hall also."

Every one was silent; and the noise of distant footsteps and voices
speaking was heard from the hall and vestibule; and in a moment after,
some persons approached the very room in which Manners and the rest
were standing.

The steps passed on, however, to the library; and at the door thereof
paused immediately after, while the voice of the old butler said, "She
is not there, sir," and the feet returned. They then heard the door of
the music-room, which lay on the opposite side, open; and the butler
again said, "Nor there." The next moment a hand was laid upon the lock
of the very door near which they were standing, and Manners held his
finger to his lips in sign of silence. The old man made one or two
ineffectual attempts to turn the lock, and then repeated, "Nor there
either; for the door is locked for the night--though it is very odd
the housemaid should take upon herself to lock up the rooms when I am
out. I am sure I cannot tell where my mistress is, sir, nor Miss
Falkland either, unless they have both been spirited away, like poor
Mr. Edward; for they certainly are not up-stairs in either of the
drawing-rooms, nor at the place where the boy told me he left them.
But now I think of it, I should not wonder if they were in poor Miss
Marian's room; and if you will walk up into the drawing-room, sir, I
will send to see."

"Do, do," said the voice of Mr. Arden; "but it is very strange that
they should have left the spot so suddenly, when they sent for you to
come to them. Why did you not search the wood directly? It is not
bigger than my hand."

"Oh, sir, I set the boy and the two others we had called to help us to
search," replied the butler; "but I came back again, because it was
not my place to search woods, sir; and, besides, I had a presentiment
that your honour would be here."

"The devil you had," said Mr. Arden; but what the worthy magistrate
further replied was lost as he followed the butler up the stairs
towards the drawing-room.

"Now, my dear madam," said Manners, in a low voice, "let me advise you
instantly to join Mr. Arden, and to keep him engaged till I can effect
my retreat with our friend here; and you, my dear Miss Falkland, for
God's sake do not forget yourself any longer; we have treated you very
ill already, to keep you here so long in wet clothes. I am not very
much accustomed to act as physician to ladies; but if I might advise,
going to bed and warm negus would be my prescription."

"Which I shall instantly follow, Colonel Manners," said Isadore; "but,
for Heaven's sake, take care of yourself too. Let us see you gone
before we open the door."

"No, no," answered Manners; "yours must be the first party to march
off: I cannot move till I have reconnoitred the ground." Thus saying,
he turned the key and opened the door as silently as possible, and
Mrs. Falkland and her daughter passed out into the corridor. Isadore
paused for a single instant, as if she would have spoken either to
Manners or the gipsy; but the former held up his finger, and gently
closed the door that led from the breakfast-room into the interior of
the house.

"Now, then," he said in a whisper to the gipsy, "let me see that
all is safe;" and opening the glass door, he gazed forth over the
lawns. The twilight lay heavy over the whole scene, and the dim
indistinctness of the day's old age rendered it impossible to see any
distant object. There was no one, however, in the immediate
neighbourhood of the house; and Manners, looking back into the room,
beckoned the gipsy forward, saying, "Now, come with me."

Pharold instantly complied; and Manners whispered, "While we are in
the park, you remain under my guidance and protection. As soon as we
are safe out of it, you take the lead which way you will."

The gipsy nodded, and Manners took his way by the shortest cut to the
trees. Then taking a walk which led up by some steps and a small
rustic door into the garden, he crossed over, till they were both
between the fruit-wall and a high holly hedge. Along this path he now
walked rapidly, till they reached a spot half way between the house
and the gate through which, with Isadore and Marian, and Edward de
Vaux, he had once walked out into the woods. Here the gipsy halted for
a moment, but then followed on without remark. The next instant,
however, Manners heard in the bushes a noise of rustling, which the
gipsy had before distinguished; and ere he had taken two steps
farther, a man stood before him in the walk.

"Are you the gardener?" said Manners, still advancing.

"Yes," said the man. "What if I be?"

"Why, then, go to the house," said Manners, "and if you find Mr.
Arden, the magistrate, there, give him Colonel Manners's compliments,
and tell him that if he will wait half an hour, I will be back with
him, as I have matters of importance to speak to him about, but am
obliged to go a little way with this good man ere I can attend to
anything else."

"I beg your honour's pardon," said the gardener; "I did not know you
in this dark walk. That made me speak so rough; but if your honour be
going out by that ere door, it's locked. I have just been locking it."

"Well, open it again, then, gardener," said Manners, "and then make
haste and give my message."

"That I will, your honour," answered the gardener, walking on towards
the door. "But did your honour say that this here man was along with
you? He looks--"

"Never mind what he looks," answered Manners, somewhat sternly. "He
has matters of importance to arrange with me, or he would not be here;
so make haste and open the door."

The man obeyed, and only demanded further, whether he should leave the
key. "No," said Manners; "I will return by the other gate.--Now go
out, my good friend, and lead the way to the place you spoke of."
Pharold proceeded through the open door; and Manners, bidding the
gardener not forget his message, followed out into the road.




                              CHAPTER V.


"This is a strange business!" thought Manners, as he followed the
gipsy into the road. "This is a strange business; and, on my part, not
a very wise one, I believe. However, there seemed no other way to
settle it; and having acted for the best, I must make the best of it;
though, perhaps, I should have persisted in apprehending the fellow,
where I had the means of doing so, at once."

Such were the thoughts of the decided, energetic, acting Colonel
Manners, who was known to the world at large as one of the most
skilful and fortunate officers in his majesty's service; but the other
Colonel Manners--the feeling, generous-hearted, somewhat imaginative
Colonel Manners, who was only known to himself and a few very intimate
friends, as a man both of the most gentlemanly mind and spirit, and of
the most liberal and kindly disposition--had other thoughts. I have
tried to explain this union of separate characters in the same bosom
already; and I think it may be understood, for it is certain that it
existed.

The latter Colonel Manners--whose great principle was to keep out of
sight, and who spoke so low that, though he generally, sooner or
later, made himself obeyed, he was not always very distinctly heard at
first, even by his fellow-denizen of the same noble bosom--now
revolved the whole business in which he was engaged in a different
manner; and although he could not help acknowledging that it was very
strange and very silly to yield to doubtful inferences, in opposition
to positive facts, yet he felt a strong conviction that the gipsy whom
he followed was not guilty of the crimes laid to his charge.

He wished much also that, by any other means than those of violence,
he could obtain such evidence of Pharold's innocence, or at least such
powerful motives for believing him innocent, as might justify in the
severer eyes of understanding that course which was prompted by
feeling and kindness. He saw no means of doing so, however, unless
from the man's own lips he could draw some explanation of the many
suspicious circumstances which existed against him. Yet how to begin
such a conversation as might lead to that result, or how to shape his
inquiries so as to draw the gipsy on to the point in question, without
alarming him at an interrogation of which he did not see the end? It
required some thought, and yet there was little time for reflection.

Manners followed, therefore, in silence for some way, while the gipsy,
with a quick step, took the path towards the hill. At the turn of the
lane both Manners and Pharold looked back towards the gate of the
garden, to see whether curiosity might not have tempted the gardener
to follow; but though the light of day had now almost entirely left
the sky, yet the distance was so short that the garden wall and the
closed door were plainly to be seen, without any other object. A
little farther on stood a cottage, with the warm fire and the single
candle within flashing faintly through the dim small window, on the
little bit of white railing before the door. Manners paused, and
looked at his watch by the light; and then following the gipsy, he
said, in a low and unconcerned tone, "There is an air of comfort even
in an English cottage."

His purpose was to begin a conversation by any means, trusting to
chance for the rest; but the gipsy did not seem disposed to render it
a long one. "Holes for rats, and for mice, and for snakes, and for
foxes!" he said; "God's nobler sky for God's nobler creatures! that is
the best covering."

He spoke harshly, but still he did speak, which was all that Manners
wanted; and he replied, "Do you think, then, that God gave men
talents, and skill, and power in many arts, without intending him to
make use of them?"

"Not to build up molehills out of dust and ashes!" said the gipsy.

"But how is he to defend himself, then, against the storm and the
tempest?" demanded Manners; "against the midday heat of summer or the
chill wintry wind?"

"He needs no defence!" answered the gipsy. "Were he not the creature
of luxury rather than of God, the changing seasons would be as
beneficial to his body as they are to those of the beasts of the
field, and to the earth of which he and they are made. And as to storm
and tempest, the searching blade of the blue lightning will strike him
in the palace as surely as on the bare hill or the barren moor; and
the hurricane that passes by the wanderer on the plain will cast down
their painted rubbish on the heads of the dwellers in cities."

Manners saw that, as the lines of their ideas set out from the same
point in directions diametrically opposite, they might be projected to
all eternity without meeting; and therefore he at once brought the
conversation nearer to the real subject of his thoughts. "We differ,"
he said, "and of course must differ, on every subject connected with
the manners and habits of mankind; but there is one point on which, I
trust, we shall not differ."

"I know none," said the gipsy, abruptly. "What is it?"

"It is, that the creatures of the same God," Manners exclaimed, "are
bound to assist and comfort each other!"

"If such be your thoughts," answered the gipsy, turning round upon
him--"if such be your opinions, then, why do you seek to torture me?
Or is it that you think a gipsy not a creature of the same God as
yourself?"

"I seek not to torture you," answered Manners. "Were I to see any
one torture you, my hand would be the first raised to defend you.
Nothing that you see of me now--nothing that you saw of me when last
we met--should make you suppose that I would torture you, even if I
had the power."

"I tell you," answered the gipsy, sternly, "that to live one day in
the brightest saloon that the hands of folly ever decked for the abode
of vice, would be torture to me! What, then, would be a prison?"

"Whatever your own feelings might make it," answered Manners. "My
purpose in seeking to place you in one, could only be to fulfil the
laws of my country, and to bring the guilty to justice; but not to
torture you. Nor, in this, can you accuse me of looking upon you not
as a fellow-creature; for, of whatever race the offender had been, you
know I would have done the same under any circumstances; though your
peculiar feeling respecting liberty might, indeed, make me more
scrupulous in arresting you than I should be in regard to a person of
another race."

"And have you been so scrupulous, then?" demanded the gipsy, bitterly.
"Have you examined so carefully whether you have any real right to
suspect me of the charges brought against me? Have you inquired
whether those appearances on which the charges were grounded might not
be all false and futile? Have you asked and searched out diligently
whether some of those men who witness against me have not hatred and
fear of me at their hearts? Have you done all this, before you sought
to give me up to the hands of those whose enmity and whose prejudices
would all forbid justice to be done me?"

"I am not the judge," answered Manners; "and a judge alone can make
such inquiries."

"Are you, then, a tipstaff, or a bailiff, or a turnkey?" demanded the
gipsy, "that you should pursue me, as if the warrant were placed in
your hands for execution!"

"I am neither of those persons you mention," Manners replied; "but
every subject of this land is empowered and called upon to apprehend a
person against whom a warrant on a charge of murder is known to have
issued. But to return to what I was saying: in construing the power
thus placed in my hands, I should always be more scrupulous to a
person of your class--or nation, if you like the word better--because
I know how galling the loss of liberty must be to one who spurns even
the common restraints of cities; and could I have any positive proof
that the warrant had issued against you on a false charge, I certainly
should not attempt to execute it."

"On what charge did it issue?" demanded the gipsy, turning for a
moment to ask the question, ere he again strode on.

"You are aware that there are many charges against you," replied
Manners; "but the precise one to which you allude is, I believe, the
having murdered my poor friend Edward de Vaux."

The gipsy laughed aloud. "Were that all," he said, "it were soon
disproved. His blood is not upon my hand."

"Disprove it, then!" exclaimed Manners, who, from the whole tenour of
the gipsy's conversation, felt more and more convinced of his
companion's innocence at every step they took. "Disprove it, then!
Other charges have been brought since; but I know nothing of them,
except that one of them, as far as I can judge, is certainly false.
Therefore, if you can but show me that the blood of my poor friend De
Vaux does not stain your hand, I will leave you directly to follow
what course you please; but if you cannot do so, we are now upon the
bare hill-side, where there is none to aid either you or me; and you
shall go no further, if I can stop you."

A man may be a very clever man, and not able to calculate all the
curious turns of another's character; and it so unfortunately happened
that Manners, after having led the gipsy very nearly to the point he
wished, overthrew at once everything he had accomplished by the threat
with which he concluded. He was sorry for it as soon as it had passed
his lips, as he instantly felt it might do harm; but he did not at all
calculate upon its producing so great effect as it did.

The gipsy took two steps forward, and then turning round, stood with
Manners face to face. "Colonel Manners," he said, "not one drop of
your friend's blood stains my hand!--I swear it by yon heaven, and by
the God who made it! I could prove it, too; but I will not prove it
for any man's threats. You say I shall not go, if you can stop me! I
am not bound yet, thank God! with cords or chains. I am not laid in
one of your dungeons. I am not shut in with bolts and bars. I will not
tell you what I know! I will not give you proof of any kind; and I bid
you take me, if you can." As he thus defied him, and announced his
determination, Manners expected every moment to see Pharold turn to
use the speed for which his limbs seemed formed; and although the
gipsy was, as we have said, two paces in advance of him, he did not
doubt that he should be able to seize him before he could effect his
escape. The ground on which they were standing was a small flat space
on the side of the hill, with the road, taking a steep ascent four or
five paces beyond, and having a deep descent on one side, and a rapid
acclivity on the other. Thus, if the gipsy attempted to fly along the
road, Manners saw that he must necessarily turn to do so, and thus
delay his flight; while, if he took any other way, he must come within
reach. To Colonel Manners's surprise, however, the gipsy did not move
from his place; but remained with his arms folded, in an attitude of
determination, which very plainly spoke the resolution of bringing the
affair to a personal struggle. Manners smiled as he perceived his
intention, very confident that his superior muscular strength would at
any time enable him to overpower two such antagonists.

"My good fellow," he said, "this is really very foolish; for even if
you suppose yourself stronger than I am, I could disable you in a
moment, if I thought fit, with my sword. As you seem determined to
resist, however, I will make myself even with you in point of arms,
and lay aside my sword, which I cannot draw upon an unarmed man; but
it must be remembered--"

"Keep your sword, Colonel Manners," said the gipsy--"keep your sword,
and draw it! I am not so much unarmed as I look:" and, as he spoke, he
drew from beneath his long loose coat the weapon with which, as we
have seen, he had provided himself in the morning.

Now there was not exactly at that moment what Sir Lucius O'Trigger
calls very good small-sword light. The sun was down completely; and
though the last gray gleam of parting daylight that lingered still in
the western extremity of the valley, and was reflected from the
windings of the glassy stream, fell, with all the force it had left,
upon the spot where Manners and his antagonist were standing--though
two or three stars were early looking through the mottled clouds, and
the coming moon threw some light before her--still, his powers of
vision must have been strong who could see, as clearly as is
desirable, the playing of an adversary's point round his sword-blade.
Manners, however, did not hesitate. He was becoming a little irritated
at the tone of bitter and, in some degree, scornful defiance which the
gipsy assumed; and although it was not in his nature to be very much
moved by any thing of the kind, yet he went so far as to think, "Well
he shall soon find that a gipsy is not quite so all-accomplished a
genius as he imagines! I have had a droll fate here, certainly;
to be called out by my friend's father, and to fight a duel with a
gipsy!--The consequences be upon your own head, my good friend!" he
added, aloud, bringing round the hilt of his sword, and drawing it
from the scabbard. "I do not wish to hurt you, but you force me to do
so."

"Be it on my head!" said Pharold; and their blades crossed.

There are two sorts of brave men--one which gets warm and impetuous in
action and danger, and one which gets calm and cool. Manners was of
the latter sort. Perhaps there never was upon the face of the earth a
man whose heart applied to itself the idea of danger less than his;
and, consequently, he acted as if he were a spectator, even where
peril to himself was most imminent. In the present instance, he soon
found that he had much underrated the skill of his opponent; for, if
he had not a very _theoretical_, Pharold had at least a very
_practical_, knowledge of the use of his weapon; and his singular
agility and pliancy of muscle added many an advantage. Manners was
sincerely sorry to find that such was the case: not that he imagined
for a moment that all the gipsy's skill or activity would suffice to
injure him, but he wished and designed to master his opponent without
hurting him; and this he felt would be very difficult, if not
impossible. He strove for it pertinaciously, however, for some time;
and hazarded something himself in order to obtain that object. At
length, however, he became weary of the contest, and saw that he must
soon bring it to a termination somehow, although he still felt an
invincible disinclination to risking such a lunge as might deprive his
adversary of life. He determined, then, to play a game hazardous to
himself, though merciful to his opponent; and, aided by his superior
strength and height, he pressed the gipsy back against the hill as
vehemently as he could. In his haste, he barely parried a lunge, and
the gipsy's sword went through the lappels of his coat: but the
advantage was gained; and at once disarming his adversary, he closed
with him, cast him to the ground, and set his knee upon his chest.

The contest, in all, had continued for some time; but the last
struggle was over in a moment; and ere Pharold well knew what had
occurred, he found himself on the ground, with the sword of the
British officer at his throat. He lay there, however, calm, still,
stern, without making even one of those instinctive efforts to shield
his bosom from the weapon, from which a less determined spirit could
not have refrained.

"Now!" cried Manners--"now, will you give me the explanation I seek?"

"Never!" answered the gipsy, in a low but firm voice--"never!"

Manners hesitated for a moment; but then, withdrawing his knee from
the gipsy's breast, he returned his sword into the scabbard. "I will
try other means!" he thought--"I will try other means!"

Through the whole of the events which had lately passed, Manners had
been gradually gaining a deeper insight into the character of the
gipsy, and had learned to appreciate him better than at first; but
still there was much to be considered, much to be calculated; and many
a conflicting opinion, and many an opposite feeling, crossed Manners's
bosom in the short space of time that was allowed for thought. He did
not forget the various circumstances which had led him to believe that
his friend had been murdered by the gipsy, and all of which remained
unexplained; but he remembered, also, how fallacious circumstantial
evidence often is; and he set against those circumstances of suspicion
the positive fact, that the gipsy had saved the life of Isadore
Falkland at the peril of his own, and had carried her to her mother's
house at the imminent risk of being arrested. The high character which
Mrs. Falkland said he had borne in the past, the regard which she had
hinted that her deceased brother had felt towards him, all tended to
show that he was a man of no ordinary qualities; and although, in the
absence of such knowledge of his character. Manners might have judged
his obstinate refusal of all explanation as a proof of his guilt, yet,
seeing that in every thing else his motives and his actions were
different from those of ordinary men, he judged that it might be the
same in this instance also. "I will try extraordinary means with him,
too," thought Manners; "and perhaps I may gain more by it than by
following the dictates of rigid duty to the letter."

"Why will you not explain?" he added, aloud. "It would save both you
and me from many a painful occurrence."

"Because I will not be compelled to any act under the sun!" answered
the gipsy, who had only taken advantage of the degree of freedom which
he now possessed to raise himself upon his arm.

"Then you shall not be compelled!" answered Manners, to whom his
answer had given the right key to his obduracy--"then you shall not
be compelled! but you shall be persuaded. Stand up, Pharold, and
listen to me, as to one who does not feel towards you as you would
make yourself believe that all our race do towards yours. You have
seen my conduct--you see it now; and you must judge of me better than
you lately did."

The gipsy hung his head. "You have kept your word with me," he
answered. "You have brought me to a place where no odds could be found
against me; and you have vanquished with your own weapons at your own
trade. What more?"

"I have spared you when I might have hurt you," replied Manners; "and
now I let you go free when I might make you a prisoner--"

"You let me go free!" cried the gipsy, in a tone of
astonishment--"you let me go free! and without conditions, too?"

"Without any conditions," answered Manners, "but such as your own
heart shall lay upon you, when you have heard all that I have to say
to you."

"Then you, too, are one of the few noble hearts," answered the gipsy,
rising; "and I have done you injustice."

"There are more noble hearts in the world," Manners rejoined, "than
you know of, my friend. But listen to me, and let me see if yours be a
noble heart too. Edward de Vaux is, or was, my friend and my companion
in arms. We have stood by each other in battle; we have attended each
other in sickness; we have delivered each other in danger; and, had he
been my brother, I could not have loved him better. I find that, the
night before last, he left his home when all the family were at rest;
that he went to visit one with whom he had no known acquaintance or
business; and that he never returned to those he most loved. Was it
not natural for me to search for him with all the rapidity in my
power?"

"It was! it was!" answered the gipsy; "and I have judged you harshly."

"I did search for him," continued Manners; "and I found, by footmarks
in the earth, that he had gone with the stranger whom he had visited
to a lonely quarry, and that from that spot his footsteps are not to
be traced. This afforded some cause for suspicion and apprehension;
but when the place where his steps disappeared was all stained and
dabbled with blood, what was I to think?--what was I to do?"

"To think that he was murdered, and to pursue the murderer," answered
Pharold, boldly; "and I have done you wrong: but the habit of
suffering injustice and indignity from your race irritates ours into
believing that you are always unjust; and, in this instance, the
consciousness of my own innocence, too, hid from my eyes one-half of
the appearances against me."

"You judge wisely, and you judge well," answered Manners. "There were
strong appearances against you; and there were also many minor facts
which swelled those appearances into proof so positive of my friend's
death and of your guilt, that I should have been unworthy of the name
of his friend--unworthy of the name of a man--if I had not pursued you
as I have done."

"You would!" answered the gipsy.

"And yet, notwithstanding all this," continued Manners, "I tell you,
honestly, that I believe you innocent. I may be foolish to do so--the
prepossession may be false--the motives for such belief may be slight;
but yet that belief is strong. With powerful evidence against you I
felt convinced of your innocence; and, with the power to take you, I
let you go free."

Manners paused for a moment, and the gipsy, with his hands clasped and
his eyes bent upon the ground, remained silent, buried, apparently, in
deep thought. "Now," continued Manners, after suffering him to revolve
what he had said for a few moments--"now, I have spoken to your
understanding, and I have shown you that my conduct in pursuing you
has been fully justifiable, and that I am not one of those unjust and
ignorant fools who entertain a base prejudice against the whole of
your race, which but serves to drive them on to acts of reckless evil.
I have treated you generously--I have not consulted even rigid duty;
and leaving you free to act, I now speak to your heart."

"Speak on! speak on!" said the gipsy. "You speak language that I love
to hear."

"I have told you," said Manners, "how I esteem Edward de Vaux; I have
told you how intimate have been the bonds that united us--how dear the
friendship that we felt; judge, then, of my feelings now, as I stand
before you, not knowing whether he be dead or alive, well or ill,
murdered or in safety. But hear me further.--There is every reason to
believe him lost for ever; and in that belief, not only I, his friend,
must remain, but all who loved him--all to whom he is bound by the
dearest ties; and I leave you to conceive the agony of suspense which
they now endure. Mrs. Falkland--her daughter, whose life you have so
lately saved--De Vaux's father, Lord Dewry--"

The gipsy started, clenched his white teeth, and shaking his hand
furiously towards the sky, exclaimed, "May the vengeance of God fall
like a thunderbolt on his head, and wither his heart to ashes!"

"Well, well!" said Manners, seeing that he had struck a wrong chord,
"pass him by; for there are others more interested than he, than I,
than any of us. There is a young lady, fair, and gentle, and delicate,
beloved by all who know her, blessed by the poor and the afflicted,
the ornament of her house, the delight of her friends; and to her own
immediate family, the cherished, the beloved relic of a noble, a
generous, a feeling parent early snatched away--of a parent whom I
have heard that you yourself esteemed and loved--of the late Lord
Dewry, I mean; for the lady I refer to is Miss De Vaux."

"What of her? what of her?" demanded the gipsy eagerly: "but I guess!
I guess!"

"It is easy for you to imagine what she must feel," said Manners. "She
has been, as probably you know, engaged to her cousin De Vaux for
several years, and they have loved each other through life. Their
affection has grown up with them from childhood, and has been
strengthened by every tie, till at length their marriage, which was
appointed to take place in a few weeks, was to have united them for
ever. Judge, then--judge what must be her feelings now; but I will not
attempt to tell you what those feelings are--I will only tell you in
what situation she now is, and leave you to judge for yourself. This
very evening, the medical man who is attending her, assured me that
the anxiety and apprehension which she has suffered on account of her
cousin, have already seriously impaired her health; and that great
fears, even for her life itself, are to be entertained, if this state
of mental agony is not soon put an end to by certainty of some kind."

"That alters the whole," cried the gipsy--"that alters the whole! But
let me think a moment--let me think!"

"Yes!" said Manners; "think of it,--and think well!--think what must
be the feelings of a young and affectionate heart, which, early
deprived of the sweet relationships of parent and child, had fixed
all its best and warmest affections upon one who well deserved its
love,--had concentrated upon him alone all those feelings of
tenderness and regard which are generally divided among a thousand
other objects; and which had so lately seen him return from scenes of
danger and strife to peace and quietness, and, as all fancied, to love
and domestic happiness;--think what must be the feelings of such a
heart, when the object of all her thoughts and hopes is suddenly and
strangely torn from her--when every trace of him is lost, but such as
naturally and strongly lead the mind to conclude that death of a
bloody and violent nature is the cause of his prolonged and
extraordinary absence.--Think--think well what must be the feelings of
Miss De Vaux, his promised bride--think what must be my feelings, as
his companion and friend; and, if your heart be other than of stone,
sure I am that you will instantly afford the means--if you possess
them--of removing all these cruel doubts and fears, and relieving our
anxiety, at least by certainty of our friend's fate."

"You need say no more!" said the gipsy--"you need say no more! I will
remove your fears upon easy conditions.--I had not foreseen all this.
Like a fool, I had not remembered that events, which seemed to me all
simple and clear, because I was an actor in them and saw them all,
would produce such anxiety and fear to those who saw no more than the
result; but I have been moved by many another feeling, and occupied by
many another event. I have seen men bring ruin on their own heads and
mine, by following their own wilful follies rather than my counsel and
command; and I have seen a thoughtless and innocent boy entrapped into
becoming the sacrifice for the guilty and the obstinate. I have been
called upon to punish the offenders, and to endeavour to rescue the
innocent; and I have been hunted through this livelong day like a wild
beast;--so that I may well have forgot that circumstances, very simple
in themselves, might fill others that knew not all, with strange fears
and suspicions; but besides that--besides that--I had other motives
for not telling what I knew.--Those motives are now shaken by stronger
ones; and for the sake of Marian de Vaux, I will say what I would not
have said for the sake of my own life; but it must be on certain
conditions."

"Name them," said Manners; "and if they be not very hard to fulfil,
doubt not that I will undertake them."

The gipsy paused, and thought for several minutes, and he then
replied, "I will, as I have said, put you in the way of finding your
friend, Edward de Vaux; and you will find him--if not well--at least
in kindly hands. But now mark me. The person with whom he is has
lately come over from America with private views and purposes of his
own, yet doubtful and unresolved whether he will proceed with them or
not. Were his residence in England known to any one, it might force
him either to execute the designs with which he came sooner than he
intended, or perhaps prevent him from changing those designs, though
other circumstances may render such a change necessary; or still
further--"

"In short," said Manners, "he is desirous of remaining concealed; and,
as far as I know, has every right to do so, without my inquiring at
all into his motives. But you forget, my good friend, that there is as
little chance of my knowing this person of whom you speak, as of my
betraying him if I did."

"You are wrong," said the gipsy; "there is every chance of your
knowing him; you have seen him I know, and esteem him I am sure; and,
what I have to require is this, if, by my means, you find Edward de
Vaux, and recognise the person now kindly tending him, you shall not,
upon any pretence, or to any person whatsoever, reveal his real name
and character. You shall recognise him merely as the person that he
chooses to call himself, and speak of him as none other."

"Of course! of course!" answered Manners; "he shall keep the
incognito, for anything that I may do to the contrary, as long and as
strictly as he likes."

"But, one thing more," said the gipsy, "one thing more,--you shall, on
no account whatever, lead--or give such information as may lead--the
father of Edward de Vaux to the place where his son is."

"That is somewhat extraordinary," said Manners; "but I suppose, of
course, that this person to whom you allude is Lord Dewry's enemy."

"He was once his friend," said the gipsy, "and, perhaps, now that lord
may speak of him as such, for there is no knowing by what terms his
deep and crafty spirit may designate the people whom he most hates.
Not a week ago he gave me gold, and would fain have made me think he
loved me; but I knew him to the heart, and I saw the serpent in his
eye."

Whatever Manners might think of the evident hatred, strong and
reciprocal, which existed between the peer and the singular person
with whom he now stood, he did not judge it expedient to risk the
advantages he had gained by defending Lord Dewry, especially as
circumstances placed the power of dictating the conditions in the
hands of the gipsy. "My acquaintance with De Vaux's father," he said,
"has been too short to acquire any knowledge of his real character."

"It would require years, long years," said the gipsy, "to know his
character as I know it--long, long years!--or one of those lightning
flashes of nature that sometimes, whether men will or not, burst from
the darkness in which they shroud themselves, and show at once the
deep secrets of their spirit."

"At all events," said Manners, "common humanity leads me to wish much
to inform the unhappy father of his son's safety, and doubtless your
conditions do not imply that I should refrain from such proceeding, as
soon as I have, with my own eyes, seen my poor friend's condition."

"In that respect, you shall be guided by him to whom I send you,"
answered Pharold. "It is sufficient for me to ensure, that the
confidence he has placed in me will be betrayed by no fault of
mine--that compassion for a gentle and innocent girl does not lead me
to risk defeating the plans of a man who trusts me. I know that when
you have pledged your word, you will hold it sacred. Your actions have
spoken for you! Will you accept the conditions?"

"I will!" answered Manners; "and only beg of you to conclude the
matter as fast as possible."

"Well, then!" said the gipsy, pointing through the valley towards the
line of the distant hills; "you see yon moon, just raising her golden
round behind the thin trees upon the upland. When she has risen ten
palms breadths upon the sky, you shall find me here again, and I will
lead you to him you seek."

"Nay, but," said Manners, "I thought you were about to conduct me
thither now."

"Doubt me not," said the gipsy, sternly, discovering at once that
suspicions, slight indeed, but newly awakened by the proposed delay,
were coming over the mind of his companion. "Doubt me not. By the God
that I worship, by the heavens his handiwork, by the life he gave me,
by the liberty I value more, I will not fail you. You have spared me
when you might have thrust me into a dungeon, and I would not deceive
you even by a thought."

"I believe you," answered Manners; "I believe you--only this, I am
very anxious, ere I return to Morley House, to be enabled to give some
account of him I seek; to be enabled, in short, to afford some comfort
to Edward de Vaux's family. Can we not proceed then at once?"

"No!" answered the gipsy. "I must think of my own race too. By the
unhappy occurrences of last night, my people have been scattered and
have fled for concealment, while I remained to see whether I could
find, or could deliver, the unfortunate prey, which those who laid the
trap for us had found in the snare. My companions know not yet where I
am; and I know not whether they are safe. Thus, ere I go farther, I
must see what have been the events of this day to those whom I am
bound to protect and guide."

"Be it so then," answered Manners; "but, at all events, you will allow
me to give De Vaux's family the assurance that he is living and is
safe."

"As far," said the gipsy, "as you dare to trust to my most solemn
assurance, he is living, and safe also, if you mean by that word that
he is free from restraint, and from any risk of injury; but that he is
well, you must not say; for he is ill in body and sick at heart; and
it may be long ere he is cured of either."

"That is bad enough, indeed," answered Manners; "but it is so much
better than the events, which we had reason to believe had occurred,
that the bare fact of his being in a state of security will be an
infinite relief to those who love him. I will trust to your word
entirely, and both give the consolation which you have afforded to
those who will feel it most deeply, and be here at the time you
name, though I am not very much accustomed to calculate hours by
hands-breadths of the sky; and you must remember that, from Morley
House, the moon is seen in a different position from that in which she
appears here." The gipsy smiled, with a slight touch of contempt at
Manners's inexpertness in a mode of calculating the time, which was to
him familiar. "Well, well," he said, "be here in just two hours, and
you shall find me waiting you. In the meantime, rest at ease regarding
your friend, and speak securely the words of hope and comfort to his
family; and God be with you in your errand of peace. You have acted a
noble part to-night, and there is one that blesses those who do so."

Thus saying, he sprang down the bank to the spot where the sword,
which Manners's superior skill and strength had wrenched from his
grasp, was lying under a low bush. Pharold snatched it up, and was
about to return it to the sheath; but some sudden thought seemed to
cross his mind, and holding it up, he gazed upon it for a moment or
two in silence. "Accursed be thou!" he cried at length, in a bitter
tone. "Accursed be thou, false friend and faithless servant! to leave
thy master's hand at the moment of need!" and breaking the blade
across his knee, he cast the fragments down the hill, and strode away,
scarcely appearing to notice that Colonel Manners still stood gazing
at his wild and vehement behaviour.

Manners smiled as he turned to retread his steps; and perhaps that
smile might be occasioned by seeing the gipsy wreak his indignation at
the failure he had met with in their struggle upon the senseless
object which his hand had not been able to retain. Perhaps, too, he
might remark how all uncultivated people resemble children; but, at
all events, the tidings that he had heard of his friend's safety, and
his conviction that those tidings were true, had certainly given him a
much greater inclination to smile than he had felt when he came to
that spot.

As he thought, however, over all the circumstances, while bending his
way back once more to Morley House, he did not certainly find that his
situation was, in every respect, a very pleasant one. He had to
remember that the gipsy, Pharold, was charged with two other crimes
besides the assumed death of Edward de Vaux. In regard to the first of
these two, that of having been an accessary, or principal, in the
murder of the late Lord Dewry, Manners had but Mrs. Falkland's opinion
upon the subject to support his own doubts of the man's guilt. In
regard to the second, that of having participated in the outrage at
Dimden Park, and having fired the gun by which Sir Roger Millington
was wounded, Manners, after leaving the peer at Dimden, as we shall
almost immediately have occasion to show more particularly, had
visited the keeper who had been wounded in the affray, and from him
had learned sufficient to satisfy his mind that Pharold was guiltless
of any share in that unfortunate transaction. On that point,
therefore, his mind was satisfied; but, in regard to the other charge,
he did not feel at all sure that he was not liable to severe
animadversion for the lenity he had shown towards the gipsy.

"I do not know the laws of the land," he thought, with a half smile,
"quite well enough to be sure whether they may not make me out an
accessary after the fact, if ever this Pharold should be found guilty
of slaying his benefactor; but, at all events, if the good gossiping
world were to get hold of my having taken two or three moonlight walks
with him, and having let him escape when I had the power to apprehend
him, it would make a pretty story of it." However. Colonel Manners was
a man who had too much confidence in his own motives, and too much
reliance on what he called his good fortune, though others named it
his good judgment, to care much what the world said; and this was
probably one of the reasons why that world was well satisfied to load
him with praise and honour. He took his way back to Morley House,
therefore, tolerably satisfied with what he had done, thinking, "I
must now, however, try to soften down Mrs. Falkland's wrath and
indignation at my persevering rudeness this evening; but, doubtless,
the tidings I bring will prove no small propitiation."

To these thoughts he endeavoured to limit himself, though imagination
strove hard to lead him into a thousand rambling fancies concerning
the causes of De Vaux's disappearance. Manners, however, had a habit
of keeping his thoughts under proper discipline, and always prepared
to repel whatever force might attack them. Thus, as he knew, or at
least trusted, that a few hours would give him a thorough insight into
the real situation of Edward de Vaux, he would not give way on that
point, and tried to think of something else. But the light brigades of
fancy are like a troop of Cossacks, and the moment they are beaten off
at one spot, they wheel and attack another. When imagination found,
then, that Manners would not be drawn from his intrenchments by the
thoughts of De Vaux, she tried what she could do with the image of
Isadore Falkland; but Manners was prepared there, too, and had
reproached himself so bitterly with some slight beatings of his heart,
which had occurred during his last meeting with that fair lady, that
he resisted all thought upon the subject with the heroism of Leonidas.

Having thus reached Morley House in safety, Manners's first inquiry
was for Mr. Arden; but the old butler, with a look of solemn
importance, informed him that the magistrate had been gone about half
an hour, leaving a message, however, for Colonel Manners, to the
effect that, having some other business of much importance awaiting
his return, he could not have the honour of staying till Colonel
Manners arrived, but would come back early the following morning.

"That will do quite as well," answered Manners; and seeing that the
cloud of self-importance upon the old man's brow had not as yet quite
disgorged itself of its contents, he paused in order to hear what
next, and the butler proceeded: "Please, sir, Miss Marian--that is to
say, Miss De Vaux, but we always call her Miss Marian, to distinguish
from Miss Isadore--but Miss Marian sent her maid down just now to say,
that when you come back she wishes very much to see you herself, for
she desires to speak with you."

The man spoke in as mysterious a tone as if he were communicating a
state secret, but Manners who hated nothing on earth so much as
mystery, answered rather sharply, "Well, as you see I have returned,
you had better call Miss De Vaux's maid to take me to her mistress."

"Oh, Miss Marian, sir, is in the little drawing-room," replied the
butler: "she has been there these ten minutes, though Mrs. Falkland
does not know it, because she is with Miss Isadore, who fell into the
water, and wet her clothes, and had nearly been drowned, they do say;
but--"

Manners waited for no further information on subjects with which he
was already acquainted; but, walking up stairs, proceeded to what was
called the little drawing-room, and opened the door. Marian de Vaux
was sitting on a sofa, with her fair rounded cheek, grown many a shade
paler since Manners last saw it, leaning on her hand, and her arm
again resting on the table. Her head was slightly bent, and the hand
on which it leaned curved round at the wrist, with the fingers
dropping languidly under her cheek, and with weary hopeless anxiety in
every line. Her eyes, when Manners entered, were cast down, with a
drop like a diamond struggling through the long dark lashes; and the
light, falling from above, threw the greater part of her beautiful
face into shadow; but it fell clear and soft on her fair open
forehead, and on her brown hair, which, to save the trouble of much
dressing, was braided back behind her ears, but which still, by many a
wavy line and struggling bend across her brow, showed its natural
tendency to fall into ringlets round her face. An open book was on the
table before her; but it looked not as if she had been reading, for it
was turned in such a way that her eye could not possibly have
deciphered its contents.

She did not hear the door open; but Manners's first step in the room
caught her attention, and she raised her eyes. "Oh, Colonel Manners,"
she said, as soon as she saw him, "I am very glad you have come, for I
very much wished to speak with you; but I am afraid you are fatigued,
and perhaps may not have time to spare."

"Not at all," answered Manners, with a smile, which he intended to
prepare the way for better tidings. "Indeed, I think, Miss De Vaux,
that if you had not sent me an invitation, I should have sent to
petition one."

"The fact is, Colonel Manners," said Marian, "I wish to know the
truth. My dear aunt and my cousin, with the very kindest intentions,
keep the truth from me--at least, so I am led to believe by what my
maid has told me. Now, indeed, it would do me less harm, though they
do not think so, to tell me the whole at once; and I am sure, Colonel
Manners, that you will be kind enough to do so, when I assure you that
I am far better able to bear even the worst tidings than this
terrible, awful state of suspense."

Manners took her hand, and gazed in her face with a smile full of
kindness and hope, for he feared to make the change from grief to joy
too sudden, by speaking the happier news he now had to bear; but even
that was too much, and Marian's heart, as she read his smile aright,
beat with fearful violence; and, pale as ashes with emotion, she sunk
down again on the sofa, from which she had partially risen to speak to
him.

"I see that your fortitude is not half real," said Manners, seating
himself near her; "but let me entreat you to hear me calmly, my dear
Miss De Vaux."

"Oh, I will! I will, indeed!" cried Marian. "But, for Heaven's sake,
speak, Colonel Manners: you smile; and I know you would not smile on
one so wretched, if you had not some hope to give! Is it not so?"

"It is," answered Manners; "and delighted I am that now, for the very
first time, I can give it. But, indeed, you must be calm; for the
intelligence I have obtained is not so entirely good as to warrant our
indulging in any very great joy, though it may do away our worst
apprehensions."

"That is enough! that is enough!" cried Marian. "If they have not
murdered him, I can bear almost anything else with fortitude: but now,
for Heaven's sake, tell me all, for you see I can bear it with
calmness and composure."

"First, let me defend Mrs. Falkland and your cousin," replied Manners,
wishing, by a little delay, to give his fair hearer's mind time to
habituate itself to a change of feeling; for neither her look nor her
manner served at all to confirm the assurances of calmness and
composure which she gave him. "Let me defend Mrs. Falkland and your
cousin: they really could give you no precise information, for till
within the last half-hour none has been obtained."

"Oh, but they knew more than they let me know," cried Marian; "at
least, if my maid has told me true: but I trust it is not true; for I
cannot believe that Edward can be safe, if she spoke correctly; she
said you had found his footsteps, and blood, Colonel Manners, and the
place where he must have fallen." As she spoke, her countenance filled
with horror at the ideas she recalled, and she clasped her hands over
her eyes, as if to shut out some fearful sight.

Colonel Manners thought that the sooner such a lady's-maid was
discharged the better; but as he could not contradict the story the
woman had so imprudently told, he left it as it was, and replied, "Do
not, my dear young lady, call up such painful images, when I assure
you that there is no foundation for the supposition that your cousin
has suffered in the way our fears led us to imagine. My information,
as yet, is scanty; and, till tomorrow, you must not ask me even how I
have obtained it; but I have the most positive assurances that De Vaux
is safe, though ill."

"Thank God! thank God, for his safety, at least!" cried Marian; "but
are you sure, Colonel Manners--are you quite sure? I do not wish to
put any questions that you may not like to answer; but only tell me if
you yourself are quite sure of Edward's safety?"

"I am perfectly and thoroughly convinced," answered Manners, "that,
whatever may have been the accident which may have prevented his
return home, he is both in security, and attended with care and
kindness. Indeed, my very telling you the fact should make you feel
quite sure that my own conviction is firm; for, indeed, Miss De Vaux,
no inducement would make me hold out a hope to you, were I not sure of
that hope having a good foundation."

"Thank you! thank you!" replied Marian; and, with one of those sudden
bursts of tenderness which--springing from some secret action, either
of memory or imagination, without one spoken word or external
circumstance to call them forth--sometimes overpower us, when least we
expect it, she gave way to a gushing flood of tears, and, for a moment
or two, let the bright drops flow unrestrained. "You have not seen
him, then, Colonel Manners?" she said at length, wiping her eyes, and
looking up with a glance in which apprehension still contended a
little against joy.

"Not yet," Manners answered; "but I have received a solemn promise
that I shall be conducted to the place where he is this very night."

"Oh, let me go with you!" cried Marian, starting up.

"Nay, nay, I am afraid that would not do," answered Manners, smiling.
"Think what the world would say, my dear Miss De Vaux, if you were to
go wandering about, no one knows whither, through a long autumn night,
with no other escort than a colonel of dragoons."

Marian was won even to a smile; and, while it was yet playing round
her lips, and sparkling in her eyes, Mrs. Falkland entered the room,
not knowing by whom it was tenanted. "Marian! Colonel Manners!" she
exclaimed; "and both laughing, too! then some very happy change must
have come over our affairs."

"Oh, most happy, my dear aunt!" cried Marian: "Colonel Manners--and I
know not how to thank him--has discovered where Edward is, and that he
is safe."

"God be praised!" cried Mrs. Falkland; "but let me hear all about it,
for this is news indeed."

"In the first place," said Manners, willing, if possible, to escape
any very close cross-examination till he could speak with more
security on the many points of De Vaux's situation, which were still
doubtful--"in the first place, I have to apologize, my dear madam, for
some want of courtesy to-night when last we met; but you must remember
that I am but a rude soldier, and accustomed to think far more of what
I consider my duty than of what is polite; and I am sure that my good
news will gain me your forgiveness."

"If your perseverance have gained tidings of my poor nephew," answered
Mrs. Falkland, "my forgiveness for much graver offences--could Colonel
Manners commit them--would be but a poor recompense."

"I hope Miss Falkland has not suffered at all," continued Manners. But
Mrs. Falkland exclaimed, with a smile, "Not at all, I trust! but,
Colonel Manners, I will not be put off without an answer. You shall
not keep all your good news for Marian, and refuse to let me share.
What have you discovered?"

"Why, my dear madam," answered Manners, "I will tell you the candid
truth. I have discovered very little beyond the bare fact, that De
Vaux is in safety, though not well; and you must ask me no more
questions till I can give you satisfactory answers. I am to be
conducted to him, however, this very night, and within an hour of this
time. Miss De Vaux wished to go with me, and we were smiling to think
what sort of story the world would make of her taking a midnight walk
over the moors, and through the woods, with the ugliest colonel of
dragoons in his majesty's service."

"But are you obliged to go alone?" asked Mrs. Falkland.

"I rather think that is part of my compact," answered Manners; "and I
believe it must be on foot, too."

"And you were fatigued an hour ago," replied Mrs. Falkland; "and
though I, selfishly, cannot make up my mind to ask you to put off your
expedition till to-morrow, yet I must prevail on you to take some
refreshment." So saying, she rang the bell, and then went on: "I need
not ask who was your informant; and I feel equally certain that the
tidings are true, because you give them credit, and because you
derived them from him."

"Now, I am in the dark," said Marian, "both in regard to this person
you speak of and to Isadore. What made you believe she had suffered
from any accident, Colonel Manners, as you inquired of my aunt just
now?"

"I am afraid that the whole story would be too long to tell you at
this moment," answered Manners, while a footman appeared, and Mrs.
Falkland ordered some refreshments to be brought immediately,
"especially as you see I have to sup before I go; nor will I deny that
I need my supper, for, to tell the truth, I have not dined. But Mrs.
Falkland will relate our whole story of this evening when I am gone;
will tell you how your cousin escaped drowning by a miracle; and how
Colonel Manners behaved in a very rude and uncivil manner; and how at
length a compromise was entered into, which reflected more honour upon
his obstinacy than upon his politeness."

"No, no, Colonel Manners, I will not tell her such stories," answered
Mrs. Falkland. "I will tell her, perhaps, that Colonel Manners's duty
as an officer, and his feelings as a man, clashed with her aunt's duty
as a person of her word, and her feelings as a woman; that her aunt
did what she seldom does,--lost her temper; and that Colonel Manners
ended the matter wisely and well, and by his perseverance obtained
joyful tidings without a breach of faith."

"You are both speaking in mysteries to me," said Marian, rising; "so I
will go and make Isadore tell me the whole in less enigmatical
language. Where is she, my dear aunt?"

"She is in bed," answered Mrs. Falkland, "but not likely to go to
sleep."

"In bed!" exclaimed Marian; "then, indeed, it is time that I should go
and see her, for I do not ever remember Isadore having been in bed at
nine o'clock before, and something must be the matter."

Thus saying, she quitted the room; and left Colonel Manners to take
some refreshment, and to relate, the while, to Mrs. Falkland, as much
as he had time and inclination to tell of his adventure with the
gipsy.

"I fear no danger," he concluded, when he had ascertained by his watch
that the time appointed for his return was approaching--"I fear no
danger, and have every confidence in the extraordinary man who is to
be my guide; but, at the same time, it is always well to be prepared;
and, therefore, I shall not only exchange these heavy riding-boots for
something more fit for walking, but I will take the liberty of adding
a brace of pistols to back my sword in case of need." He then took
leave of Mrs. Falkland; and, after making the alteration he proposed,
once more sallied out, like the knight of La Mancha, with a heart
scarcely less chivalrous, though guided by a mind which happily had
power to restrain and direct the operation of his feelings. Here,
however, the thread of his adventures must be broken off for a while,
in order that we may leave no longer unfilled that void in his history
which now exists between the moment at which we last left him in
conversation with Lord Dewry, and that of his sudden reappearance at
Morley House.




                             CHAPTER VI.


At the end of the first chapter of this volume, it may be remembered,
that we left Lord Dewry sitting in the saloon of Dewry Hall with
Colonel Manners. Night had become morning before the messengers for
whom he waited arrived from Dimden; and when they did so, they brought
the tidings that his lordship's well-laid scheme had failed; that no
one had been taken by the keepers but a gipsy boy; and that Sir Roger
Millington, as well as one of the keepers, had been wounded--the first
seriously, the second but slightly. Manners had expected and believed
that the peer would both be disappointed and shocked; but a variety of
emotions naturally sprang from such tidings, in the situation in which
Lord Dewry had placed himself, which could not be understood or
calculated by any one unacquainted with all the dreary secrets of his
heart. He was disappointed, it is true, that Pharold had not been
taken; but he trusted that, with all the means employed against him,
the gipsy would not be able to escape.

Far from either shocked or sorry was he, however, that blood had been
spilt in the affray between the keepers and the gipsies, or that death
might ensue; for he saw that his grasp upon Pharold would thereby be
strengthened, though he could have wished, certainly, that the shot
which had been fired had found any other bosom than that of Sir Roger
Millington, from whom much good service remained still to be derived.
Such feelings, of course, produced some effect upon his behaviour,
especially as Colonel Manners's cordial co-operation in his plans,
without making him entirely forget the different principles upon which
they acted, had, in some degree, thrown him off his guard in regard to
the minor points of demeanour. The effect, indeed, was not so striking
as to lead Manners to suspect anything like the truth; but it was
sufficiently marked to call his attention--to appear strange and
unpleasant--and to make him think, "This is one of those pampered sons
of luxury, who only feel where their own immediate comforts are
concerned. He seems to care no more for the people who have been
wounded in his service than if they were things of wood."

After a few short comments on the means to be next employed, Manners
retired to the chamber prepared for him, and lay down to rest. He
rose betimes, however: but it was long ere the peer made his
appearance; for, exhausted with activity, and watching, and contending
passions--the most wearing of all the many assailants of life and
strength--he fell into a deeper slumber than he had known for many
years. At length he came, and at a late hour set out with Colonel
Manners for Dimden; but since the preceding night a change had come
over his feelings towards his companion. Then, in agitation, and
horror, and anxiety, he had clung to any one for the sake of society;
and more especially to one whose character and reputation gave him
confidence, and whose warm co-operation afforded support. Now,
however, he was going to hear from his agents the progress of dark and
subtle plans of which Colonel Manners knew nothing--to examine and
speak with persons whom he had engaged in proceedings equally cunning
and unjustifiable; and he could very well have dispensed with the
presence of one whose bold good sense was likely to search and see
further than might be at all convenient.

These feelings influenced his demeanour also; and although he could
not be absolutely rude to a person he had so lately courted, and who
was so perfectly independent of him in every respect, yet his manners
were throughout the journey sufficiently cold and repulsive to make
Manners determine to bring their companionship to a close as speedily
as possible. On their arrival at Dimden, the gipsy lad was sent for,
and a few casual questions asked him by the peer, which he repelled by
either obdurate silence or sullen monosyllables. This, however, was
what Lord Dewry for the present desired; but Colonel Manners was
resolved, if possible, to hear more, and he plied the prisoner with
every question which he judged likely to elicit some information
concerning his poor friend De Vaux. Little satisfactory news did he,
indeed, obtain; and, in fact, received no reply to the greater part of
his interrogations. Still the impression upon his mind, from one or
two occasional words which the lad was induced to speak, was strong,
that he at least was ignorant that De Vaux had been murdered, and
thence arose in Manners's mind the first reasonable hope that his
friend might still be living.

After the space of nearly an hour thus spent, the youth was removed.
The peer made no comment; but after looking out of the window, called
some of the servants, and inquired after Sir Roger Millington. The
reply was, that the knight suffered considerable agony, and that the
surgeon was with him still.

"Colonel Manners, you must excuse me for half an hour, while I visit
my unfortunate friend," said Lord Dewry, with a frigid bow. "My poor
son's death," he added, while his quivering lip, at the very mention
of his son's name, betrayed that on that subject, at least, his heart
was painfully sensible--"my poor son's death, of course, weighs
heavily upon me; but I must not forget my wounded friend. I do not
contemplate being detained longer than half an hour, and then I will
have the honour of setting you down at Morley House as I drive home."

"Do not hurry yourself, my lord," answered Manners, calmly: "I have
some inquiries to make concerning my poor friend, and the means that
have been taken to discover anything of his fate; and therefore, as I
sent my horse over to Morley House this morning, I will walk thither.
I wish you good-day."

As it was not the peer's wish or intention to deprive himself
altogether of Colonel Manners's influence and support in his further
measures against the gipsy--although he heartily desired his absence
for the time--he changed his tone in some degree, and pressed Manners
to stay; but took care, at the same time, to add such inducements as
he knew were not very likely to have any weight with him, assuring him
that the distance was full five miles, and the road fatiguing and
hilly.

Manners, however, as the peer expected, persisted in his design; and,
taking leave, he walked out into the park, while Lord Dewry left the
room, as if to proceed to the apartment of Sir Roger Millington.
Before following him, however, it may be as well to say, that Manners
did not direct his steps, in the first instance, to Morley House; but
thinking, "His lordship, in his concern for this Sir Roger Millington,
seems entirely to have forgotten the poor keeper they talked of," he
stopped at the gate, and inquired whither the wounded man had been
carried. The old woman at the lodge gave him the necessary direction;
and proceeding to the cottage which she described, Manners entered
with that sort of frank good feeling that stands on no ceremonies
where the object is humane.

He found the wounded keeper still suffering considerably; and he found
also, as he had been inclined to suspect, that the attention of the
surgeon having been hitherto occupied by the patient of higher rank,
the keeper had been entirely neglected. He was consequently more ill
and feverish than the nature of his wound would otherwise have
accounted for; and Manners, knowing, from much experience in such
occurrences, that if proper care were not taken, a slight injury might
have a fatal termination, instantly despatched a messenger for the
surgeon who was attending Miss De Vaux, and kindly waited his arrival.

In conversation with the keeper, he learned that Pharold had not been
present when the guns were fired, and from him, also, he heard the
particulars of the affray in Dimden Park, the wound the man had
received not having been sufficiently severe to deprive him of the
power of observing everything that occurred around him afterward. By
the whole of his narrative the character of Pharold rose in Manners's
opinion, and his hopes of De Vaux's safety were strengthened: but
still he determined to act as if such hopes did not exist; and
accompanying the surgeon on his late return to the village near Morley
House, he prepared to pursue the search for the gipsy as ardently as
ever. What followed his arrival we have already seen.

In the mean while Lord Dewry proceeded through the long and somewhat
dreary galleries of Dimden House to a distant apartment, but not to
the chamber in which the participator in his dark schemes lay on a bed
of agony and distress. The room he sought was solitary; and, ringing
the bell, he ordered Harvey, the head keeper, to be sent to him. The
man was already in the house, waiting his orders, and somewhat
apprehensive of his lord's displeasure at the failure of his plans.
But as long as Pharold was alive and free, there was a demon of fear
in the bosom of Lord Dewry that cowed the more violent passions of his
nature in the presence of those whom he used as his tools. The
consciousness of the designs in which he employed them made him treat
them gently, from vague but anxious surmises that, notwithstanding all
his care, they might suspect the motives of the plans they mingled
with.

Although, then, in his heart, he could have felled the keeper to the
earth for letting Pharold escape him. In addressed him mildly when he
presented himself. "Why, how is this, Harvey?" he said: "you have let
the game escape us. There must have been a fault somewhere."

"The fault was in the cursed cowardice of the fellows that were with
me, my lord," replied the keeper; "if they would but have followed me,
we should have taken the blackfaced villain any how. Two or three of
us might have got wounded, but no matter for that; we should have had
him safe here, if they would but have come on. But one fell back, and
another fell back; so that when I had got them up against the wall
there were but two with me, and two could do nothing against a good
dozen."

"Let me hear how the whole business took place," said the peer:
"remember that I have no full account of it from any one; and we must
try to remedy what has gone wrong."

The park-keeper was, of course, glad enough to tell his story in the
way that best suited him; and he related the events which we already
know according to his own particular version. The first error, he
declared, was, that several of the men whom he had hired for the
purpose of capturing the gipsies were too late at the rendezvous, and
several did not come at all. These disappointments, and the delay they
occasioned, had prevented his taking advantage of the moment when the
gipsies' guns were discharged after the slaughter of the deer, and, as
time lost is never regained, had caused the ultimate failure of his
whole plan. He assured the peer, however, that Pharold had been one of
the party engaged in the destruction of the game; and that he had been
active in the affray wherein Sir Roger Millington and the keeper had
been wounded. Some of the other men, he said, were not very clear
about these facts, but he was ready to swear to it. He then related
how the boy William had been seized by two of his party, who had been
detached for that purpose; and he added a long account of the measures
which he had taken in order to trace the gipsies in their flight.

"Is the keeper badly wounded?" demanded the peer, thoughtfully.

"He did not seem bad at first, my lord," replied the man; "but they
say he is much worse this afternoon, and his wife is afraid he will
die."

The peer muttered something between his teeth, which might be, "So
much the better;" but this sound reached Harvey's ears but
imperfectly, and Lord Dewry went on in a louder tone, "Poor fellow!
have you seen him, Harvey?"

"Not myself, my lord," answered the keeper; "but his wife came up to
see if the doctor could go down, and I spoke with her for a minute."

"Poor fellow!" said the peer; "but we must take care that his murderer
does not escape, Harvey. Have you thought of no way by which we can
catch him?"

"Why, he is a keen hand, that Pharold, my lord," replied the keeper;
"but I do think we can manage it, if your lordship likes to try."

"Try!" said Lord Dewry: "I will make him a rich and happy man, Harvey,
who brings that villain to justice. But how do you think it can be
managed?"

"Why, I scarcely know as yet, my lord," answered the keeper; "I have
had sure eyes upon some of the gipsy folks, and think I can make out
whereabouts they have gone to; but Pharold knows better than to go
with them. Besides, he was in the park there, not many hours ago, in
the broad daylight."

"Impudent villain!" cried the peer; "but what in the name of Heaven
could bring him there? Are you sure it was he?"

"I saw him with my own eyes, my lord," replied the keeper; "and had
nearly caught him with my own hands; for we had him pinned in between
seven and eight of us and the river: but without minding us more than
if we had been rabbits, he took to the water like a hard-run fox, and
swam the river outright."

Lord Dewry paused; for there was something in the daring hardihood of
the gipsy congenial to the bold and fearless spirit which had animated
himself in early years; and he felt a sort of stern admiration which
even hatred could not quell. At length, however, he repeated, "But
what could bring him here? He could not be fool enough to come for the
sole purpose of daring his pursuers."

"No, no, my lord," answered Harvey. "He came after this boy that we
caught, I dare say. The boy may be a bit of a relation, or, at all
events, a friend; and they did not know what had become of him, for
he was taken apart. Now, my lord, I was thinking--if, might be so
bold--that one might, perhaps, turn this boy to some account, and get
him--do you see, my lord?"

The mind of the peer had been so long habituated to revolve dark and
tortuous schemes, that it was apt and ready to comprehend the
significant word, or half-spoken hint, which often forms the language
of those who are afraid to give their purposes full utterance. Thus he
gained an instant insight into the nature of the plan which the keeper
had conceived, although he saw not the details; and he answered, "I do
see, Harvey, I do see! That is to say, I see what you mean; but I do
not see how it is to be managed. If the boy had any means of
communicating with his own gang, he might, perhaps, lure the chief
villain of the whole into our net; but we know not where they are, and
he, in all probability, is still more ignorant."

"I know well enough where a part of them are," answered the keeper.
"Some went down towards the water, and I cannot trace them: but some,
for a certainty, went across the common to the Dingley wood, where
they are still, I am sure; and I should not wonder if the others soon
joined them, for it is uncommon what a fancy those gipsies have for
sticking to each other, especially in misfortune; and I should not
wonder if they were to hang about here till they hear what becomes of
this lad. He may be Pharold's son, for any thing I know."

"Would that he were! would that he were!" cried the peer, vehemently,
the memory of his own son crossing the confused crowd of other
thoughts that pressed upon his brain. "Would that he were! I would
find the means to wring his heart. But still," he added, after pausing
for some moments on the pleasant thoughts of revenge--"but still the
boy is cut off from all communication with them."

"But we can let him have some, if your lordship pleases," said the
keeper. "If your lordship remembers, I told you of a man named Harry
Saxon, who always has a good deal to do with poachers and such like,
and who put these gipsies up to the deer-stealing. Now we could let
him get speech of the boy; and if any one heard of it, we would say it
was only to see whether he could swear to the youth, and he would soon
take any message to his people for him."

"But will he undertake the task? and can we depend upon him?" asked
the peer.

"Why, ye--s, my lord, I think we may," answered Harvey, thoughtfully.
"He's a good sort of a man enough; and besides, I rather think I could
send him across the water to Botany, if I liked, for something I saw
him do one day, and he knows it too; and so he is always very civil
and obliging to me."

"Well may he be so," replied the peer, with a curling lip. "But can
you get at him soon? There's no time to be lost in such a business."

"I can get at him in a minute," answered the keeper; "for he came up
to my house about an hour ago; and he is in a bit of a fright about
all this bad business of the shooting. So I told him to stay there
till I had seen your lordship, and I would tell him how things went
when I came back."

"Go and bring him then," said the peer quickly--"go and bring him--yet
stay a moment, Harvey. Let me consider what is to be done when he does
come. He is to be admitted to speech of this gipsy lad; and what
then?"

"Why, my lord, I dare say the boy can be frightened into sending a
message to Pharold to come down and help him out."

"No, no, no," said the peer, "it must be better arranged than that.
Let me see. The windows of the strong room look out into the close
wood, and any one from the outside could saw away the iron bars. Yes,
that will do. But the lad himself must be tutored in the first place.
Quick, then, Harvey, go and bring your friend; and in the meantime I
will see the boy alone. Do not come in till you hear that I have sent
for you."

The keeper retired, and the peer again rang the bell, to direct that
the young gipsy should be brought before him once more. His orders
were promptly obeyed, and two stout fellows appeared, with the
prisoner between them.

"Leave him with me," said the peer, as soon as they had brought him
two or three steps forward in the room. The men, who had calculated on
enjoying all the pleasures of a cross-examination, and who had even in
their hearts formed the aspiration that they hoped his lordship would
pump him well, stared with some mortification at being excluded from
witnessing the mental torture of their fellow-creature; but Lord
Dewry, who read something of the kind in their countenances, not only
repeated his command, but bade them wait at the end of the adjoining
passage till they were joined by Harvey, the head keeper. There was no
resource; and therefore they obeyed, shutting the door, and leaving
the peer face to face with the captive.

The gipsy youth might be eighteen or nineteen years of age; that
season of life when enjoyment is in its first freshness; when all the
world is as bright, and as sweet, and as sparkling as a summer
morning; when imagination and passion are setting out hand in hand
upon the ardent race that soon wearies them, and when memory follows
them quick, gathering up the flowers that they pluck and cast away as
they go, but not as yet burdened with any of the cares, or sorrows, or
disappointments which they are destined to encounter in the end: he
was, in fact, at that age when life is the sweetest. His form was full
of nascent vigour, and his face was fine; but his whole countenance,
though speaking, by its variety and play of feature, active
imagination, and perhaps a degree of enterprise, betrayed a sort of
uncertain, undecided expression, which is never to be seen in the face
of the firm and the determined. The peer gazed on him for a moment,
seeing all, and calculating all, in order to work upon his prisoner's
mind by both his circumstances and his weaknesses.

"You are very young," he said at length, in a tone of stern
gravity--"you are very young to be engaged in crimes like these. What
is your age?"

That sort of dogged sullenness, half shyness, half hatred, which a
contemned and separate race are from their infancy taught by nature to
display towards their oppressors, was the only source of resistance in
the character of the young gipsy, whose powers of resolution were
naturally small, and whose mind was unfortified by firm and vigorous
principles of any kind. It was sufficient in the present instance,
however, to keep him silent; and he stood, with his dark eyes fixed
upon the ground, and his arms hanging by his side, apparently as
unmoved as if the peer had addressed him in a language that he did not
comprehend.

"You are very young," repeated Lord Dewry, after waiting some time in
vain for an answer--"you are very young to be engaged in crimes like
these. Life must be sweet to you: there must be a thousand pleasures
that you are just beginning to enjoy, a thousand hopes of greater
pleasures hereafter; there must be many friends that you grieve to
part with--and some," he added, seeing the youth's lip quiver--"and
some that, doubtless, you love beyond anything on earth."

A tear rolled over the rich brown cheek of the gipsy boy, and betrayed
that he not only understood what was said to him, but felt every word
at his heart's core, as the peer, with barbarous skill, sought out
every fresh wound in his bosom, and tearing them open one by one,
poured in the rankling poison of insincere commiseration. "Ah!"
continued Lord Dewry, "it is sad and terrible, indeed, to think of
being--at the very moment when one is the happiest--at the very moment
when one loves one's friends the best--at the very moment, perhaps,
when all our hopes are about to be fulfilled--to think of being cut
off from them all, and to die a horrid and painful death! and yet such
must be your fate, my poor boy; such must be inevitably your fate, as
a punishment for the murder committed in my park last night."

"I murdered no one," cried the youth, with a convulsive sob, that
nearly rendered what he said unintelligible. "I murdered no one."

"But your companions did," answered the peer, glad to have forced him
into breaking silence. "You were not present, it is true; but you
trespassed on my park for evil purposes with those who did commit
murder, and are therefore an accessary to the deed. Banish all hope,
poor boy; for to-morrow I must certainly commit you to the county
jail, from which you will only go to trial and to execution. I am
sorry for you, I grieve for you, to think that you must never see
again those you love; that you must be cut off in the prime of youth
and happiness--I grieve for you, indeed."

"Then why do you not let me out?" cried the lad. "If you grieve for
me, let me run away."

"That is impossible," answered the peer; "but perhaps I may do
something to make your fate less bitter. Death you must undergo; but
in the mean time I may soften the strictness of your imprisonment. Is
there any one whom you would wish to see--any of your friends and
companions who might comfort you by coming to visit you?"

"What is the use, if I must die?" said the gipsy, sullenly, dropping
his tearful eyes to the ground, and clenching tighter his clasped
hands together; but Lord Dewry saw that there was something more
working in his mind, and warily held his peace. "There is none I
should like to see but Lena," said the gipsy at length, with a deep
sigh; "and Pharold would not let her come, even if I were to ask."

"And why not?" demanded the peer, affecting as much unconcern as it
was possible for him to assume when coming near the very subject of
his wishes. "Why would any one prevent her from coming, if it would
comfort you? He must be very cruel to deny you, when you have so short
a time to live."

"No, he is not cruel," said the youth; "he is hard, but not cruel; but
he would not let her come, do you see, because a year ago I was to
have had Lena for my wife--at least so Mother Gray always told me: but
then Pharold loved her; and though her own love did not lie that way,
her mother, when she was dying, herself gave Lena to him, because he
was better able to take care of her than any one else. And he does not
love to see Lena speak to me, I know."

"So he took your bride from you," said the peer, not a little
delighted to hear tidings which promised so fairly for success; "he
took your bride from you, and now he is jealous of you. Well, then,
listen to me, and mark well what I am about to say. Your fate is in
your own hands. You are left to choose between life and death!"

The youth gazed dully in his face for a moment, as if he did not
comprehend his words at first; but the next instant he burst forth,
"Life, life, life, then!" cried he, clasping his hands together, and
raising his eyes beaming with new hope: "life, oh, I choose life!"

"There is but one way, however," replied the peer, "by which you can
obtain it. This Pharold, this very man who took away your bride, I
have every reason to believe killed my brother and murdered my son."

"Then that is the way he gets money, no one knows how," cried the
youth.

"Most probably it is," answered Lord Dewry; "but mark me, if you can
contrive a means to get him into my power, you shall not only go free,
but have a large reward. This is your only chance for life."

The lad's countenance fell in a moment. He was young, and the better
spirit was the first to act. "No, no," he cried; "I hate Pharold, but
I will not betray him."

"Then you must die," said the peer, sternly.

The better spirit was still predominant: no image presented itself to
the youth's mind but that of betraying the chief of his tribe. He
thought not for the moment of the loveliness of life, he thought not
of the horrors of death, he remembered not either love or hate, in the
strong impression of a duty which had been fixed in his heart from
childhood; and he answered in a low sad tone, "Then die I will."

"But think," said the peer, who had anticipated the first effect of
his proposal, and reserved every stronger inducement, every palliating
argument, to tempt and to excuse the unhappy youth, when the immediate
impression was over--"think what it is you choose--imprisonment in a
close room by yourself for several days; then trial and condemnation,
and then death upon a gibbet, with nobody to comfort you, nobody to
speak to you; but you must go through the horror, and the agony, and
the shame all alone and unsupported." The boy shuddered, and the peer
proceeded, changing the picture, however:--"This is what you choose.
Now what is it you cast away?--life, and happiness, and more wealth
than ever you knew, and most probably the possession of the girl you
love best upon the earth."

The peer was experienced in temptations; for he had undergone and
yielded to them himself, and he knew, by the dark histories of his own
heart, all the wiles and artifices by which the fiend lures on
successfully even the firm and the determined to acts at which they
have shuddered in their days of innocence.

The young gipsy listened, and hesitated, and felt all his resolutions
give way; but so fearful was the struggle in his bosom, that his limbs
trembled and his teeth chattered as if he had been shaken by an ague.
The keen eye that was upon him, however, did not fail to mark and
understand his emotion; and Lord Dewry proceeded, "Well may Lena think
you love her but little, when you scruple, by a few words, to break
the hateful bonds that tie her to this murderer Pharold, and when you
have the power to make her your own, yet refuse to use it."

"But I tell you," cried the boy, vehemently, "that Lena would never
consent; that even if she were to know that I had done such a thing
she would hate me and curse me; that I should be driven forth from my
people, and never see her more."

"But neither she nor any one else," replied the peer, "need ever know
one circumstance about it. If you will undertake to do what I wish, I
will tell you a plan by which it may be accomplished, without any
being on the earth knowing it but you and I."

"But if Pharold should be innocent," said the youth, "the guiltless
blood would be upon my hand, and it would curse me."

"But if Pharold be innocent, his blood shall not be shed," replied the
peer: "let him prove his innocence, and he shall go as free as you;
but he cannot prove his innocence, for he is guilty; and you, in
delivering him up, do but what is right and good; you do but avenge
the innocent blood he has shed, though at the same time you gain for
yourself life, and liberty, and happiness, and the girl that you
love."

"Well, well, well!" cried the boy, "tell me what it is I am to do."

"Will you undertake it?" demanded the peer, eagerly.

"If," answered the gipsy--for probably there was never yet a crime
committed, in regard to which the criminal did not propose some
palliating motive, in order to deceive his own heart at the time, and
to calm the anticipated reproaches of his conscience thereafter--"if
you will promise, by God and the heavens, that, if Pharold is
innocent, you will let him go free."

Lord Dewry paused for an instant. It is strange, but no less true than
strange, that the mind not only habituates itself to evil, but
habituates itself to a particular course of evil, and the same person
who will boldly reiterate a crime to which he is accustomed, will
start at a much less heinous offence, if it be new to his habits.
Thus, Lord Dewry paused for an instant ere he swore to a promise which
he intended to evade; but he soon remembered that, in the course which
he was pursuing, there was no halting at so airy a thing as an oath;
and he replied, "By all that is sacred, he shall go free, if he proves
himself innocent."

"Well, then," said the youth, "I will do what you wish; but, oh, if
you deceive me!"

"Deceive you in what?" demanded the peer. "I have promised that, if he
prove himself innocent, he shall of course go free: it is but just."

"But it was not of that I spoke," said the gipsy: "I thought if you
were to deceive me into trapping Pharold, and then not to let me go
myself!"

"On my honour! on my soul!" cried the peer, with a ready vehemence,
which convinced the youth more easily than would have been possible,
if he had known how often men pledge their honour and their soul when
the real jewels are no longer theirs--when their true honour has been
lost for years, and their soul pawned deeply to an eternal foe.

"Well, well," he answered, "I will do it. Tell me how it is to be
done."

"Tell me first," said the peer: "this Pharold--he is jealous of you,
it seems?" The boy smiled faintly. "Will he, then, take sufficient
interest in your fate to attempt to rescue you, if he thinks there is
a probability of success?"

"That he will!" answered the youth; "besides, if I could get at Lena,
she would persuade him. But how can I get at her? She will not come
here, and I cannot go to her."

"But do you think that if you were to send a message to her," demanded
Lord Dewry, "that she would try to persuade him to attempt your
rescue, and that she has influence enough to work him to her purpose?"

"That she has, that she has," answered the gipsy: "Pharold often gives
her a cross word; but when she likes to try, she can always get her
own way, for all that. But how can I send a message to her? I know not
where she is, nor where Pharold is; though once, as I looked out
through the bars of the window this morning, I thought I saw him
through the gray mist, standing under the distant trees, and watching
the house. But they may have gone far before this time; yet, if you
were to let me out for a few hours, I would soon find them."

"We will seek a better way," answered the peer, without taking any
further notice of the simple cunning with which the youth spoke. "I
hear from my gamekeepers that a man from one of the neighbouring
villages has been inquiring for you, and most likely he knows where
your friends and companions are. Now, as you promise to do what I ask,
he shall be admitted to see you, and you must send to Lena whatever
message you think will induce her to persuade Pharold to come to your
rescue."

"Yes," said the boy; "but I must first know how he can rescue me, for
Pharold will never come unless he thinks it likely. Ay, and the story
must be a clever one, too; for he is as cunning as a sentinel-crow,
and smells powder at a mile's distance."

"I must leave you to frame the story as you think best," replied the
peer; "but you can tell your fair Lena that if Pharold will come to
your prison-window with a sharp file or a sledge-hammer, he can easily
set you free by breaking the bars of iron that cross the opening. You
may add, that there is never any one on that side of the house all
night, and so that he will be perfectly safe."

The lad hung down his head; and the hot blood of shame, as he thought
of what he was undertaking, rushed from his heart to his cheeks. There
was again a momentary struggle, but the good had been conquered once
already; and the thought of life, and Lena, and happiness, and freedom
from the oppressive terror that weighed down his heart in his prison,
got the better of everything besides; and he replied, "But what shall
I do if they thrust the file and the sledge-hammer through the bars to
me, and bid me work for myself?"

Lord Dewry instantly saw the validity of the youth's objection, and
the probability that Pharold, instead of coming himself, would send
some woman or some child with the implements which might be necessary
for setting the prisoner at liberty. "You must tell them," he said,
after some minutes' thought, "that you are so tied that you cannot cut
through the bars for yourself."

"But the man who gives them the message will see that I am not tied,"
replied the youth; and, after pausing for a few moments, he added,
"No, no; I have thought of a better way. I will not trust him with any
particulars: I will bid him ask Lena and Mother Gray to work Pharold
to get me out; but, at all events, for some one of them to come down,
and speak with me through the bars to-night, and then I can make them
do what I want. But you must let them go, remember!" he exclaimed.
"You must not stop the women if they come."

"I shall certainly stop none but Pharold," answered the peer: "the
rest may come and go as they like. But only do not you trifle with me;
for be you sure that you shall not only not have your liberty, but
that, if Pharold be not in my power before to-morrow night is over,
you shall be sent to the county-jail for instant trial."

"And how," said the youth, whose shyness was fast wearing away--"and
how am I to get my liberty when Pharold is in your power?"

"The door shall be set open," answered the peer, "and you shall go out
freely."

"But how can I be sure of that?" he demanded again.

"You may keep us both, for aught I know. Will you write it down? for I
have heard that you Englishmen are more bound by what is written than
by what is said."

Lord Dewry again paused for a moment, somewhat embarrassed; but after
revolving the probable consequences in his mind for some time, he
replied, "I will write it down, if you require it."

"Do--do, then," said the youth; and the peer, ringing the bell,
ordered writing-materials to be brought. As soon as they arrived, he
sat down, and drew up a promise, artfully couched in such terms as he
felt sure could not, in the slightest degree, implicate his character
or betray his real views, if ever it should be produced against him.

"As the prisoner," so the writing ran, "now in custody at Dimden,
is apparently only an accessary, and not a principal, in the crime
lately committed at this place, I hereby promise him, on condition of
his placing in the hands of justice the notorious felon Pharold,
against whom various warrants have issued, at present unsuccessfully,
that he shall be immediately set at liberty, as soon as he has
accomplished the same. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my
hand, this---- day of ----," &c. &c.

The youth's eyes sparkled as he read; and the prospect of liberty and
safety which opened before him blotted out at once from memory the
dark and villanous step which he must take to reach them. "I will do
it! I will do it!" he cried; "but you must let me do it my own way,
for I must not let anyone in the whole world know that it is my doing.
It must seem that he is taken by accident, while helping me, and that
I have made my escape in the meantime; and then I shall be free, and
Lena will be mine!" And the youth clapped his hands in the vehemence
of reawakened hope.

"Well, well," said the peer, his anxiety for his ultimate object
coming eagerly upon him as soon as his immediate purpose was
accomplished--"well, well, the man I spoke of shall have admittance to
you immediately. But, remember, you must lose no time; for the longest
space I can afford you is this night and to-morrow night."

"Some of the women will come to me to-night," answered the youth; "and
to-morrow night, fear not, Pharold shall stand under the window of the
prison-room, some time between the rising of the moon and the sun. So
watch well, and if you take him not it is your own fault."

"So be it, then," said the peer; "and now you must return to speak
with the person I mentioned, who shall soon be sent to you." Thus
saying, Lord Dewry called back the two men who had brought the young
gipsy thither; and, after bidding them take him back to the strong
room, told them, in his hearing, as an earnest of his good-will, to
let him have everything that could render him comfortable in strict
imprisonment. As soon as the men appeared, the boy resumed his look of
sullen shyness; and, hanging his head, followed them in silence from
the room.

The moment he had departed, the peer sent to inquire for the keeper,
who had not yet returned, however; and Lord Dewry was kept for a short
time under the irritation of his own impatient spirit. At length
Harvey appeared, followed by his confederate, Harry Saxon; and it
would have given sincere pleasure to a disciple of Lavater to see how
well this worthy's countenance corresponded with his actions.

He was a man of about five-and-forty, and what many people would call
a good-looking man; that is to say, he had a fresh country complexion,
a high large nose, with small nostrils, a capacious mouth, furnished
with white and regular teeth, a small keen black eye, under a very
overhanging and observing brow, a forehead low, but broad, and
surmounted with a layer of fine jet-black hair, smoothed down, and
polished with the most careful and scrupulous precision. His dress,
without being exactly that of a gamekeeper, had a sufficient portion
of the style usually attributed to that class to show his hankering
after the beasts of the field. His coat was green, and on the buttons
thereof appeared, not alone the fox, that most sagacious animal, but a
variety of birds and beasts, so comprehensive in their number, and so
limited in their kind, that his garment formed a very excellent
hieroglyphical abstract of the game act. Leathern gaiters, with small
round leathern buttons, cased a pair of sturdy legs, and defended them
from the brambles of those paths he most frequented; and a pair of
hedger's gloves upon his hands seemed well calculated to grope for
springes and gins amid the thorny ways of life.

The peer surveyed him, as he entered, with the keen eye of worldly
experience, and saw that he was a man to be depended on by those who
could pay him well. After a brief question or two, to which the other
replied with sly significance, the peer explained to him the
ostensible object he had in view; namely, that of securing the
apprehension of a gipsy felon called Pharold, by the instrumentality
of the boy they had taken on the preceding night, and asked him if he
were willing to undertake the part he was to play, and to perform it
carefully.

"You are, I hear," he added, with some degree of irony, "in some way
acquainted with these gipsies, and may, therefore, not like to bring
one of them to justice. If it be so, speak, and we will find some
other person."

"No, no, my lord," answered the man. "A gipsy! why, I hate a gipsy!
they come in and spoil every thing like the regular trade. No, no,
hang 'em all for me."

Lord Dewry did not pause to inquire what Harry Saxon called the
regular trade; but replied, "Well, if such be your opinion, go in and
speak to this lad. Do not let him know that you have had any
conversation with me upon the subject; but offer to do anything for
him that you can; and when you have heard what he has to say, come
back and let me know the result."

The peer added an injunction to be quick; and Harry Saxon was
conducted, by his worthy associate Harvey, to the strong room in which
the gipsy lad had been confined.

The chamber would have been in every respect a comfortable one, had
not the doors and windows been furnished on the outside with those
appurtenances, obnoxious to all comfort, called bolts and bars. The
house had been constructed when population was much thinner than at
present, and when it was necessary that the dwelling of a magistrate,
if situated far from any great town, should be provided with some
place in which a prisoner might be confined for a few hours; for this
purpose the room we speak of had been selected and fitted up, both on
account of the distance at which it lay from the more frequented parts
of the building, and of its proximity to a large old hall, which
formed the extreme wing of the house, and topped the bank overhanging
the river. This hall had often served, in cases of necessity, as a
justice-room in the olden times; and though many years had elapsed
since it had been employed on any very important occasion, yet even of
later days it had been used for the meeting of magistrates and county
functionaries, when anything caused them to assemble in that part of
the country.

The strong room, however, had never been intended for anything but
temporary purposes, and was not at all calculated for securing a
strong and determined prisoner for any length of time, as the windows,
which opened into the park, were only closed by iron bars, which, as
the peer had hinted, might easily be filed away from within, or forced
off from without. These bars the boy took care to examine minutely as
soon as he was taken back to the place of his confinement; and he then
turned his eyes to the park beyond, to ascertain how far the plan he
had to propose to Pharold would be recommended by the probability of
its success.

A grove of old oaks and chestnuts came up nearly to the windows, so
that there was plenty of shade to conceal any one who approached,
except in the full light of day. But as he gazed, the boy's thoughts
were soon drawn away from the dark scheme which the peer had suggested
to him by the sight of the world beyond his prison. Through the wide
spaces between the trees the lawns and savannas of the park were to be
distinguished, with other woods and groves beyond. The soft evening
sunshine was sleeping upon the slopes and glistening on the river; and
the deer were seen walking calm and free through the long dry autumn
grass, while the call of the partridge sounded from some distant
fields, and everything spoke of liberty, and happiness, and peace. The
influence of the scene sank deep into his heart, as he stood separated
from his people, barred in from the free and beautiful world, and, for
the first time in his existence, confined to the close atmosphere of
one small solitary room. It sank deep into his bosom; but, like the
fabled amreeta cup of one of our truest poets, many of the sweetest
things on earth are productive of good or evil according to the lip
that tastes them. While he gazed, the passionate love of wild
unrestrained liberty, and of nature, in which his heart had been
nurtured from infancy, grew overpowering. To be free--to bound away
over those sunny fields--to cast bars and bolts behind him--became a
passion and burning thirst: better principles were wanting to teach
him to endure; and had the price of liberty, at that moment, been a
parricide, he would have dipped his hands in parental blood. Nerved by
the passionate desire, he seized the bars of iron in his hands, and
strove to tear them open; but their strength resisted all his efforts,
and he burst into tears to think that he must remain another day in
bondage.

His eyes were still wet when the door opened, and the insidious
prompter of the enterprise which had deprived him of his liberty
entered the room. The youth, however, was, like the rest of the
gipsies, ignorant that they had been betrayed; and although he had
only seen the man once, he now received him gladly as an acquaintance
and a friend.

Their conversation lasted about ten minutes, and at the end of that
time the emissary returned to the peer to report what had just passed.

"Well, well," demanded Lord Dewry, "with what message has he charged
you?"

"A very short one, my lord," answered the man: "he bade me seek out
old Mother Gray, or some of the women, and tell them to come down to
speak with him at the window to-night; so, I take it, that won't suit
your lordship's purpose."

"Yes, it will," answered the peer. "He will, probably, employ the
women to work upon the men."

"Ay, ay, plough with the heifer," answered the other; "but I may as
well, if your lordship has no objection, set them on the right track
myself; and I will answer for it, I get them to persuade old Pharold
to come down himself."

"There is a very large reward offered," answered the peer, dryly, "to
any one who will contribute to place him in the hands of justice; and
if you are successful in the attempt you shall not lose the reward.
But do you think you can find these gipsies?"

"Why, from what Dick Harvey says, my lord," he replied, "I think there
can be no doubt that I can find the women part of them, though, most
likely, the men are hiding away--and no bad job either; for they might
fancy I had some hand in the last night's job--but, howsomever, if I
can find the women, they'll make the men do what they like easy
enough. So, if your lordship will keep a good watch round the strong
room, without letting the folks show themselves till they are sure of
their man, I think we may calculate upon Master Pharold pretty
certain."

"In which case your reward is certain, too," answered the peer; "but
now make haste upon your errand, my good man, for the sun will soon be
going down, and you have but little time."

"Oh, I don't dislike a walk in the twilight," replied the fellow; and,
bowing low, but with a somewhat too familiar grin, he took his leave
and retired.

Lord Dewry immediately proceeded to give orders for a strict watch to
be kept upon the windows of the strong room during the two following
nights; and took measures that an ambush should be laid in the
immediate vicinity, in such a manner that any person approaching could
not escape; but, at the same time, he carefully directed that if none
but women appeared, they should be permitted to go as they came, not
only without molestation, but with every precaution to prevent the
least appearance of unusual watch.

This being done, he turned his steps towards the chamber of Sir Roger
Millington, for whose life the unfavourable opinion of the surgeon
gave him no slight apprehension.




                             CHAPTER VII.


The person against whom so many subtle contrivances were directed, on
leaving Colonel Manners, as we have described in a foregoing chapter,
turned his steps towards the wood in which his own companions had
sought refuge after the unfortunate events of the preceding night. If
the reader will cast his eye upon the county map, he will see that,
avoiding Morley Down, he skirted along the hill, the summit of which
it crowned; and then, after following for a little way that part of
the high-road which traversed the little isthmus, in the neighbourhood
of which he had saved the life of Isadore Falkland, he struck soon
after into the forest on the right. As he came not from the same side
on which his comrades had entered the wood, his search for them was
not without difficulty; but it is wonderful with what keen tact
persons accustomed to such scenes and circumstances take advantage of
slight and apparently insignificant indications to guide them on their
way. A branch brushed aside, a trodden-down flower, the sight, or even
the smell of smoke, the least sound of the human voice, will each aid
them in their search; and by means of this kind Pharold, ere long,
discovered the little glen in which his whole party had found an
asylum.

At the moment he approached, had his keen mind not been engaged with
many another thought, he might have remarked that there was some
degree of bustle and consultation among the gipsies, which ceased as
he came up. All, however, appeared glad to see him safe; and all
crowded round to express the anxiety they had felt during his absence,
and to question him as to the events which had befallen him. Lena hung
upon his arm with evident pleasure at his return; but the fondness she
displayed was more like that of a child towards a parent than that of
a wife for a husband.

In answer to the inquiries of the whole party, Pharold--after having
seated himself in the midst, and demanded some refreshment, which was
speedily procured--related, briefly, all that had occurred as far as
his own perils went. Of Colonel Manners he spoke as of a stranger, and
neither noticed their encounter nor his promise of again meeting him,
though he told the group around that ere an hour was over he must
again set forth on matters of import not to be delayed.

"Well, I hope, at all events, that you are going to get poor Will
out," said the old woman we have so often mentioned. "Poor boy! he has
a hard fate."

"I hope," said Lena, seeing that Pharold made no answer--"I hope--" but
then she stopped, as if afraid of offending him.

"And what do you hope, Lena?" said Pharold, gravely, but not so
sternly as was often his wont.

"I hope," she said, more boldly, but with the colour coming up in her
brown cheek--"I hope that some means will be found to set the poor boy
free, for I am sure he was not the guilty person."

As she spoke Pharold gazed on her with such grave earnestness that her
latter words faltered; and even after she had concluded he still kept
his eyes fixed upon her in silence, till one of the men, who had
accompanied Dickon on the deer-stealing expedition, joined into
corroborate her words.

"No, no," said the man, "he was not so guilty as any of us. Dickon
persuaded the rest of us, and we persuaded him; but it was a hard
matter to do so; and then, after all, he never fired a gun."

"Well," said Pharold, "I have done my utmost to free him: but he is in
the hands of our enemies, who are keen, and vigilant, and many; and I
see no way of delivering him from them but by force, which I will not
employ, first, because it would fail; and next, because it would be
sacrificing many of the innocent to deliver one who, though less
guilty than others, is still culpable. I see no other way."

"Ay, but there is another way, Pharold," said the old woman: "they say
that he is confined in what they call the strong room."

"They say!" exclaimed Pharold, hastily--"they say! Some one has been
with you: speak, who has been here? or has any one gone forth when I
forbade it?"

The old woman only grinned at having betrayed herself, as Pharold
looked sternly round upon the circle; but Lena cast herself upon his
bosom, saying, "Tell him the truth! Oh, tell him the truth! It is
always better to tell him the truth! Well, if no one else will, I
will. Some one has been here, Pharold--some one who has seen the poor
boy in prison; and he told us all how wretched he is, and also he said
that William himself had sent him to us to say, that if any one would
come down to-night or to-morrow night to the window of the room where
he is lying, they could easily wrench off the iron bars that kept him
in, and set him free at once."

"And who was the person that he sent?" demanded Pharold, sternly.

"Why, it was just Harry Saxon, the game-sneaker," answered the old
woman; "who else should it be?"

"A dastardly villain!" said Pharold, hastily; "fit to betray us all:
speak no more of it. I know that man of old, and would not trust him
with the life of a child, if he could gain by its destruction."

"He seemed honest enough in this business," said the man called Brown;
"for he told us all how he had got in to see the lad, and how he had
traced us hither. He took some blame to himself, too, in the business
of the deer-stealing, for he was to have bought the venison from
Dickon; and that was the reason why he went to see poor Will in
prison, and was willing to do what he could to get him out. Now I
would not promise to go till I knew what you thought of it, Pharold;
but if you like, I will go down to-night, for, as to the man betraying
us, you see I have no fear, because, if he had liked, he could have
brought people to nab us all here. So I will go and try what I can
do."

"But did not Will say particularly," cried the shrill tones of the old
woman, "that it must be some one who knew the place well, or they
would get into a mess? If you go, Brown, you'll only get caught
yourself, and spoil a hopeful plan for setting poor William free.
There is no one that knows the place well but Pharold and I, because
we know it of old; and as Pharold is afraid to go any more, I would go
with all my heart, if I were strong enough to get the bars off: I
could have done it once, as well as the best man among you; but I am
an old woman now. As for that, Pharold knows the place better than I
do a great deal, for he lived in that very house for many a month,
and--"

"Hold your peace, hold your peace, woman," interrupted Pharold. "The
boy said to-night or to-morrow, did he not?"

"Yes, to-night or to-morrow," answered Brown; "but to-night were best,
for who knows what may happen before to-morrow?"

"To-night I cannot go," answered Pharold, "for I have pledged my word
to be elsewhere, and I do not break my word: but to-morrow I will go;
and I think that, perhaps, after all, I may be able to set him free.
In the meantime, however, you, Mother Gray, shall go down this very
night, to reward you for all the share you have had in the matter.
You know the strong room window, just in the angle, by the great hall.
Get ye down thither at midnight; and tell the boy that I will come
to-morrow night: bid him keep a good watch; and if he sees any one
lurking about, as if watching, let him sing some of the songs that he
sings so well, to warn me. You look out well, too, and mark everything
about you, to tell me when I come back. You were never the wisest or
the best, but I do not think you such a devil as to betray one
wilfully."

He looked sternly and keenly at her, but the beldam only answered in a
jeering tone, "No, no, Pharold, though I love you as much as a young
sparrow loves a cuckoo poult, I'll not betray you, man."

"Go, then," said Pharold, "as soon as it is midnight: examine
everything well; and tell the boy, through the bars of the window,
that, although he deserves to suffer the consequences of his fault,
yet we will do our best to rescue him for his youth's sake."

It is always some consolation to those who lie under the command of a
superior mind to be permitted to sneer at what they dare not disobey;
and the old woman, while she listened, gave way to all those grins,
and winks, and nods, the boldness of which she fancied might
counterbalance, in the opinion of those around, her degradation in
submitting quietly to the orders of one who treated her with such
unceremonious censure. She was secured, however, by Pharold's scorn,
against any notice of her malice, as far as he himself was concerned;
and without seeming to observe the affectation of contempt with which
she heard him, he turned to the rest, and gave directions for
immediately removing their encampment to another spot.

"Quarter of a mile farther," he said, "you will come to a clear
stream, broad but not deep, flowing from the heart of the wood, over a
bed of sand and small clear stones. You can drive the carts up through
the water till you reach a place where the banks are flat; and there,
under the oaks and among the hazel-bushes, you will find plenty of
room and shelter. You, Brown, take every precaution you can to prevent
the slightest trace being left of the course you have followed; make
the people wade along the water--it is not deep enough to cover their
ankles; send them, too, by different parties and in different ways;
for remember that, because one of our number has killed two deer, the
whole world, that hated us before, will now think themselves justified
to hunt us down like foxes.--I can stay with you no longer, for the
hour I named is near at hand--I am wearied and sad, and I feel as if
the end were coming; but still I must keep my word, and do as I have
done to the last."

Some tears, from mixed emotions that would have defied analysis, had
filled the eyes of the beautiful girl that reclined by his side; and
as Pharold rose to depart, he saw them still glistening there. Taking
her hand, he beckoned her with him, saying, "Come with me for a
moment, Lena: I would speak with you."

She followed, and for about a hundred yards he led her on in silence;
and then, turning round, he pressed a kiss upon her lips:--"Remember
me, Lena," he said, "when I am dead. Ever, at this hour, whatever may
happen to you, whatever changes may befall, think of Pharold for a
few short minutes; and mark what I tell you, each time you think of
him--whatever you may feel now;--you shall regret him more, till, on
your dying day, you shall love Pharold as Pharold now loves you.
Remember, Lena, remember, remember!" and, turning away, he left her
with her bright eyes dropping fast unwonted tears.

Alas, alas! the constancy and resolution of youth, what frail things
they are! and how fast the ephemeral feelings and purposes of the hour
give place to others as frail and vain! When Lena turned away from
Pharold, she had believed that for no boon on earth would she do aught
that could offend him; but ere many minutes were over, she was
listening to the persuasions of the old woman, that had led all those
wrong who had confided in her, and was combating faintly and more
faintly the arguments which age and cunning used to induce her to
visit that night the place where her unhappy lover was confined. Lena
listened and resisted, till she listened and yielded; and midnight
found her standing with the old woman under the window of the strong
room in Dimden Park.

In the mean while Pharold pursued his way to rejoin Colonel Manners;
but there seemed to be some bitter feeling sitting heavy at his heart.
The light and agile step had become slow; the quick, keen eyes were
bent thoughtfully upon the ground; more than one sad sigh burst from
his bosom; and the spirit and the heart seemed to mourn. It might be
that Pharold perceived that he was not loved; it might be that he felt
he had set the whole fortunes of his being upon a hazardous chance;
but as we have not paused to trace his love, we shall not dwell long
upon his disappointment. Other feelings, too, such as, more or less
modified by circumstances, will cross the mind of every imaginative
and sensitive man, now rushed upon him, rendered tenfold more strong
in his case than in that of others, by the prejudices of his people,
and the wild and varying habits of his race. Feelings of superstition,
and vague, rambling, fanciful speculations upon all those indications
of human destiny, gathered from external objects, in which his tribe
believe, now mingled themselves with jealous doubts and apprehensions,
and appealed to his own heart for belief or rejection in his own
individual instance.

"I am coming to the crosses," he murmured, as he walked along--"I am
coming to the crosses of life; and the end is not far off! I have seen
those who obeyed me once, rise up against my will. I have been
persecuted and hunted for faults not my own: I have been overcome by a
creature like myself, with no odds against me; and I have learned to
doubt those I love. Ah! and that she, too, should think of another!
Woman, woman! Care, instruction, and kind reproof but offend thee!
love and tenderness but spoil thee! Affection, and worth, and honour
are to thee but as nothing! In danger thou clingest to us! In peace
and security thou leavest us! The things which attract thee are the
lightest of qualities and the vainest of transitory things; and with
what cords shall we bind thee, even when once thou art caught? Vain,
vain, empty butterfly! indifference and reckless carelessness are the
things which win thee the most surely, and which most truly thou
meritest."

Such were the first outpourings of a heart jealous of affection; but
as Pharold walked on, the belief that Lena's love might be given to
another was softened by reflection, and he began to think he had done
her wrong. He remembered the tears he had seen in her eyes; he thought
of many a testimony of girlish regard which she had displayed towards
him: he called to mind many of the finer traits of her heart and mind
which had first attracted him, and which he had striven to cultivate;
and he again began to trust that she would not suffer one thought to
stray from him who had become her husband. The feeling of that vast
disparity of age which existed between them did, indeed, ever mingle
with such hopes, and, as it had often done before, disturbed his peace
of mind by apprehension and doubt. "She will be the sooner free," he
thought bitterly: "she will be the sooner free! God only knows how
soon! for I feel a weight upon me, and a gloom, as if fate were coming
near to me, and its shadow rested dark upon my thoughts. She will be
free, and wed another, and be happy, and forget me, till pain, and
sorrow, and anxiety come, till she wants the hand that used to protect
her, till she requires the mind that used to guide her, and then she
may think of Pharold, and grieve to think that he is lying beneath the
cold and crumbling mould of earth, whence neither prayers nor wishes
shall bring him back to her side again. Then she may remember, and
perhaps weep for him who is lost to her for ever."

With such sad and gloomy reflections Pharold amused the way, as,
retreading the steps he had lately taken, he proceeded to fulfil his
appointment with Colonel Manners. He was a man who gave, perhaps, as
few thoughts to self and selfish considerations as most men. He was
one of those who, in other circumstances and in other ages, would have
as willingly devoted himself a sacrifice for his friend, or for his
country, as any Greek or Roman that ever lived. But he was a gipsy,
and born in an age when patriotism and friendship were equally
considered as mercantile commodities; when men, having cast behind
them the heroism of ancient Greece and Rome, and the chivalry of
ancient France and England, were just beginning to dip themselves in a
spirit of cold and selfish calculation, which, like the waters of the
Carian fountain, emasculates all that is noble and energetic in human
nature; and it is not possible to live among such times without
feeling their chilling influence. Their influence, however, upon him
was different from that which it had upon others; for his race, and
state, and habits, all placed him without the circle of ordinary
thoughts and sensations common to the rest of men. That he was moving
among cold and selfish beings, he felt; that he was acting upon
principles different from theirs, he could not but know; and he
despised them because he did know it, hating them the more because he
was one of a scorned and injured race, to which he clung with the
greater tenacity because it was scorned and injured. But when he met
with a spirit congenial to his own, when he found that he could love
and could trust, all the deep, the noble, the generous feelings of his
original nature burst through every band of times, and circumstances,
and nation, and habit; and he was no longer the gipsy, the sullen
hater of every race except his own, but a creature endowed with noble
powers of mind, and gifted above all with that gem from heaven, an
upright and enthusiastic heart, which would have honoured any land, or
age, or people. The direction which it took might sometimes be wrong,
the reasonings that guided it might wander upon wild, and prejudiced,
and eccentric theories; but the principle was always good, and the
purpose was always generous.

Thus, although he thought for some part of the way upon himself, and
upon the cares and griefs that thronged around him, his mind soon
turned to other objects; and the desire of serving and of soothing
others was strong enough even to withdraw his thoughts from the
powerful grasp of individual sorrows, always far more potent in their
selfishness than joys.

As he approached the spot where his unsuccessful struggle had taken
place with Colonel Manners, he felt, it is true, some sort of
bitterness of heart, to think that he had been overcome. Vanity will
have her share in all; and happy it is--ay, even more than we can
expect--when she changes not the pain of her wound into hatred of
those who have inflicted it. Manners was already on the spot, and the
first words of the gipsy were those of human kindness. "How is she?"
he asked, abruptly. "How is the young lady? You have seen--you have
told her all is well, of course?"

"I have," answered Manners, "and her heart is greatly lighter, though
she will remain still anxious and unsatisfied till I have with my own
eyes seen her cousin, and can report to her the state of his health."

"Fear not, fear not," answered the gipsy; "I have promised to take you
to him, and there is not that power under the heavens which should
ever induce me to break my word, while I am capable of performing it."

"I do not fear, in the least," answered Manners: "I knew perfectly
that you would keep your promise, and confidently assured the family
at Morley House that you would lead me to De Vaux this night. I need
hardly tell you how much joy that assurance gave them, and how much
gratitude they felt to him who made the promise."

"Speak not of gratitude!" answered the gipsy--"speak not of gratitude!
I only regret that from the first I had not foreseen what pain might
fall on some of the good and kind, and that I did not assure myself of
how I ought to act. But if you knew, gentleman, what a life I have led
for the last three days, you would easily make excuse for some
forgetfulness of others--a life so different from that to which we are
accustomed. We come in sunshine, and pitch our dwelling in the warm
bosom of nature, with beauty all round us, and neither care nor strife
among ourselves; but now we have been hunted, and sought, and had to
change our dwellings from place to place; and in order to provide that
we left no traces of our way, we have been forced to double like a
poor hare before the accursed hounds, to think every footstep the
signal of an enemy, and every rustle of the leaves to look upon as the
indication of an ambush. I fear me, too, I fear me that their
persecutions are not yet over. But let us on: here lies our road."

"I trust," said Manners, following him--"I trust that as you are able
to clear yourself in this business of my friend De Vaux, all the other
suspicions against you will be found equally groundless; and then you
may follow your way of life once more in peace."

"No, no," answered the gipsy, "he would persecute me still. Once he
has made a false accusation against me, and he will never abandon it
as long as he and I are on the face of the same earth--never, never! I
know him too well."

"I do not clearly understand of whom you speak," answered Manners,
keeping by the side of the gipsy, although the pace at which he had
set off seemed accelerated at every step by the angry feelings that he
was stirring up in his own bosom. "You do not name the person. Whom do
you mean?"

"Whom should I mean?" answered the gipsy, sharply. "Whom but him who,
born with violent passions and a haughty nature, was bred a lawyer, in
order that dark cunning should be added to a bold spirit and a shrewd
mind. I speak of Lord Dewry; and I tell you that he will never cease
to persecute me. Does he not now hold in fast confinement a boy of our
people whom he well knows to be innocent?"

"There is, certainly," answered Manners, "a gipsy-boy confined at
Dimden, for I saw him there this morning; but Lord Dewry, as well as
all the people of the neighbourhood, informed me that he had been
taken in an attempt to steal the deer in the park."

"He was not present," said the gipsy: "he saw not the beast
slaughtered by the mad-headed fools that did it, any more than I did.
But he keeps him because he is a gipsy-boy, not that he thinks him
guilty. And so, you saw him, did you?" continued Pharold, striving,
with a slight mingling of the artful cunning of his people, to
discover what Manners knew of the situation of the young gipsy--"so,
you saw him? and, doubtless, he is to be sent soon to the county-jail,
to die of imprisonment and despair at losing his blessed freedom."

"I did not hear any mention of such an intention," answered Manners.
"Every one present joined in accusing the youth of direct
participation in the deer-stealing; and he himself kept so obstinate a
silence, that there was no possibility of drawing from him even a word
that might exculpate himself."

"And do you call it obstinate silence to refuse to answer either the
subtle or the idle questions of his enemies?" demanded the gipsy.

"There is the mistake into which your people fall too often, and with
too fatal an effect," answered Manners. "You consider us, on all
occasions, as your enemies, and act towards us as if we were such,
instead of endeavouring to make us your friends, which might often be
accomplished--always, I might say, with good men, were your actions to
tend to that purpose. In the instance you speak of, the principal
questions were addressed to your young companion by myself. Their
object was solely to elicit some news of my friend De Vaux; and, had
he answered them frankly, he would have made a friend who might have
rendered him service."

"And he refused to answer?" demanded the gipsy.

"Not exactly refused," replied Manners; "but answered only by an
unmeaning monosyllable, or kept a profound silence."

"He did right!" cried the gipsy; "he did right! The boy is more
deserving than I thought him; he merits an effort."

"We judge very differently," answered Manners: "I thought he did very
wrong; and had he given me the information I sought, it is more than
probable that I should have met you with very different feelings from
those with which I at first saw you this night."

"He did right, he did right!" cried the gipsy. "Would you have had him
betray secrets intrusted to him? or was he to judge what I might think
fit to be revealed? No, no: silence was his best security against
discovering, through fear or through folly, those things, the value of
which he knew not. He has shown both more prudence and more resolution
than I thought he possessed. However, he could have told you nothing,
for he knew nothing--not even the path we are now treading."

"Well, then, his candour would only have served to give a favourable
opinion of himself," Manners rejoined, "without injuring you, or
betraying your confidence."

"How can you tell that?" cried the gipsy--"how can you tell that? how
could he tell it either? Might you not have led him on to other
things? Might you not have wrung from him, if he had spoken candidly,
as you call it, one admission after another, till you had discovered
all that he could tell. Oh, we know your artful ways, your
examinations and cross-examinations, which would make an angel of
truth and wisdom seem like a liar and a fool. We know your skill in
making men reveal what they would not, and speak two apparently
opposite truths, without allowing them to give the explanation; so
that they seem to contradict themselves at every word. We know you;
and we have one way, and only one, to disappoint you, which is
silence. You can make naught of that."

Manners saw that, where both the principles and the course of the
reasoning were so different, discussion was of very little use; and he
consequently made no reply to the gipsy's tirade, feeling, however, at
the same time, that there was a portion of truth in what he said,
which it would be difficult to separate from the great mass of
prejudice with which it was combined. Pharold, however, wished the
conversation prolonged upon the same topic; for with all the frank
generosity of his individual nature, the habits and the character of
the gipsy still modified and influenced the other qualities of his
heart and his mind. His character, as a man, was open and candid; but
the gipsy often acted, to render it stubborn and sullen when
oppressed, or even wily and artful when some peculiar object was to be
gained.

He now greatly desired to obtain from Colonel Manners, as a sincere
and independent person, some information concerning the exact
situation of the boy William, both in order to guide more surely any
efforts made for his liberation, and to correct the report of the old
beldam, whom he had sent down to inquire, and of whose purposes and
views he entertained many a doubt. He did not choose, however, to let
his design become apparent, and therefore approached his object with a
careful art, which was not a part of his natural, but rather of his
acquired character.

"Poor boy!" he said, as soon as he perceived that Manners did not
reply--"poor boy! I am sorry for him. He has never known anything but
liberty, and the enjoyment of all the free, wide, beautiful world; he
has never known what it is to have fetters on his young limbs, or to
be shut from the air and light of heaven, in some dark and gloomy
dungeon."

"You must not let your imagination draw such a picture of his
situation," answered Manners, who, having nothing to conceal, was
easily led in the direction the gipsy wished. "The boy is not and
cannot be in such a state as you suppose. He has no fetters upon his
limbs, and, in all probability, is as well treated as a proper regard
for his safe custody will permit."

"It will be pain and grief enough," rejoined the gipsy, "for one who
has never in his life been debarred from turning his steps in
whatsoever direction he thought fit--who has never been cutoff from
the sight of nature, and the breath of the free air, since his eyes
were first opened upon God's heaven and earth, and the breath of life
was breathed into his nostrils--it will be pain and grief enough for
him to be thrust into some dark and gloomy dungeon, perhaps under
ground, or, at all events, looking into some dull stone-built court,
where he can see nothing on any side but the hateful walls that keep
him in, and the sly, dastard faces of those that watch him."

"Of course," answered Manners, "as I am nearly unacquainted with this
part of the country and with Dimden Hall, I cannot be aware of the
nature of the place in which the lad is confined. A dungeon it is not,
certainly; for such things are now, thank God, quite out of the
question. It appeared to me, too, that there was no such thing as a
court to the dwelling-house; and that, therefore, wherever he may be
placed, he will be able to see the face of nature, which you love so
much. But you yourself--at least, all I have heard would lead me to
suppose so--must know Dimden Hall far better than I do, and perhaps
may be aware of where the strong room is; for it was to it that I
heard Lord Dewry direct him to be taken, after we had in vain tried to
gain any information from him."

"If he be there, he may do well," answered the gipsy; "but probably
they will remove him to the county-jail, and there he will have sad
and bitter hours enough."

"I should certainly think that they will not do so," answered
Manners, "if what you tell me in regard to his innocence of all
participation in the actual slaughter of the deer be correct. The
magistrates will, of course, investigate the matter, and seek full
evidence of the facts, before they either commit the boy, or even send
him off to the jail, which, I understand, is many miles distant; so
that it is much more probable that he will remain where he is for the
present."

The gipsy saw well that Manners spoke without disguise, and that he
had, in fact, nothing more to tell in regard to the situation of the
prisoner. However, he had gained at least the certainty that the lad
was confined in the strong room, which he knew well; that he was not
likely to be speedily removed, and that he was not encumbered with
fetters to impede his escape. Lest he might have been so secured,
Pharold had entertained some fear, as he knew that blood had been shed
in the encounter between the deer-stealers and the keepers, and
thought it more than likely that the peer would strive to prove the
lad William to have been an actual participator in that part of the
unfortunate affair, and would treat him accordingly. His next anxiety
was to know what was the state of the men who had been wounded, and
what was the exact charge against himself, in regard to the affray in
Dimden Park, as well as what evidence had been given to inculpate him.

He had found so much frankness in the replies of Colonel Manners to
his former inquiries, however, that he now quitted the artful path
which he had taken, and spoke more boldly of his own situation. "I
would fain know," he said, after he had walked on about two hundred
paces farther in silence--"I would fain know how I stand in regard to
that false accusation which my enemy brought against me, respecting
the slaughter of his pitiful deer. As I passed through the country
this morning, after quitting his park, I gained some tidings; but when
I first met you, gentleman, to-night, you told me that though I might
be guilty of other things, you knew me to be innocent of that. If you
be, as you seem to be, a friend to justice and humanity, you will tell
me how you know that charge to be false, that I may prove it so, too,
by some proof that will be better received than the mere oath of my
own people."

"I can have no objection whatever," Manners answered, "to tell you at
once how I was led to the conclusion that you mention. There were two
persons wounded in that unfortunate affair--one a gentleman who is now
lying at Dimden, and another a keeper, who was removed from the park
to his own cottage. As I found that the surgeon had confined his
attention to the person at Dimden, whose wound is far the most
dangerous, I went down to the cottage of the keeper to inquire how he
was going on--"

"Good and kind, good and kind!" interrupted the gipsy, with one of
those bursts of vehement feeling to which he at times gave way. "Ah, I
see and understand it all! The mercenary manufacturer of diseases and
maker of men's ills remained with the gentleman, who could pay him for
his fancied skill, and left the poor man to do the best for himself;
and you went down to comfort him whom the other had neglected."

"Not exactly so," answered Manners: "the wound of the one was much
more severe than that of the other, and the surgeon staid where his
presence was most necessary. I went down, however, and sat with the
poor fellow some time; and he distinctly informed me, not only that
you had not been present when the deer were killed, but that you were
coming up and calling to the others not to fire at the moment that the
guns went off. He said, too, that if it had not been for your
interference, there would have been far more bloodshed; and I strongly
advise you, should there ever be any investigation of this business,
to call the keeper Jones as a witness to establish your innocence."

"While I can keep my liberty," said the gipsy, "they shall never hold
me in their gripe. Besides, he would find witnesses enough to swear
away my life, if he were to bribe them with half his fortune. But the
wounded men--are they likely to die, did you say?"

"I trust not," answered Manners; "and with care and attention, the
wound of the keeper will not prove even dangerous. The other gentleman
I did not see, but I hear he is much more severely hurt."

"What is his name?" demanded the gipsy.

"Sir Roger Millington, I think, was the name," answered Manners; "but
I did not pay it any particular attention."

"Sir Roger Millington!" repeated the gipsy, musing--"Sir Roger
Millington! I do not know him; and yet it sounds in my ears like a
word spoken in a dream. Oh yes, yes--I remember now: it was to him
that the money was owing."

"What money?" demanded Manners, in some surprise.

"Never mind," answered the gipsy; "but, be sure, if that man dies, my
enemy will find means to make me out his murderer. Mark that,
gentleman, and remember hereafter."

"It is impossible that he can do so," answered Manners, whose
confidence in British justice was much stronger than that of the
gipsy. "I understand that there were eight or nine people present. One
of them, who has suffered severely, has already borne witness to your
innocence; and, depend upon it, that among the rest, you would find
plenty more to do the same. But it strikes me as extraordinary, I do
confess, that you should seem to apprehend much more evil from an
affair in which you can easily exculpate yourself, than from a charge
which, referring to matters long gone, and to circumstances of which
there could be but few witnesses, must be much more difficult to be
met in a satisfactory manner--I mean the charge of having killed the
late Lord Dewry."

"I will tell you why, I will tell you why," answered the gipsy. "In
regard to this business, he can prove something against me: that I was
in his park without right--at a suspicious hour--when persons were
committing an unlawful act; and those people my own nation, and my own
comrades. He may make out a plausible tale, and a little false
swearing would easily do the rest. But in regard to the other, I
laugh him to scorn; for why? because, when I will, I can blow the
cloud away, like the west wind when it sweeps the mist from the
valleys--because I can dispel it all, and prove my own innocence
beyond a doubt, by proving who it was that did do the deed!"

"Do that," answered Manners, eagerly--"do that, and, beyond all doubt,
Lord Dewry will forbear every other proceeding against you."

"Would he, indeed!" cried the gipsy, with a contemptuous laugh--"would
he, indeed! Yet, perhaps, he might: but I will tell you, gentleman, if
I did do so, I should not stand in need of his forbearance. But I will
not do it; no, never! not if they were to cast a mountain upon me, it
should not crush that secret from my heart till the right hour be
come."

"Indeed!" said Manners; "that is a strange determination; but,
however, you act and reason upon principles so different from those
that influence ordinary men, that it is useless to inquire why you run
great risks yourself, with motives apparently very slight."

"I do it because it is written in the book of that which I am to do,"
answered the gipsy. "But you say right; we do act and we do think upon
different principles; and it is useless to inquire into mine, for you
would not understand them; and yet I hold you to be a good man--better
than most--braver--wiser than the great part of your fellows. Had you
not been both brave and wise, you would never have learned from me
what you are to know to-night--the fangs of tigers would not have torn
it from me by any other means."

"I hope," answered Manners, with a smile, "that the secret will not be
kept much longer unrevealed; for we have already walked several miles,
and our fair friend, the moon, is going down to rest, as if she were
as tired as I am."

"And who that sees her sink," said the gipsy, turning round as Manners
spoke, and gazing for a moment on the setting orb--"and who that sees
her sink shall dare to say that he will ever see that calm and
splendid sight again? She goes, we know not whither, travelling alone
upon her oft-trodden path--the path that she has walked in majesty
through many a long century, looking unmoved upon the strifes and joys
of nations who now have left us nothing but their ruins and their
tombs. She saw my people live and rule in other lands.[6] She has
seen them bow the necks of proud and haughty enemies beneath their
chariot-wheels. She has seen them fall day by day, till they are but a
scattered remnant, dashed like the foam of a broken wave over the
lands around, while their temples and their palaces, their homes and
their altars, are the dwellings of the wolf and the jackal, that howl
beneath her light. She has seen them--mighty and nothing; and,
perhaps, when our bones are whitening beneath her beams, in the long
wide vacancy of after times, she may also see the despised nation
reinstated in its glory, and forgetful of the rod of the oppressor;
but you mind not such things--you look upon us merely as wandering
outcasts of some unknown race."


---------------------

[Footnote 6: All the various tribes of gipsies, scattered throughout
different parts of Europe, undoubtedly possess a tradition of the
former greatness of their people; and whenever they can be brought to
speak upon the subject, adhere strictly to the story told by the first
of their nation that appeared in Europe, and maintain that their
original country was Egypt; some calling it _Lower_ Egypt, some
_Upper_ Egypt--a distinction worthy of remark, as it seems to evince a
real knowledge of the land that they claim as their own. The learned
have endeavoured to trace them to the Indian caste of Parias; and Sir
William Jones, I think, has pronounced many of the words in their
language to be pure Sanscrit, which fact would afford the strongest
proof that they are not of Paria origin. Besides this, I have been
assured by a learned friend, who passed many years in India, that
gipsies are sometimes to be met with in Hindostan, and appear there as
much a race distinct and separate from any of the native tribes as
they do among the nations of Europe.]

---------------------


"No, indeed," answered Manners; "you do me wrong. I have always looked
upon your people with much interest and curiosity. There is a sort of
mystery in their history and their fate that will not let any one, who
thinks and feels, regard them with indifference."

"There is a mystery," answered the gipsy--"there is a mystery; but it
matters not. This is not the time to solve it;" and--as every person
who has ever conversed with one of the more intelligent and better
informed of the gipsies must have remarked as their invariable custom
when spoken to either upon their language or history--he suddenly
turned the conversation to other things, content with the vague hints
of brighter times and more extended power, which he had already given.
Manners endeavoured more than once to bring him back to the subject,
but the gipsy pertinaciously avoided any approach to it. Nor was his
companion more successful in an endeavour to lead him to the subject
of De Vaux, in regard to whom Pharold pointedly refused to answer any
questions. "You will know very soon all that you can know about the
matter," he replied; "and I do not choose to speak at all on subjects
where I might speak too much."

Manners pressed the question no further, and followed in silence. They
had some time before crossed the summit of the rise above Morley
House, skirting along the woods, and had descended into a valley on
the other side, which, though not so deep as that in which the
principal events we have related took place, sunk sufficiently below
the level of the neighbouring hills to render a considerable ascent on
the other side necessary ere the travellers could be said to have
passed the chain of high grounds which separated that county from the
next. This eminence, also, they had surmounted, when, as Manners had
observed, the moon might be seen sinking below the dark line of the
distant horizon. The aspect of the country was here very different
from that on the other side of the hills; and although the light of
the setting orb was not sufficient to display distinctly the various
objects in the landscape, yet the long lines of light and shade that
varied the wide extent below their feet gave Manners the idea of a
rich and softly-undulating country, spreading for many miles without
any considerable eminence. From the spot where they then stood the
road, which they had now gained, wound through some young plantations
down towards the plain; but ere they had finished the descent the moon
was lost below the horizon, and the eye could no longer trace any but
the objects in its immediate vicinity. Manners remarked, however, that
along the young plantings were neat trimmed hedges, and that clean
shining white gates gave entrance into the fields which they skirted.
A dry raised footpath, too, rendered walking easy; and ere long he
passed one of those friendly milestones wherewith most civilized
governments have condescended to solace the longings of the weary
traveller, as he plods on, anxious to know his distance from the
expected rest. Just at the same moment, too, a village clock, with its
kindly bell, tolled the hour, sounding clear and calm upon the still
night air; and Manners, though without any great object in doing so,
paused to make out the inscription of one hundred and some miles from
London, and to count twelve, struck distinctly on the bell of the
clock.

"Will not this be a very late hour," he asked, turning to the gipsy,
who had paused also--"will not this be a very late hour to visit my
poor friend, especially if he be ill as you say in body and in mind?"

"We will see that presently," answered the gipsy: "if he sleep, so
much the better. You can wait till tomorrow. My part of the errand
must be done to-night, or never; for something at my heart tells me
that I shall not long be able to walk whither I will throughout the
world."

Now, although Colonel Manners, with the firm determination of pursuing
the adventure to the end, whatever might come of it, had gone on with
the gipsy boldly, and had conversed with him as calmly as if they had
both been in a drawing-room, yet it is by no means to be supposed that
he refrained from speculating upon the place and circumstances into
which his enterprise might lead him; as in this instance he saw the
necessity of letting imagination range free, so long as she had reason
for her guide, in order that he might be prepared for all. While they
were on the hill, and near the woods, Manners imagined that he would
most likely find his sick friend under the care and attendance of some
separate party of gipsies; and, of course, fancy employed herself in
thinking what could be the train of events which had brought about so
strange a result. But as they descended into a more highly cultivated
and evidently well-peopled track, he began to doubt whether it was
such a spot as gipsies would choose for their habitation, and,
consequently, whether De Vaux would be found in the hands of any of
Pharold's tribe. Imagination had now, of course, a wider, field than
before; and his surprise--or whatever the feeling may be called which
is excited by circumstances we cannot account for--was still greater,
as they began to pass through the scattered houses and small neat
enclosures which mark the approach to an English country town.

At length the gipsy stopped at a gate, opened it, and bade his
companion pass in. Manners did as he was desired, and found himself
standing on a neat gravel walk, with a shrubbery on either hand,
plentifully provided with laurels, hollies, and many another
evergreen. The gipsy followed; and the walk, skirting for a couple of
hundred yards round a trim, smooth, shaven green, brought them in
front of a neat house, built of brick, and evidently modern in all its
parts. Plate-glass, a-well-a-day! did not in those times decorate even
the houses of the greatest in the land; and the dwelling before which
they now stood, although it was clearly the abode of affluence, had no
pretensions to be any thing more than a handsome house of the middle
rank. It might be the new-built rectory of some wealthy parish, or the
place of retirement of some merchant who had had wisdom enough to seek
repose at the point where competence stops short of riches; but it had
no one circumstance which could entitle it to affect the name of the
Mansion, or the Hall, or the Abbey, or the Castle; and in those days
the word cottage had never yet been applied to designate a palace. It
had its little freestone portico, however, and its two low wings, in
the windows of each of which there were lights. It was evident,
therefore, if this was the place where Manners was destined to find De
Vaux, that, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, there were other
persons awake in the house besides those who might be supposed to
watch in the chamber of an invalid.

As they came near the gipsy advanced a step before his companion, and
rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed without any one appearing to
answer the summons; but just as Pharold was about to repeat it, the
door was opened by a servant, carrying a light, which was almost
instantly extinguished by the gust of wind which rushed into the
unclosed door. There had been time enough, however, for the man to
recognise Pharold, and to bid him come in, as if his visit were a
thing of course; and in the moment that the light had remained
unextinguished, Colonel Manners could distinguish the countenance of
the servant, the features of which, he felt convinced, were not
unknown to him.

"Come in, sir," said the gipsy.--"Is there any one in the parlour,
John?" he added, turning to the man as Manners entered.

"No one, Mr. Pharold," answered the servant, intones that were still
more familiar to Manners's ear than his features had been to his eye.
"My master is in the little room beyond."

"Then walk in here, sir, and wait for me one moment," said the gipsy;
and Colonel Manners, without question, walked into the dark room, of
which Pharold had opened the door, and waited patiently to see how all
the strange affair in which he was engaged would end.




                            CHAPTER VIII.


The room was, as we have said, quite dark, with the exception of a
narrow line of light, which found its way under a door on the opposite
side of the chamber; and by the time that Manners had been there two
minutes he heard voices speaking in that direction. What was said by
the first speaker, whom he concluded to be Pharold, did not make
itself heard in the apartment where Manners stood; but the moment
after another voice was distinguished, saying, in a louder tone, "You
have done wrong, you have done wrong, Pharold. My mind was still
undecided; and this will force me to act whether I will or not."

Pharold's voice replied at considerable length, and was apparently
still going on, when the other exclaimed, hastily, "But, good God, did
you not let her know? Did you not send her the note I despatched to
you for that purpose?"

"What note? When did you send?" demanded Pharold, eagerly, "I had no
note."

"This is most unfortunate," replied the other. "I sent up a note to
you, intended to be conveyed to her for the purpose of putting her
mind at ease; and it should have reached you beyond all doubt; for I
gave it, with my own hand, to the youth Dickon, yesterday morning,
when he came with the message from you."

"Ay, that is it, that is it," answered the gipsy. "I chose him as my
messenger to keep him out of evil; but ere I could get back to my
people, I found that, on some pretence, strangers on horseback were
watching for us on the common, and I betook me to the wood again. But
they set a watch round the wood; and it was long ere I could slip
through unseen; and when I did so, and got to the tents under Dimden
wall, I found that this very Dickon had seduced several others to go
and shoot the deer in the park. Deer were killed, the keepers were
met, blood was shed, and I drove the offender out from among us, that
he might not lead others again into evil, and draw down the rage of
the powerful upon us. Thus I saw him but for a moment, and he went
without giving me your letter."

Now Manners, although he could not help hearing what was passing, had
a great objection to so doing; and he had therefore from the very
beginning contrived to make as much noise as possible, by every means
that suggested itself, in order both to render the sounds which
reached him indistinct, and to make the speakers aware that their
conversation might be overheard. Their first eagerness, however,
prevented them from taking warning; but at length their tone was
lowered, and for the next five minutes Manners heard nothing further
than a low indistinct murmur, which sufficiently showed that the
conference was continued, but did not betray the matter thereof.

At length, however, the second voice spoke louder, in the sort of
marked manner with which one ends a private conversation, by words
which have little meaning to any ear but that of the person to whom
they are addressed. "Well, well, it is time that such a state should
be put an end to! As to this other business, there is nothing to fear
from Colonel Manners: I know him well, as I told you before; and were
I to choose any man in whom to confide, it would be him. Now rest you,
Pharold; rest you while I go and speak with him. Would to God that you
would quit this wandering life, and now in your age wisely accept from
me what you foolishly rejected in your youth from one long dead; but
rest you, as I have said, and I will return in a few minutes to hear
out your account."

Pharold's reply was not distinct; but the next moment the door opened
between the two rooms, and Manners was joined by a gentleman whom we
have seen once, and only once, before in the course of this history.
It was, in short, the same hale, handsome old man whom we last heard
of conversing with the gipsy Pharold, in the beginning of the first
volume of this book, who now advanced with a light into the dark room
in which Manners had been left. He could not be less than sixty-three
or four years of age; but his frame appeared as vigorous as if twenty
of those years had been struck off the amount. His figure was tall and
upright, and his step had in it a peculiar bold and firm elasticity,
that spoke the undiminished energy of both mind and body. He was, in
short, a person whom, once seen, it would be difficult to forget; and
although the light he carried dazzled Manners's eyes a little, yet the
instant he entered the room his visiter advanced towards him, holding
out his hand, and exclaiming, "My dear Sir William Ryder, I am
delighted to meet you again, and to meet you in England."

"Not less delighted than I am to see you, Manners," answered the
other, "although we meet under somewhat strange circumstances, and
though I am obliged to bid you, for a short time, forget that I am Sir
William Ryder, without forgetting that I am a sincere friend. My name,
for the present, is Mr. Harley; and now, having introduced myself as
such, let us sit down, and talk over old stories."

"But, first, my dear sir," said Manners, "a word or two of new
stories, if you please. I am most anxious to inquire after my poor
friend De Vaux, though no longer anxious in regard to his situation,
now that I find he is in hands so kind and so skilful as yours.
Indeed, the first sight of your servant, though I caught but a glimpse
of him, set my mind at ease regarding my poor friend, as far as it can
be at ease till I hear how he is, and what is the matter with him."

"He is better, he is better," answered Sir William Ryder; "and so far
banish all anxiety, for he will do well. I know such affairs of old;
and as he has been neither scalped nor tomahawked by any of my
children of the Seven Nations, I will answer for his recovery. But I
dare say you wonder at his being here with me; and, indeed, it is
altogether an odd coincidence, for I can assure you that it is by no
plot or contrivance of mine that I have got you and him once more
under my roof together, when the last time we so met was in my wigwam
on the very farthest verge of the inhabited world."

"But first tell me what is the matter with him," said Manners; "and
then I will put all sorts of questions to you, which you shall answer
or not as you think fit."

"What is the matter with him!" cried Sir William Ryder; "did not my
friend Pharold tell you that he had got a pistol-shot in his side,
which had broken two of his ribs?"

"Good God! no," cried Manners: "I am excessively sorry to hear it; but
how did it occur--in a duel?"

"No," answered the other; "no: he did it himself; but understand
me--not intentionally--he is not such a fool. However, he will do
well: the ball has been extracted; he has very little fever: no organ
important to life has been touched, and all promises fairly."

"But, indeed, my dear Sir William, you must tell me more," said
Manners. "How did this happen? for though I have seen accidents enough
of different kinds, yet I cannot understand this affair at all."

"Why, I do not very well know how to explain it," said the other,
musing, "without entering into unnecessary particulars. However, the
fact is this: he went out at night, it seems, to see my friend
Pharold, who, I need not tell you, is no ordinary person. However,
your friend did not know his character or his worth, and he placed a
brace of horse-pistols in his bosom. He must certainly have had one of
them cocked, too, though he will not acknowledge it: but the end of
the matter was, that he heard some very bad news; and being, like all
his race, subject to violent fits of passion, he cast himself down
like a madman, the pistol went off, and the shot was within a few
inches of his heart. Pharold, who was present and alone, did not very
well know what to do with him; but carrying him in his arms as far as
he could, he called some of his own people, bound up the poor boy's
wounds as well as circumstances admitted, and brought him here,
knowing that in other years I was upon terms of intimacy with his
father, and loved him still, notwithstanding one or two little causes
of misunderstanding between us."

Manners listened in silence, and he certainly did not forget the terms
in which Lord Dewry had spoken of the very person who now alluded so
mildy to him; but as he was by no means fond of making mischief upon
any pretence, and knew that Sir William Ryder was not a man in whom
personal fear would act as any check upon resentment, he felt no
inclination to mention one word of the peer's vituperation of his
former friend. At the same time, the kindly tone in which Sir William
Ryder spoke did not at all lead Manners to believe that he was the
person in fault. The thoughts which crossed the gallant officer's
mind, however, must have had some visible representatives in his
countenance; for his companion looked at him with a smile, adding, "I
know well what you are thinking--that probably Lord Dewry does not
speak so gently of Sir William Ryder as Sir William Ryder does of him.
I have heard so before. Nevertheless, Manners, I shall not call him
out, and amuse the world with two men of sixty fighting a duel. Nor is
Colonel Manners one to think the worse of me for acting as I do, nor
to doubt my motives, though my conduct be a little eccentric. Is it
not so, my friend?"

"It is, indeed," answered Manners; "and be you quite sure, my dear
sir, that so firm is my confidence in your honour and integrity,
from personal knowledge--which is better than all the gossip in the
world--that I would never hear the name of Sir William Ryder mentioned
with disrespect without taking the liberty of resenting it."

"I believe you, I believe you, Manners, from my soul," answered his
companion: "but to return to our poor friend De Vaux--as soon as he
was brought here, I of course sent for the best advice that was to be
procured, the ball was extracted, and, as I have said, he is better.
He is at present, I am happy to say, in a sound and comfortable sleep;
but if you will take up your abode with me till to-morrow, you shall
see him, and judge of his condition for yourself. A room shall be
prepared for you immediately."

"I will willingly lie down to take a little rest," answered Manners.
"But let me beg you, my dear sir, to have me called as soon as De Vaux
wakes, and is willing to see me; for I left a poor young lady, his
cousin--and there are ties of affection stronger than those of mere
relationship between them--waiting anxiously to hear some tidings of
him; for until this very night we have all imagined him murdered."

"Ah, poor girl, poor girl!" said Sir William Ryder, in a tone of deep
sympathy. "She must have suffered dreadfully, I am afraid; but I can
assure you that her having been kept even an hour in suspense is
neither to be attributed to me nor to her cousin. His first thought
was of her, his first words, after he saw me, were to beg that I would
instantly write to her, in order to tell her what had occurred, and to
sooth her mind as far as possible. Nay, more, though suffering much
pain till the ball was extracted, he insisted upon writing a few words
with his own hand, to comfort her as far as possible. Though I would
fain have prevented an exertion which might injure him, I loved him
for his obstinacy, Manners. The note was sent to Pharold, with
directions to forward it to her; but neither note nor directions, it
seems, ever reached the gipsy."

Manners could not refrain from saying, "It would have been better to
have sent it direct to herself, Sir William. You must remember, my
excellent friend, that you are no longer among your children, as you
call them, the Indians, and that you will meet with another class of
vices and virtues also here. What you would trust to a Mohawk, if he
promised to perform it, and feel convinced that nothing but death
would prevent its execution, is not at all to be confided to a common
messenger in England, and--"

"I know all that, my friend, I know all that," interrupted his
companion; "but I had no choice. At that time I was not at all certain
whether I should let any one know that I was in England or not; and
had I sent the note direct to Morley House, such a communication must
have been opened as would instantly have put an end to my incognito.
One messenger might have failed me as well as another, and it was
owing to an accident which no one could foresee that the note was not
delivered. So much for your rebuke, Manners," he continued, smiling;
"but now tell me how the poor girl is; for the first question of my
patient, when he hears that you are here, will be, How is Marian de
Vaux?"

"Alarm and agitation had rendered her seriously ill," answered
Manners; "so much so, indeed, that the medical man found it necessary,
during the whole of yesterday and this morning, to keep her feelings
deadened, as it were, by laudanum--to the great risk of her health, as
he acknowledged--but it was the lesser of two evils."

"Sad, sad, indeed!" cried Sir William Ryder, rising from his seat, and
walking backwards and forwards in some agitation--"sad, sad, indeed!
and I am afraid that I have had something to do with the whole
business; but I trust she is better now--poor girl! I am grieved,
deeply grieved. But say, Manners, how was she when you left her?"

"Infinitely better, I am happy to say," answered Manners; "for your
friend Pharold permitted me to inform her that De Vaux was safe at
least, though he tied me down to strict conditions. That piece of
news, of course, relieved her greatly; but not so much so as to set
her mind at ease, till she hears tidings from me of her cousin's exact
situation, which I trust to be able to give her early to-morrow."

"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly," answered Sir William Ryder. "Nay, if you
think it would be any great comfort to her, we will send off a man on
horseback this very night, to calm her with further assurances."

"Unless," answered Manners, "I may be permitted to say that you will
give herself and Mrs. Falkland a welcome to visit De Vaux in person, I
think that I had better not send, but wait till I can communicate some
further information myself."

Sir William Ryder hesitated. "I am afraid," he said--"I am afraid that
will be impossible, just at present. But she will believe your
assurance, of course; and I think that you may venture to tell her
that her cousin is under kind and careful hands, by which nothing will
be neglected to promote his speedy recovery."

"I will certainly give the fullest assurances of that fact," answered
Manners. "But what reason am I to assign for her being debarred from
seeing and attending her cousin, when I have been admitted? She will
certainly think it mysterious."

"As you do, Manners," said Sir William, with a smile. "But listen to
me, and I will tell you several of the many reasons which have brought
me back to a land which I have abandoned for long years; and out of
those reasons you shall see whether you can find a motive to assign to
Miss De Vaux for my mysterious conduct. In the first place, I, like
most men, have some friends and relations; and I was seized with a
longing to see them, to assure myself with my own eyes of their fate
and their happiness, ere I laid my head down upon its last pillow in
another land. The same longing seized me about twelve years since, but
then I resisted; for long ago I had met with a sad and severe blow in
my private happiness, which led me to forswear, in the bitterness of
my heart, any of those ties and affections which are but so many cords
to bind us to sorrow and disappointment. In various matters, about
that time, I had acted wrong; and I felt that a voluntary expatriation
was a good atonement. When I went, therefore, I resolved never to
return; and when, as I have said, twelve years ago, the longing to see
friends and relations, and scenes that I once loved, seized me, I
resisted, strengthened, in so doing, by a feeling that my return to
England might be painful to some whom I did not desire to pain, and
would only re-awaken, in my own bosom, feelings that had better sleep.
Now, however, many other motives have been added to this longing,
which returned upon me this spring with more force than ever. I wished
eagerly to raise such a sum as would purchase a large tract of land on
which to settle for ever, without danger of molestation, the remnant
of a nearly-destroyed tribe of Indians, who, after having been
massacred and ill-treated by every other white man they met with, at
length attached themselves to me, and were living round me like my
children, as you saw."

"I did, indeed," answered Manners; "and I trust that you will let me
aid in your noble design."

"I do not know that it will be necessary now, for I am likely to take
other measures," answered Sir William. "My own private income was not
sufficient, though I had saved out of a thousand a year, which was all
that I possessed, sufficient to lay a good foundation; but I also
wished the British government to interfere for the more general and
powerful protection of the Indians, and this was one reason of my
coming. I longed too, as I have said, to see many of my relations and
friends; but I wished to do so privately. There were two persons,
especially, of whom I was desirous of bearing more than I could in
America. One--over whom I hold some power, from various transactions
in the past--I wished to watch closely for a short time, and treat him
according to his merits. The other--who, though more independent of
me, I could raise up or cast down as I pleased--I desired to sift
thoroughly, to examine every trait in his character, to probe every
feeling in his heart, with the resolution of leaving him, ultimately,
to happiness, if I found him noble and true; but at the same time to
give him a severe lesson, which might crush early some failings; some
peculiar evils in his disposition, that would, if suffered to remain,
lead hereafter to misery, to himself and others. Various occurrences
have taken place since to alter or derange these plans; and, as we are
from day to day the creatures of circumstances over which we have no
control, I am now waiting for some decisive event to determine for me
a line of conduct which I find some difficulty in determining for
myself."

"I am afraid, Sir William," answered Manners, "that even if I were to
explain all this in your own words to Miss De Vaux, she would still be
as much perplexed as ever; and I have often remarked, that in the
minds of the timid--especially where there is real cause for
uneasiness--everything that is doubtful and mysterious is interpreted
into afresh cause of apprehension and alarm. Besides, according to my
contract with your acquaintance Pharold, and the stipulations which
you have yourself implied, with regard to your name, so far from
explaining all these motives, I am not even to disclose that I have
seen you."

Sir William Ryder paused for a moment or two in deep thought; and
Manners, seeing that he was embarrassed, added, "Perhaps, Sir William,
the best way for me to act will be, to give Miss De Vaux a true
account of the state of her cousin's health; to tell that I have seen
him, but to add that, from particular causes, which I must explain
hereafter, I can neither inform her where he is, nor enable her to see
him. I have always found it best, wherever I have been embarrassed
with any mystery of my own--which, thank God, has been seldom the
case--to meet the matter at once, and say, _I will not tell_, without
entangling myself in half explanations, which do me no good, and only
serve those, whose curiosity or feelings are interested, as materials
for imagination to build up visionary castles withal."

"Perhaps you are right," said Sir William: "but stay yet a moment!
A word or two more with our friend in the next room--I mean the
gipsy--may decide my conduct."

Manners smiled at the sort of counsellors by whom he had found his
friend surrounded in both hemispheres. When first he met Sir William
Ryder, he had seen him every day in deep consultation with Indian
chiefs; and now his principal reliance seemed to be upon gipsies: but,
at present, that somewhat eccentric personage was disappointed in his
purpose of calling Pharold to his councils; for when he opened the
door--which led into a small neat study, with a table covered with
papers, money, and lights, in the midst thereof--he found the room
untenanted by any living thing.

"I had forgot," he said, turning back with a smile--"I had forgot that
one half-hour in the air of a close room is too much for Pharold's
endurance. He is gone, and I must send for him when I want him."

"You seem to place more reliance on him," said Manners, pointing to
the heaps of gold and papers on the table, "than most Englishmen would
upon one of his race."

"I would trust him, I may well say, with untold gold," answered Sir
William Ryder; "as you would, Manners, if you knew him as I do. He has
corresponded with me in America for twenty years; and one might be
glad if, in the highest ranks, one could find so exact, so true, and
so punctual a correspondent." The reader, who has already received
much information concerning things of which Manners was ignorant, may
easily understand some of the motives of a correspondence between two
persons so different in station. Manners also had by this time
discovered that his friend's acquaintance with the gipsy was certainly
not of yesterday; yet there was still sufficient matter, both new and
strange, in what he heard, to make him, not only feel surprised, but
look it also. Sir William Ryder, however, who probably did not wish to
give any further explanation, instantly led the conversation away,
saying, "But to return to what we were speaking of, Manners. I must
soon come to some determination; and, perhaps, I have been weak in not
forming one already: but there are spots of weakness in every one's
heart, as there are spots of madness in every one's brain; and I have
my share, of course, of both. However, I will limit myself to a time;
and when you return to Morley House, you may tell the poor girl, that
though it is judged expedient that she should not see her cousin
to-morrow, yet on the next morning the old gentleman with whom he
is--Mr. Harley, remember--will be very happy to receive her here,
together with her aunt, as I suppose she will be afraid to venture on
such an expedition alone. If," he added,--"if I should find reason to
change my present purpose, I can but affect the barbarian, and be
absent when the ladies come."

"Such tidings will, indeed, give joy and peace," answered Manners:
"but before I go to-morrow, I must take care to ascertain where your
dwelling stands; for, coming hither at night, and across the country,
I am totally ignorant of everything concerning the spot where I now
am, except that it is more than a hundred miles from London, which I
found out by a mile-stone on the road."

"We are in the environs of the little town of ----," replied his
companion; "and by the road about seven miles from Morley House. I saw
that this little place was to be let, as I passed by one day,
immediately after my return, and took it at once, on various accounts,
although I did not know how much it might prove of use to poor De
Vaux. And now, Manners, to your rest; for, although I am a late
watcher, you look fatigued, and are in need of repose."

"I am somewhat fatigued," answered Manners, "although I have not had
any very great cause; but the fact is, the mind is sometimes like a
hard rider, and knocks up the body before it is aware. I have been all
this morning either with Lord Dewry, examining a gipsy boy--taken last
night in a sad deer-stealing affray at Dimden--in order to ascertain
whether I could discover poor De Vaux, or pursuing somewhat fiercely
your friend Pharold, against whom, by-the-way, warrants have been
issued on three different charges."

"On three charges, did you say?" demanded Sir William Ryder: "on
three! He only mentioned directly one charge against himself, that of
having murdered this poor lad, which must now, of course, fall to the
ground."

"The other charges were," answered Manners, "first, that he had been
engaged in the deer-stealing, wherein, I am sorry to say, blood was
spilt--but in regard to that I pointed out to him a means of proving
his innocence; and, secondly, that many years ago he was either a
principal or an accessary in the murder of the late Lord Dewry, who
was killed by some unknown person at a spot not far from Morley
House."

It would be difficult to describe the effect that these few words
produced upon the countenance of Sir William Ryder. His eye flashed,
his brows contracted, and he bit his lip hard, till at length some
feeling of contempt seemed to master the rest, and his emotion ended
in a bitter and a meaning laugh. "And pray," he asked, "who is it that
has brought this last charge against him?"

"None other than the brother of the murdered man, Lord Dewry,"
answered Manners: "he says he has proofs of the gipsy's guilt."

"They have been long in manufacturing!" answered Sir William Ryder,
sternly: "I will tell you more, Manners,--as there is a God of heaven,
the gipsy is innocent, and he shall be proved so, let the bolt light
where it may. Proofs! Out upon him! Falsehoods and villany! But he
shall learn better; for I will not stand by and see the innocent
oppressed, for any remembrances that memory can call up."

"You speak more harshly than ever I heard you, my dear Sir William,"
answered Manners; "but perhaps you have cause which I do not know of,
and into which I certainly shall not pry. However, this nobleman is,
as you know, De Vaux's father, and, ere we part for the night, you
must tell me how I am to act towards him; for the gipsy stipulated
that I was to tell him nothing concerning his son's situation, without
your consent. May I tell him where De Vaux is, and under whose care?"

Sir William Ryder paused, and he thought for several moments, with the
same bitter smile which Manners's information had called up still
hanging upon his lip. "Yes," he said at length--"yes, you may tell him
where his son is; and you may tell him to come and see him and me as
speedily as he thinks fit: but call me still Mr. Harley, for there
might be something unpleasant to his ears in the name of William
Ryder, which might prevent his coming. Say that Mr. Harley, the old
gentleman to whose house De Vaux was conveyed after the accident he
met with, will be happy to see him at any time he may name."

"I am most delighted to have your permission so to do," answered
Manners; "for, to tell the truth, it would have placed me in rather an
awkward position in regard to Lord Dewry, had you refused to let me
give him full tidings of his son."

"He will not much thank you," said Sir William Ryder--"he will not
much thank you! But, nevertheless, let him come, let him come!
Perhaps, after all, this is the best way we could have devised of
bringing an unpleasant affair to an end."

"I trust it may prove so," answered Manners; "and that the time may
speedily come when you will find it not unpleasant to unravel all the
mysteries which have been crowding lately so thick upon me, that I
begin to feel confused among them, and hardly know who are friends and
who are enemies."

"Though I have the clew in my hands," answered Sir William, pursuing
more the direction of his own thoughts than that of Manners's last
observation--"though I have the clew in my own hands, there is one
thing puzzles me as much as the rest seems to do you: it is that a
youth so full of high and noble feelings as Edward de Vaux should be
the son of such a man as his father; yet, thank God, he has many a
goodly fault too, or I should begin to doubt that he were his son."

"It not unfrequently happens," rejoined Manners, "that where the heart
is originally good, the errors of the fathers serve as examples or as
landmarks to the children; as the masts of some wrecked vessel often
serve to warn mariners of the shoal on which she perished."

"And _his_ heart was originally good too, I do believe," answered Sir
William Ryder: "I mean the father's," he added, thoughtfully. "Well,
indeed, may his example serve to show to what, step by step, we may
reduce ourselves, as one vice lashes on to another."

Manners smiled. "Nay, nay, Sir William," he said, "you are doing the
worthy lord somewhat less than justice, I think. I never heard of his
being troubled with any of what the world calls vices: pride, indeed,
and wrath, and irascibility, he is not without: but, setting aside
these gentlemanly peccadilloes, I never heard of any vices; and from
what I have seen of him, I should say that, whatever he may have been
in the days past, he has now sunk down into a very disagreeable old
gentleman--that is all."

"That is all!" cried Sir William Ryder, starting up, and laying
his hand upon Manners's arm, while he fixed his eyes intently upon
him--"that is all!" but suddenly breaking off, he resumed a calmer
look and tone, and added, "But we have not time, to-night, to discuss
characters. I am but keeping you from your rest."

Manners did not endeavour to carry on the conversation; for, in all
such matters, it was his rule to let people go on just as far as they
liked, but to press them no further; and although he certainly was not
without some feeling of curiosity in regard to the connection between
Sir William Ryder and the father of his friend De Vaux, yet he well
knew that the only way to come honestly at a secret is to be totally
careless about it. The bell was now rung, and Manners was conducted to
a room which the servant who had given him admission, and who was an
old acquaintance, had with laudable foresight prepared for his use,
looking upon it as certain that a visiter who arrived at twelve
o'clock at night was not likely to depart before the next morning.

Everything had been carefully provided that he could want or desire;
and Colonel Manners, who enjoyed, perhaps more than most men, that
inestimable blessing of a heart at ease in itself, lay down to rest,
and was soon in a deep slumber.

His repose was not disturbed till the gray of the next morning, when
he was roused with the intelligence that Captain De Vaux was awake,
and would be very glad to see him. He was not long in obeying the
summons; and, after a soldier's toilet hastily made, he rang for the
servant, and was conducted to the apartment where his wounded friend
lay.

There is something always melancholy in entering a sick-room in the
early morning, even when it is to see returning health coming back
into a cheek we love. The cheerful light of the young day, finding its
way through the chinks of the shutters, and mingling with the faint
but inextinguishable glare of the night-lamp, the pale and sleepy
guardian of the sick, the book with which she has striven to while
away the hours of watching, and scare off sleep, half-open on a table
loaded with drugs and fever-cooling drinks, the warm, close
atmosphere, and the drawn curtains, all bring home to our own hearts
that painful conviction of our weak and fragile tenure upon health and
comfort, and all that makes life pleasant, which we forget in the
bright and hopeful light of day.

In the small dressing-room, through which Manners ducted to the
chamber of his friend, he found a surgeon who had been brought from
London, and who had passed the preceding night in close attendance
upon the patient. He was luckily one of those men who can form an
opinion, and will venture to speak it; and in answer to Colonel
Manners's inquiries respecting De Vaux's real situation he replied at
once, "There is no danger, sir. He will do perfectly well. I should
advise, however, as little conversation as possible, and that of as
cheerful a kind as may be, for it may retard recovery, if it do not
produce more serious evil."

Manners promised to observe his caution, and entered the room. De Vaux
smiled faintly when he saw him, and held out his hand, though he moved
with evident pain.

"This is a sad accident, indeed, De Vaux," said Manners, sitting down
by his bedside; "but I am delighted to hear from the surgeon that it
is likely to have no bad consequences, and to be speedily remedied."

"I should be ungrateful to say that I am sorry he thinks so," answered
De Vaux, in a melancholy tone; "and yet I can hardly make up my mind
to rejoice."

"Nay, nay," said Manners, "I will not hear you say so, my friend. You
can have heard no tidings, you can be placed in no situation, De Vaux,
which should make you forget that you are surrounded by people who
love you for yourself, and are worthy of your love--who would love you
still, under all or any circumstances--that you have friends,
relations, ties of every dear and intimate character that can make
health and life a blessing, if you are willing to receive it as such.
Nor should you forget that there are others who may well be dear to
your heart, and whose whole happiness for life is staked upon yours."

"Oh yes, poor Marian," said De Vaux: "I am, indeed, ungrateful; for
such a treasure as that should compensate for everything. But tell me
how she is. Tell me all about her, Manners. When did she hear of this
accident? and how has she borne it?"

Manners, though it can scarcely be said that he was puzzled how to
answer, yet felt that, with a man of De Vaux's character, it was
somewhat a delicate task, especially as, from what the surgeon had
said, it might be expedient not to tell his friend the full extent of
what Marian had suffered. He was too well aware of De Vaux's
fastidiousness not to let him know that Marian had felt as deeply on
his account as he could possibly think she ought to have done; and yet
Manners did not wish to pain and alarm him by telling him how much she
really had undergone.

"You ask me to tell you a long story, De Vaux," he answered, after a
moment's thought, "longer, I am afraid, than your worthy surgeon will
consent to your hearing at present; but the truth is, in consequence
of some other accident or mistake, we never did hear of what had
occurred to you at all."

"Good God!" cried De Vaux, "when with my own hand I wrote to Marian as
much as I could write. I do think that servants and messengers were
made for the very purpose of breaking people's hearts, or teasing them
to death by carelessness."

"In this instance, however," said Manners, "it seems that there were
various causes which prevented the delivery of your note; and the
consequence was, that, from your unexplained absence, and several
other accidental facts which came to our knowledge, we were led to
conclude that you had been murdered. I, of course, instantly took arms
to avenge you, as in duty bound, and, backed by warrants and gentlemen
of the quorum, I have been galloping about the country ever since; so
that, in fact, I have seen scarcely any thing of the family at Morley
House, and less than all of your fair cousin Miss De Vaux, whose very
first apprehensions rendered her so unwell that she has kept her room
almost ever since."

"Good God!" cried De Vaux: "how she must have suffered! Poor dear
Marian! Would to God that I could go to her--but I am afraid that I
could not ride."

"Ride! Do not think of it for an instant," cried Manners, "and make
yourself easy about Miss De Vaux. Last night, I, for the first time,
obtained news of your safety, which did her more good than all that
the god of medicine himself could have done. Nay, I do believe that
she would have walked over here with me in the middle of last night,
if it had not been that her own ideas of propriety, or, perhaps, her
fears of your notions thereof, prevented her from undertaking such a
task under such an escort."

De Vaux smiled. "You are severe upon my fastidiousness, Manners," he
said; "but that is one bad quality which, I trust, I shall be able to
cast away with many others. I have had some hard lessons lately,
Manners, enough to bow down the pride of him of the morning star; and,
perhaps, I may have more yet to undergo: but, at all events, my vain
fastidiousness is gone for ever; so that one good is gained by
misfortune."

"As it often is, my friend," answered Manners: "nevertheless, I think
Miss De Vaux was very right to stay where she was; especially as she
herself was far from strong, and I did not know whither I was about to
go; for my friend the gipsy, who conducted me hither, is a man of
mysteries. However, you owe him thanks for one service that he has
rendered to another fair cousin of yours, Miss Falkland, whom he saved
from drowning, at the risk of his own life."

De Vaux had drawn his hand over his eyes when first Manners mentioned
the gipsy; but he removed it again, and looked up with pleasure at the
tidings of Isadore's escape, though he asked no account of the
accident. "Poor Isadore," he said, "and poor Marian, too, for God
knows what we may both be called upon to suffer. Manners, my brain is
in such a whirl, with various doubts, and fears, and anxieties, which
I can neither explain to others nor unravel myself, that I must,
indeed, endeavour to banish all thought of my own situation, and of my
future prospects, if I wish to recover."

"Well, then, by all means banish all thought," answered Manners. "It
is seldom that I can be accused of giving such advice; but for a man
in your situation I think it absolutely a duty to cast from him every
memory, and every reflection, which may tend to impede his recovery,
trusting and believing that, in those circumstances where we have no
power to deliver ourselves, the Almighty Disposer of all things will
act for us far better than we could act for ourselves."

"I must e'en think so," answered De Vaux, in whom corporal weakness
and exhaustion had deadened the first sense of misfortune. "Sir
William Ryder, indeed, bids me hope, and tells me that things must and
will go better than I anticipate: but we speak to each other in
enigmas; and till my mind and body are capable of clearer thought and
greater exertion, I must, I suppose, rest satisfied with assurances,
the foundation for which I can in no degree perceive."

Manners, now anxious to lead his thoughts away from any more painful
subject, gave him a brief, light sketch of his own proceeding in
search of him, and all that had occurred since he had left Morley
House: but, warned by what had already passed concerning the gipsy, he
kept a watchful and a friendly eye upon the countenance of his friend,
skilfully turning to some other part of the same subject as soon as he
perceived that what he said was beginning to produce the slightest
uneasiness. He was surprised to find, however, on how many points De
Vaux was susceptible of pain. The mention of his own father affected
him as strongly as the mention of the gipsy; and many a casual word,
which seemed in itself to be innocent or kind, made him shrink as if
some one had laid a rough hand upon his wound. Beginning at length to
fear that his conversation was doing his friend more harm than good,
Manners rose, adding, "And now, my dear De Vaux, I think I have
remained as long with you as friendship can require, or gallantry
permit, considering that there is a fair lady, very dear to you,
watching anxiously till I shall return and tell her that I have seen
you with my own eyes, and that you are living, not dead; recovering,
not dying. The good people here, for various reasons, will not hear of
her coming to you to-day, but they assure me that to-morrow you will
be able to see her: so that I think I can then promise you a visit;
and hope to find that you have in the interval regained much of the
health and strength that you have lost."

"I will not ask you to stay longer, Manners," said De Vaux; "for I am
too confident of my dear Marian's affection not to feel sure that the
tidings of my probable recovery will be the best consolation she can
receive; and tell her, Manners, I beg, that the only happiness I
anticipate in life and health is that of seeing her again."

"I will tell her how happy it will make you," answered Manners; "but
without any of the melancholy adjuncts, if you please, De Vaux. I will
not spoil the best tidings I have had to tell for some time by such a
number of unpleasant negatives as you attach to them; and so, fare you
well for the present."

"Manners, Manners," said the voice of De Vaux, ere his friend reached
the door, "there is one thing which I had forgot. Do not on any
account let Marian think that this wound which I have received was the
consequence of any intentional act of my own hand. Bid her be sure
that, whatever may have occurred, I was not fool enough or cruel
enough to her to think of such a thing. Explain to her the accident as
I dare say you must have heard it, and tell her that though they say
the pistol must have been cocked when I put it in my bosom, I have not
the slightest remembrance of its having been so."

"I will tell her all," answered Manners; "but do not fancy that she
will ever dream that you did do it intentionally. If you were a
forlorn and solitary being like myself, destined to go through life in
single unblessedness, people might suspect you; but with so many ties
at present, and so much happiness to look forward to, you would be
worse than a madman to throw away, not only the crown of life, but all
the jewels with which fate has adorned it for you."

De Vaux gave him a melancholy look, but only added, "You do not know
all, Manners!" and suffered him to depart. As he was crossing the hall
in search of some one who could inform him whether Sir William Ryder
was yet awake, he met the object of his search, booted and spurred, as
if returned from riding. "You keep your old habits, I see, Sir
William," said Manners, as they met. "You must have been up and out
full early, indeed."

"Mr. Harley; remember, my dear colonel, Mr. Harley I am for the
present," replied the other. "I never sleep before one, nor after
five--a habit which was acquired in sorrow and in bitterness, but
which I would not now lose for half an empire. But have you seen our
poor friend?"

"Yes, I have," answered Manners; "and find him better in body, at
least, than I had even hoped. In mind, however, he is very much
depressed; and without inquiring, or wishing to inquire, my dear sir,
into the connection which may exist between your affairs and his,
allow me to say, as some connection does certainly exist, that I am
sure whatever will sooth and quiet his mind will tend more than
anything to restore him to health. Whatever, on the contrary,
depresses him, as he now is, will not only greatly retard his
recovery, but may, I am afraid, have, remotely, very bad results upon
his constitution. I hope that I do not take too great a liberty with
your friendship," he added, seeing a cloud come upon his auditor's
brow.

"Not in the least, Manners, not in the least," answered Sir William:
"I was only thinking what I could do to relieve the poor youth's mind.
I am afraid I somewhat mistook him, Manners, when I saw him with you
in America; I am afraid I did not half see the nobler and finer
qualities of his mind, concealed, as they were, under an exterior of
frivolous fastidiousness. But I can assure you, that anything on earth
I can do to set his mind at ease I will do; and I will go and assure
him thereof directly and solemnly."

Manners detained him for a single moment, to borrow a horse, and to
explain the motives of his early departure for Morley House; and then
suffering him to proceed, in order to sooth and calm the mind of his
wounded friend, he himself took his way to Mrs. Falkland's, glad to
bear tidings to those who stood so much in need of them.

Marian was watching at the window as he galloped up; and there was
something in the rapid pace at which he came, in the light and agile
motion with which he sprang to the ground, and flung the rein to
the servant, which spoke joyful tidings. Manners was soon in the
drawing-room; and the news he bore was not long in telling. He related
all that he had seen, and all that he had heard of her cousin's
accident and situation; and although we cannot deny that he softened a
little the pain he suffered, and the grief which seemed to oppress
him, Manners told her the truth, though he told it kindly.

Marian's face was alternately the abode of smiles and tears during his
narrative, and during the manifold answers which he gave to her
questions, and again and again she thanked him for all his energetic
interest and feeling kindness, and prayed Heaven sincerely that De
Vaux and herself might have some opportunity of returning it as he
deserved.

Manners only interrupted a conversation which was not without interest
to himself, and was so deeply interesting to her, in order to inquire
for her cousin, and to put many a question concerning Miss Falkland's
health, after the accident of the preceding night. He was still in
full career, when she herself entered, somewhat paler but not less gay
than ever; and although she declared, and persisted in the
declaration, that she was bound by every rule of propriety to fall in
love with the gipsy who had rescued her, and to tender him her hand
and heart, Manners felt sincerely rejoiced that Pharold had been the
person to come so opportunely to her aid. Isadore, indeed, as she
recollected one or two words which had been spoken on the preceding
evening, coloured more than once when Manners addressed her; but she
knew him to be a generous man, and she determined to trust to his
generosity for the result.

Mrs. Falkland soon after joined the party; and the house of mourning
was changed into a house of joy. Nothing more remained but to write to
Lord Dewry, informing him of his son's safety; and this Manners
undertook and executed, keeping in mind the engagement he had come
under to Sir William Ryder, regarding the concealment of his name. A
servant was instantly despatched to Dewry Hall with the note: but on
reaching that place he found that the peer had returned early that
morning to Dimden, and thither he then bent his steps; but arrived too
late to give Lord Dewry even the option of visiting his son that
night.




                             CHAPTER IX.


Dimden Park--a spot which had been hated and avoided by Lord Dewry
ever since it fell into his possession, on account of its many
memories--some painful in themselves, some painful in their
associations--had, by this time, not alone been revisited by its
master, but had been occupied by him, with a part of his general
household, as if for the purpose of longer residence. Such a state of
things had been in no degree contemplated by the peer, either when
Manners left him, or when he himself terminated his conversation with
the gipsy boy who had become his prisoner; but another conversation
had succeeded with another person, to whose chamber we must now
follow.

The first object of Lord Dewry being to get the gipsy Pharold into his
power--trusting to his previously arranged schemes to work his will
with him when he had him there--it was natural that he should turn his
whole efforts to accomplish his capture before he attended to anything
else. The moment, however, that all the means had been employed for
that purpose which circumstances permitted, his attention instantly
returned to the plans which he had concerted in order to prove the
object of his hatred and his fear guilty of the crime imputed to him,
when he should be ultimately taken. The execution of these plans
materially depended upon Sir Roger Millington; and for his safety and
recovery the peer's next aspirations were consequently raised. As
soon, then, as he had dismissed the affair of the boy, and had seen
the treacherous scoundrel he thought fit to employ for the purpose of
inveigling the gipsy to his destruction set out upon his errand, Lord
Dewry turned his steps towards the chamber of the wounded man,
sincerely grieved for the accident which had happened to him, and most
anxious concerning its ultimate result. Calculating, however, with
nice acumen, the irritable selfishness of sick people, he trusted not
to the personal vexation which he really felt to give his air and
countenance the appearance of grief and sympathy; but as he walked
slowly up the stairs, he thought over every point of the part he was
to play, in order to cover his individual motives from the eye of the
wounded man, and make him believe that sincere interest in his fate
and sufferings was the sole emotion which affected his friend and
benefactor.

At the door of the chamber to which Sir Roger had been conveyed, the
peer paused for a moment; and then laying his hand upon the lock,
turned it, and entered with as noiseless a step as possible. The
windows were darkened; but there was still enough light in the room
for the eye to distinguish the table covered with surgical instruments
and bloody bandages, and all those appliances and means for saving
life which man so strangely combines with the most skilful and
persevering activity in taking it. There was the bed, too, and the
half-drawn curtains, and the gentleman in black, sitting by the
bolster, while a young prim assistant walked about on tiptoe, for the
soothing dose or the cooling drink. A deep groan was sounding through
the room as the peer entered; and although he was, and always had
been, a man of nerve, without any corporal terror at the thought
either of pain or death, there was something in that sound, and all
the accessory circumstances around, that made a sort of shudder pass
over his frame. It were difficult to guess in what feelings that
shudder took its rise. It might be, alone, the natural repugnance of
the human heart to anguish and dissolution--it might be that he
thought of his son--it might be that he remembered his brother, for
there were chords of association between the fate of each, and the
situation of the man he came to visit, which, like the strings of the
Eolian harp, might well be moved to a thousand vague and melancholy
sounds by the slightest breath that stirred them.

He advanced, however, lightly towards the bed, and stood by the chair,
whence the surgeon rose as he approached, ere the wounded man was
aware of his presence. Sir Roger Millington was lying on his left
side, with his face turned away, and his right hand cast over the
bed-clothes; and it was not difficult, from the slow clenching of
his hand, and the rocking motion of his head, to see the intense
agony he suffered. The peer paused, and gazed for a moment with
some emotion--not, indeed, without a mingling of better
feelings--compassion, and sympathy, and disinterested grief, such as
he had not known for many years. It was better than all the acting in
the world; and when Sir Roger, whom no persuasion of the surgeon could
induce to lie still, turned round with the quick and irritable
movement of high fever and excessive pain, he saw the peer standing by
him, with an expression of sincere sorrow which could not be mistaken.

A groan and a fearful contortion followed the change of position; but
when the first agony was over, he looked pleased to see the
countenance of Lord Dewry; and said, in a voice wonderfully strong and
firm, considering his situation, "Your lordship is very kind--I am
badly hurt, I am afraid--those accursed gipsies took too good an
aim--damn me, if I do not think the shot must have been red hot, it
gives one such torture. I have been wounded before, but never felt
anything like this. Do you think I shall die, my lord, ey?"

"Heaven forbid," cried the peer, sitting down; "on the contrary, I
trust the very pain you suffer evinces that you are in no danger; for
I have always heard that mortal wounds are generally the least
painful. Is it not so, Mr. Swainstone?"

"Yes, exactly so, my lord," replied the surgeon, who would probably
have confirmed anything on earth that the peer said to sooth his
patient. "I had told the gentleman so before your lordship arrived."

"You never told me so," cried Sir Roger, looking up at him angrily.

"Yes, indeed, sir, I told you that I hoped and trusted you would
recover," answered the surgeon; "and one of my reasons for thinking so
was the very pain you suffer; for, as his lordship very justly and
wisely observes, wounds which--"

"But that damned parson," cried Sir Roger, "told me I should certainly
die--a foul-mouthed, old, hooded crow!"

"What parson?" demanded the peer, in some surprise and dismay at the
very idea of Sir Roger Millington being brought in contact in his
dying hours with any one who might lead him on to dangerous
disclosures; "what parson does he mean?"

"Oh, only good Dr. Edwards, my lord, the rector," answered the
surgeon. "He came to give the gentleman religious consolation; but he
did not exactly say that he would certainly die. He said that he would
certainly die at some time; and that even, if he were spared at
present, it would be better for him to turn his thoughts to serious
things, so that, if he recovered, the wound might prove salutary to
his mind at least."

"Yes, yes; but he thought, and he meant me to think, too," cried Sir
Roger, "that I was dying, and that I could not recover. I knew well
enough what he meant--the canting old crow; but I'll live, curse me if
I do not, if it be but to pay those hellish gipsies for this torture
to which they have put me. I beg your pardon, my lord, for being
somewhat violent; but I am in agony, perfect agony."

"I grieve most deeply and sincerely, my dear friend, to see you suffer
so much," answered the peer; "and I will take care that no such
fanatical irritation be intruded upon you again. Dr. Edwards is a very
good and well-intentioned man, I dare say; but I will not have a sick
and wounded friend tormented for any rector on the face of the earth.
In the mean time, however, I trust that this state of anguish is not
likely to be of long endurance. What do you think, Mr. Swainstone? Can
nothing be done to alleviate it?"

"I have done as much as I could, my lord, to effect that purpose,"
answered the surgeon, with a very significant shrug of the shoulders;
"and I doubt not, in a few hours, the gentleman will feel the pain
begin to subside."

"That is the best news I have heard from you yet, doctor," said the
wounded man. "But do you not think you can extract the ball? I do not
believe I shall be easier as long as that remains in me, burning like
a coal."

"O yes, you will," answered the surgeon; "and it is necessary to let
the first irritation subside, before I make the attempt again. Were I
to try it now, it might increase all you suffer, and prolong it,
perhaps, for many hours."

"Then you shall not touch it, depend upon that," cried Sir Roger; "I
suffer quite enough already."

"In the mean time, Mr. Swainstone," demanded the peer, "let me inquire
whether a little quiet conversation with a friend is likely to injure
your patient; for I would even deny myself the pleasure of remaining
with him, though I much desire it, if you thought it would prove in
any degree hurtful."

"Not in the least, my lord," answered the surgeon; "a little cheerful
and interesting conversation, such as your lordship's must always be,
would, most likely, withdraw his mind from himself, and rather do him
good than otherwise."

"Then I will relieve you in your attendance upon him for half an
hour," rejoined the peer: "and your assistant can wait in the next
room, in case Sir Roger may want any surgical aid. But, remember," he
added, in a louder tone, "in case I do not see you again, I beseech
you to give your whole time and attention up to my friend here, and
shall esteem it the greatest favour that any one can confer upon me,
if you bring him safely and speedily through this unfortunate affair."

The surgeon bowed; and promising to do his best, proceeded to quit the
apartment with his assistant. The peer then, suddenly seeming to
remember something, followed into the anteroom, and, closing the door,
beckoned him back. "I wish to know, Mr. Swainstone," he said, in a low
but emphatic tone, "your real opinion of my friend's case. You said
just now that the pain would subside in a few hours: do you think that
likely to be really the case? for I see that you have spoken under
some restraint."

"It will certainly be the case, my lord," replied the surgeon,
gravely; "but only from the coming on of mortification, which cannot
be long ere it occurs."

"Good God! then you think he will die?" cried the peer, in real alarm.

"I do think so, my lord," answered the surgeon, "without there
existing in my mind one hope of being able to prevent it. The fact is
this, my lord: the ball entered his right side; and passing directly
through the muscles of the back, was only stopped by the articulations
of the ribs and the vertebrae, both of which have been so much
fractured and injured, that there is neither any possibility of
extracting the ball, nor any chance of its remaining there innocuous,
as is sometimes the case."

"Then how long do you think life may be protracted?" asked the peer,
anxiously.

"It is impossible to say to a day or two, my lord," answered the
surgeon. "It may be over in a week; and, on the contrary, he may
linger ten days or a fortnight."

"Then you do not think that there is any chance of immediate
dissolution?" demanded Lord Dewry.

"None, none whatever, my lord," replied the surgeon. "All hemorrhage
has ceased long. First mortification will ensue, and then--"

"Spare me the description," said the peer; "but tell me, in case of
its being necessary to transact any business of importance with this
unfortunate gentleman, when do you think will be the moment in which
it can best be done?"

"Why, I should say, in the beginning of the mortification," the
surgeon replied. "All his faculties will be clear and active, and the
great bodily pain which he is now suffering will have abated."

"Well then, Mr. Swainstone," rejoined Lord Dewry, "I shall trust you
to give me notice of the precise moment at which you judge it
expedient that this poor gentleman's declaration, on oath, regarding
the transactions in which he has suffered, should be taken down. At
the same time, let me caution you not to alarm him, or suffer him to
be alarmed, by the thought of death; but keep his spirits up, as far
as possible, till it shall become absolutely necessary to let him know
that all hope is past."

Thus saying, the peer returned into the room of the wounded man; and
the surgeon withdrew, wondering who Sir Roger Millington could be,
towards whom the cold and proud Lord Dewry displayed so much courtesy
and warm regard.

The peer, in the meantime, approached the bed of the sufferer with a
more cheerful countenance; and assured him, in answer to some rather
anxious questions, that the real opinion of the surgeon was more
favourable than he had even expected. "I have given orders, too,"
added Lord Dewry, "that no more fanatics be admitted to you. There are
a crowd of those weak fools about the country, who haunt sick-rooms;
and very often, by depressing the mind and spirits, cause those
persons to die who would otherwise have recovered."

"Oh, I'll not die for any of them," answered Sir Roger; "I'll live to
have revenge on those gipsies. They marked me out especially; and I
will live long enough to show that, though I was so badly hurt, I
could mark them too, and remember them to their cost."

"Did you see Pharold, then, among them?" demanded the peer, eagerly.
"Was it he who fired the shot?"

"I saw Pharold plainly," answered Sir Roger; "and can swear that he
was among them. So can the man that held me up in his arms, after I
was wounded; for he pointed him out to me, and I will swear to him
anywhere."

Joy glistened in the eyes of the peer while he listened. He had had
doubts, he had had apprehensions, lest the testimony of his keeper
against the gipsy should remain unsupported by other authority; and he
had not left unremarked Harvey's implication that some of the other
persons present differed with him in their account of the affair. But
the assertion of Sir Roger Millington was conclusive; as he well knew,
from his own former experience as a lawyer, what an effect the dying
declaration of a murdered person always has upon a jury.

During the last twenty-four hours he had sometimes doubted whether he
had or had not somewhat too intricately complicated his plans, in his
eagerness to snatch at every thing which gave an additional chance of
security; but now he congratulated himself that he had acted as he had
done, and fancied that if he confidently and boldly pursued them, his
mind was sufficiently acute to guide each of the schemes he had
engaged in to the same great end and object,--the ensuring his own
security by crushing those who could destroy it.

He now felt armed at all points. By the transactions of the preceding
day he could prove the impossibility of his having committed the crime
which he believed that Pharold would cast back in his teeth; and from
the events of the preceding night he felt secure that if the gipsy
should even be cleared of the murder of his brother and of his son,
the last charge, in regard to the violence in Dimden Park, would be
made good against him, and lay his dangerous lips in the silence of
the grave. But in his eagerness to secure this advantage beyond the
power of fate, Lord Dewry somewhat outran discretion. Without giving
either himself or Sir Roger time to pause, he exclaimed, eagerly,
"Will it not be better, my dear Sir Roger, at once to make a
declaration, upon oath, of your recollections concerning the affair of
last night?"

Sir Roger Millington looked at him suspiciously. "Do you think me
dying, or do you not. Lord Dewry?" he demanded; "for if I am not
dying, but likely to recover, I shall have plenty of time to make the
declaration when I am not in such pain, or give the _vivâ voce_
evidence, which is much better in a court of justice. So let me know
the truth, my lord."

Lord Dewry saw that it was in vain to hope he would make the
declaration he desired unless he believed himself to be dying; but the
peer had a keen knowledge of human nature, and saw all the dangers
which would attend the disclosure of his real state to Sir Roger
Millington. He knew that men who have confronted the chance of death a
thousand times, and, if one may use the expression, have bearded "the
lean, abhorred monster" in his most angry moods, will writhe and
flutter like a scared bird when he has got them in his inevitable
grasp, and when they know that they cannot escape. He knew that these
are the moments "that make cowards of us all;" and he feared lest some
lingering notions of crime, and repentance, and another world should
tempt Sir Roger Millington to an endeavour towards atoning past
errors, by the confession of all those evil designs which were still
in their passage between the past and the future, between the
revocable and the irretrievable; and he would not have risked the
chance for a world. He saw, however, that he had already created a
doubt which might be dangerous; but, he extricated himself
dexterously.

"God forbid, my dear Millington," he said, "that anything should be
even likely to prevent your giving evidence when the trial of these
gipsies comes on; but my only reason for wishing you to make the
declaration was, that it might be produced at once before the
magistrates, whom I shall request to meet here to-morrow or the day
after, either to take measures for pursuing the villains vigorously,
if they have not been arrested before that time, or to investigate the
matter if they have, which I trust may be the case, as I have already
set half the county on their track. Now what I wish is, that this
Pharold may be committed directly; and you know that among a number of
country magistrates there is always some prating, troublesome fellow,
who throws difficulties in the way; and in this instance, it must be
remembered, some of the people did not recognise Pharold, so that your
evidence is of vital importance."

"Let them come to me," said Sir Roger, vehemently--"let them come to
me, and I will give such evidence as would hang him half a dozen times
over. I should like to be but a quarter of an hour in the same room
with the scoundrel with two good small-swords. Only to think, my lord,
of me--who have made the daylight shine through many a pretty man as
one would wish to see--being hurt in this way by a stinking yellow fox
of a gipsy, that is only fit to be hunted down by a good pack of
hounds!"

"I trust we shall catch him," said the peer, who saw that it was vain
to press the wounded man any further upon the subject of the
declaration.

"Catch him!" cried Sir Roger, who was working himself up into a state
of vehement excitement--"catch him! you cannot miss catching him, if
you take proper means. By Jupiter, if you miss him, I'll undertake,
for a small sum, to catch him myself as soon as I am well; or rather,
I should say, catch the whole of them, for curse me if I know which of
them it was that fired the shot."

"Indeed!" cried Lord Dewry; "I am sorry for that; I thought you were
certain it was Pharold."

"I daresay it was," answered the knight, "for I saw him standing in
front, when they picked me up. It was either he himself or a young
fellow who stood near, and who bullied a great deal beforehand. But as
those that bully never act, I dare say it was Pharold himself."

"I wish to heaven your recollection would enable you to swear that it
was Pharold," said the peer in a low but distinct voice.

"Oh, I can swear that it was he who did it, to the best of my belief,"
answered Sir Roger, who, notwithstanding all his sufferings, could not
but feel, that, in the peer, he had obtained a friend whom it might be
inexpedient to lose, and whose care and attention, under his existing
circumstances, might well make some impression upon him, although he
even did doubt the motives which produced such conduct--"I can swear
it was he who did it, to the best of my belief," he repeated, with
some emphasis on the last words; and then added, in the peevish tone
of pain, "You seem to have a goodly dislike towards this Pharold, my
lord."

The peer did not wish, of course, that his personal hatred to Pharold
should be too apparent, even to those whom he employed as tools; but
he still less wished that that personal hatred should be so far
without plausible motive as to lead men to turn their thoughts towards
remote causes, in order to seek out some probable reason for such
persisting enmity. Nor, indeed, was a sufficient motive wanting; for
the terrible news he had heard the night before from Colonel Manners
had awakened feelings towards the gipsy which, though blending with
ancient hatred, were yet sufficiently powerful in themselves to stand
forth, even in his own mind, as the great incentive to his designs
against Pharold, as one great stream, joining others, mingles its
waters with theirs, and gives its name to all.

"I have good cause to hate him," he said, bending down over the
wounded man, with the expression of all his dark and bitter feelings
frowning unrestrained upon his brow--"I have good cause to hate him,
Sir Roger--judge if I have not, when I tell you that his hand has not
only been dipped in my brother's blood, but also in the blood of my
only son."

He spoke in a low and agitated voice: but Sir Roger caught his meaning
distinctly; and, with an involuntary movement of real horror, started
up upon his elbow. He fell back again instantly, with a groan of
agony; and the big drops rolled from his forehead. The peer paused for
a few minutes, seeing that the sudden movement had renewed all the
sufferings of the wounded man: but he had yet much more to say, and
when the knight had in some degree recovered, he began again with
expressions of sympathy and kindness:--"I am sorry to see you suffer
so terribly," he said: "you seemed easier just now; and I was in hopes
that the change for the better, which the surgeon prognosticated, was
already coming on."

"I was better, I was better," said the knight, peevishly; "but that
cursed start that you made me give, by telling me about your son, has
torn me all to pieces again. You should not tell one such things so
hastily."

"Were my son out of the question," replied Lord Dewry, with every
appearance of frankness and sincerity--"had this Pharold never shed
one drop of my kindred blood, I would pursue him and his tribe to the
last man, for what they have made you suffer."

There is no calculating, however, the turns which the irritability of
sickness will take; and whether Lord Dewry overcharged the expression
of his regard or not, Sir Roger murmured to himself, in a tone too
indistinct for the peer to distinguish his words,--"I dare say you
think so, now that you have your own purposes to answer too--I am not
to be blinded. Well, my lord," he continued aloud, somewhat
apprehensive, perhaps, that the peer's present kindness might render
him the obliged person, instead of the conferer of the obligation, and
thus deprive him of many a profitable claim for the future--"well, my
lord. I am very much obliged to you for your kindness; but I trust you
will not allow my having suffered, in an attempt to serve you, so
greatly as to render me for the time incapable of doing all that I
could wish--I hope that you will not allow this fact, I say, to alter
your lordship's kind intentions in my favour."

The peer understood very clearly, although Sir Roger was rendered
peevish and somewhat imprudent by pain and sickness, yet that with
habitual rapacity he now wished to tie him down to the fulfilment of
all that had been promised on the former evening, lest the opportunity
should slip, and the gipsy be convicted of other crimes by other
means. Confiding, however, in the assurance of the surgeon, that the
unhappy knight must die, he felt that he could be liberal as the air
in promises, without any dangerous result; and he therefore replied at
once, "Fear not, fear not, Sir Roger; not only will I do all that I
said, when you were first kind enough to give me your assistance, but
it shall not be my fault if I do not find means to do more. Set your
mind, therefore, at ease upon the subject, and do not allow any
thoughts for the future to give you apprehension, or delay your
recovery. Since, however, you have spoken of the subject yourself,
there are some things in those papers which we were looking over last
night which I should much like to see again. Have you them here?"

Sir Roger, however, was not to be deceived; and his present views were
directly opposed to those which he perceived or suspected in his noble
companion. In the first arrangement of the affair, indeed, when he had
been suddenly raised from apprehensions of the most gnawing want to
hopes of competence and ease, when he believed that the peer could not
ultimately act without him, and that he had it always in his power to
enforce, by a few gentle hints of publicity, the performance of all
that had been promised, he would have given the papers out of his own
hands without fear. Under those circumstances, too, the peer had
thought it better that the knight should keep them, that their
production might take place more naturally.

Now, however, the position of each was changed. Lord Dewry looked upon
Sir Roger as a dying man, whose life could not be protracted to the
completion of all they designed, and who might be worked upon by the
fear of death, or the irritability of sickness, to take a very
different view of the life he was leaving, from that which he had
hitherto entertained. Sir Roger, on his part, saw that, tied down to a
bed of pain, through, a long and tedious convalescence, no opportunity
could possibly be afforded him of superintending and directing the
proceeding in which he had been engaged; and, therefore, that his
great hold upon the peer was to be found in the papers which they had
altered together. Both, therefore, wished to possess them; and Sir
Roger, in the apparently casual question of Lord Dewry, perceived at
once the object he proposed. "No, my lord," he answered, somewhat
abruptly, "I have them not with me; I left them at your house, at
Dewry Hall. I wish to God I had them with me."

The peer was somewhat startled by the eagerness of his tone; for it is
impossible for men to confederate in villany without being more or
less suspicious of each other. "Cannot I find them for you. Sir
Roger?" he demanded. "If you will intrust me with the key of your
valise, I will bring them over with me to-morrow."

A grim smile checkered the expression of pain on the countenance of
the wounded man, and he replied, "Your lordship is very good; but as I
shall require a number of things contained in my valise, I think it
would be better if your lordship were to have the goodness to order
some of your servants to send me over every thing which I left in the
apartment assigned me at Dewry Hall."

"Certainly, certainly," answered the peer, who saw that he must press
the matter no farther--"certainly, it shall be done this very night.
But do you not think, Sir Roger," he continued, with renewed
apprehension lest the unhappy man, if left unwatched by his own eye,
should discover his real situation, and be persuaded to make
inconvenient confessions--"do you not think, Sir Roger, that you
yourself might bear removal to the hall? I do not like your remaining
in this damp old house, which has not been inhabited for many years,
and in which there is but little that can render you comfortable,
during your convalescence. If you could bear the motion--"

"Impossible, my lord," replied Sir Roger sharply; "I wonder you do not
see that I can bear no motion at all. This place will do very well: I
have lain in worse quarters; and if you will order my valise to be
sent, it is all I want. To tell the truth," he added, "I am somewhat
tired, and am afraid that to speak much more would injure me."

"Then far be it from me," replied the peer, "to prolong our
conversation, Sir Roger. I shall take care that everything that
circumstances admit be done for your accommodation, and that you be
not again teased by our fanatical rector, as you were this morning."

There was a degree of anger in his tone which, had it not been
repressed by many a potent consideration, might have flashed forth in
a very different manner; but it was still sufficiently perceptible to
make the wounded man add some deprecatory sentences, which the peer
received in good part, and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Sir
Roger Millington placed his hand over his eyes, and gave way to
thoughts of a very mixed, but all of a melancholy character.

"His compassion and his regard," he thought, his mind turning to the
crafty man who had just left him--"his compassion and his regard are
all false and affected, that is clear enough. To think of his wishing
to move me fourteen or fifteen miles in this terrible state! I should
like to know what his object is. He has some deep object, beyond
doubt. Can he be afraid of my betraying him? Perhaps he may. His
schemes are villanous ones enough, that is certain: but he knows that
if I were to peach, I should lose the annuity from him, and get
nothing from any one else; so he cannot be afraid of that." Then came
a long interval of confused and rambling speculations on the motives
of the peer, which had something of delirium in their vague and
unconnected whirl; but then a more terrible image rose before the mind
of the sick man. "Can he think me dying?" he asked himself. "Can the
surgeon have told him that I am dying? No, I won't believe it. I feel
as strong as ever, notwithstanding all this pain! I cannot be dying!
No, no, I will live to revenge myself upon those cursed gipsies.
Doctor," he continued aloud, as the surgeon now re-entered the room,
"are you sure that you are not deceiving me about my condition? Are
you sure that I am not in danger?"

The surgeon was a good but an easy-tempered man; not indifferent to
religion; but still not very certain, at all times, in regard to the
precise line of conduct which it dictated. Although he thought it
wrong, as a general principle, to depress the spirits of a patient, by
telling him his danger, yet he had conceived that the clergyman had
done but his duty, as a man of religion, in letting the wounded knight
know what he, as a medical man, had thought it his duty to conceal.
The arguments and injunctions of the peer, however, coming in support
of his own opinion, he maintained his first assertion to Sir Roger,
telling him that, although it was impossible to answer for
contingencies, and that he could not exactly tell what might be the
ultimate result of his wound till he had examined it on the following
day, yet he saw no reason whatever to apprehend any _immediate_
danger.

With this assurance Sir Roger satisfied himself, and passed a feverish
and painful night, in murmurs at the agony he suffered, in curses and
imprecations upon the whole race of gipsies, and in vague speculations
upon the motives and views of Lord Dewry, in his conduct of that
morning. At times his mind seemed to ramble a little; and he would
mutter vague sentences, referring to many a different object, which
would excite both the attention and wonder of the medical man, and
make him believe that his patient wanted the aid of religion more than
he had imagined at first. When spoken to, however, his replies became
instantly clear and precise, and all his faculties appeared again as
perfect as ever.

In the mean while, the peer, after leaving such directions as the
circumstances and his own particular plans required, placed himself
once more in his carriage, and returned to his usual abode; but he
determined that on no consideration should the wounded man be left
longer in Dimden House without his presence. "Those meddling priests,"
he thought, "think themselves privileged to obtrude and to persevere
in their obtrusion; but I do not think the rector will presume to set
his foot within the doors of Dimden while I am there, without my
especial desire; and if he do, he shall soon be disposed of. I dare
say, however, that Sir Roger himself said enough to prevent his speedy
return; but that surgeon, that Swainstone, is a weak fellow, and I
will trust nothing to circumstances."

There were other things, however, to be accomplished, which required
no small skill and cunning to bring about; but the mind of Lord Dewry
was all activity and eagerness, now that the strife had actually
commenced, and that he felt that the struggle between him and the only
witness of the crime he had committed was so far advanced that it
could only end in the destruction of one or the other. There was no
more hesitation now--there was no more fear or doubt--there was none
of that wavering between many feelings and many emotions. He had
plunged in, and he was resolved to make his way through. The news of
his son's death had decided him; and the burning longing for revenge
went hand in hand with all his other motives. He had hesitated at the
first step; but that irretrievable first step was now taken, and he
did not regret it. He had chosen his path; he had begun the contest,
and his whole thoughts and mind were bent to take advantage of every
circumstance in order to terminate it in his own favour.

Again and again, as the carriage rolled on, he revolved in his own
mind the various means that could be used to induce the dying man to
make such a declaration of what he had witnessed during the affray in
Dimden Park as would give an irresistible grasp of Pharold; and yet
how accomplish this purpose without letting Sir Roger know that he was
dying, and that the crimes to which he was making himself a party
would soon appear in the dreadful account against his disembodied
spirit? It was a difficult task, and yet he thought he could
accomplish it, if he were for any long time present in the knight's
sick-room; but on another point he saw, and saw with a glow of
triumph, that he could turn the very refusal of the papers, which for
a moment he had considered as detrimental, to the very best account.

Although it was late, and he had not dined, yet he ordered the
carriage, ere it proceeded home, to pass through the neighbouring
village, and stop at the vicarage. It was an honour which the proud,
cold, irreverent peer had seldom paid to the poor minister of a
religion that condemned him; and with some surprise the vicar beheld
him enter his little study. But the struggle in which he was engaged,
like all other struggles of base interest, whether they be for the
purposes of political ambition or of private avarice, was one that
mightily tamed pride, and rendered coldness warm and affable. He was
anxious to buy golden opinions from all sorts of men: and although he
had a further purpose at present in view, he addressed the clergyman
with that sort of courtesy which his situation prompted him to use
towards every one whose word might be of value in the opinion of the
world.

"My dear sir," he said, "I come to you for the purpose of requesting a
favour." The vicar, who neither loved nor approved the man who spoke
to him, answered coldly that he should be happy to do any thing to
serve his lordship; and the peer proceeded to explain.

"The fact is," he said, "that last night, in a terrible deer-stealing
affray, which took place at Dimden, a poor friend of mine was severely
wounded, and is not expected to live from hour to hour. Among his
baggage, which remains here at the hall, he tells me that there are
papers of great importance; and, indeed, he wished me to bring them to
him; but as his mind is not itself, and his faculties wander from time
to time, I do not conceive I should be justified in placing papers of
importance at his disposal. At the same time, of course, I cannot
presume to examine them, and I wish much to seal them up in your
presence, if you have time to get into my carriage with me, and
accompany me to the hall. It is for this purpose that I have now
called here as I passed from Dimden on my way home."

The vicar thought that the matter might have been more simply
arranged; but as there was nothing in the peer's request which was
unreasonable, he consented to accompany him; and in few minutes they
were at the door of the mansion. Leaving the cook to fret over his
delayed ragouts, the peer instantly ordered sealing-wax and lights to
be brought; and, accompanied by the clergyman, proceeded to the
apartments which Sir Roger Millington had occupied for so short a
time, and in which various articles of apparel were still lying about.
The valise, however, firmly locked, was in one corner of the room; and
what was still more pleasing in the sight of the peer, there appeared
on one of the tables a small portable letter-case, in which, beyond
all doubt, the knight had placed the papers which were of so much
consequence to Lord Dewry.

Lord Dewry took the wax, and bidding the servant who brought it hold
the taper, he sealed first the letter-case, and then the valise, and
requested the vicar to do the same with his own seal. "I am induced,"
he said, in a frank tone, "to take all these precautions, by a
conversation which I had with my poor friend this morning, in which he
spoke of these things as of the most vital importance. It might be the
mere rambling of delirium, but it might be more correct; and,
therefore, as this caution costs me nothing but the wax, and you, my
dear sir, nothing but the loss of a few minutes' time--though I know
your time is valuable--I thought it best not to neglect a line of
conduct, which I might regret not having pursued hereafter."

"I think your lordship is quite right," replied the vicar, placing his
seal also on the cases. "In matters of worldly prudence, and in our
religious duties, where there is any thing to be done which may
produce good, and cannot produce evil, to neglect it is, in the one
case, a folly, and in the other, a sin."

The peer repressed the sneer that began to curl his lip; and, perhaps,
felt at his heart that the good man's words were true, though through
life he had neglected the rule they taught. He then bade the servant
close up the apartment, and lock the door, till the death of the
unhappy knight should render the things that it contained the property
of others; and descending the stairs with the vicar, he begged that he
would favour him by remaining to dinner, which was about to be placed
upon the table. The clergyman replied that he had long dined; and in
answer to the offer of the peer's carriage to take him back to the
vicarage, he answered that he would rather walk.

"He is stern and repulsive!" thought the peer as the clergyman left
him: but there was still a lingering gleam of better feeling, which
occasionally lighted up his darkened heart, and he added, almost
instantly, and aloud; "but he is loved by the poor, and he is a good
man; and I would rather have such a one near me than a pampered
voluptuary."

"Sir!" said the servant, who was standing by.

"Pshaw! nothing!" replied the peer, and walked back to his
dressing-room.

Early the next morning he returned to Dimden, where he received, as we
have seen, the tidings which Colonel Manners sent him of the security
of his son, which, though it poured some balm into his heart, came too
late to effect any change in his purposes against the gipsy.




                              CHAPTER X.


"The time was," thought the gipsy, as he climbed the hills once
more, after leaving Colonel Manners at the house of Sir William
Ryder,--"the time was when these limbs would have undertaken double
the toil that they have undergone this day, as a matter of sport. But
now they are weary and faint, like those of some sickly dweller in
cities--of some slave of effeminate and enfeebling luxury. Age is
upon me: the breaker of the strong sinew--the softener of the hard
muscle--the destroyer of vigour, activity, and power has laid upon me
that heavy hand, which shall press me down into the grave. But it
matters not--it matters not. I have outlived my time; I have changed,
and the things around me have changed also; but we have not changed in
the same way. They have sprung up, new and young, while I have grown
weary and old; and, in the midst of the world, I am like a withered
leaf of the last year among the green fresh foliage of the spring. It
is time that I should fall from the bough, and give place to brighter
things."

As he thus thought, whether from corporal weariness, or from the
listlessness of the dark melancholy which oppressed him, he turned
from the high-road into the first plantation that he met with; and
without such care for personal comfort as even a gipsy usually takes,
cast himself down under the trees, and sought to refresh himself by
sleep. Gloomy ideas, however, still pursued him long; and, with the
superstitious imaginations of his tribe heightening the universal
propensity to superstition in our nature, he fancied that the
melancholy which disappointment, and anxiety, and difficulty, and
failure, had produced, was but some supernatural warning of his
approaching fate. The bravest, the wisest, the best, as well as the
most hardened and the most skeptical, have felt such presentiments,
and have believed them; and very often, also, either by the desponding
inactivity of such belief, or by rash struggles to prove that they did
not believe, have brought about the fulfilment of that which
originally was but a dream.

Sleep, however, came at length; and it was daylight the next morning
ere the gipsy awoke. He rose refreshed; and his dark visions, perhaps,
would have vanished, if he would have let them: but there is nothing
to which one so fondly clings as superstition; and to have cast from
him as untrue a presentiment in which he had once put faith, Pharold
would have held as treason to the creed of his people. He rose, then;
and, pursuing the paths through the plantations and the woods,
avoiding all public ways, and never venturing farther from the covert
than to follow the faintly-marked track through some small solitary
meadow, he mounted the remaining hills, and bent his steps towards the
thick wood in which he had left his companions, revolving, as he went,
what might be the probable fate of those to whom he had so
perseveringly clung, when he, himself, should be no more.

He found the other gipsies all on foot, and busied about the various
little cares of a fresh day, with the light and careless glee of a
people to whom the sorrows of the past week are as a half-forgotten
tradition. The old were talking and laughing at the entrances of
their tents, the young were sporting together by the stream, and the
middle-aged were employed in mending this or that which had gone wrong
about their carts and baggage, and whistling as lightly at their work
as if there were no such thing as grief in all the world.

"And thus will it be," thought Pharold, as he approached--"thus will
it be with them all, ere I am a week beneath the earth. But it matters
not, it matters not. So be it. Why should I wish tears shed or hearts
bruised for such a thing as I am?"

He believed that he did not wish it; yet where is the man so steeled
by nature or philosophy as to look forward to the grave, and not to
hope that some kind bosom will sigh, some gentle eye give a tear to
his memory when he is gone? and though Pharold believed that he did
not wish it, he deceived himself. At the door of his own tent sat she
on whom, in this his latter day, he had bestowed the better part of
all his feelings; whom he loved, at once, with the tenderness of a
father and the tenderness of a husband,--a union of feelings that
never yet produced aught but sorrow, for it never can be returned in
the fulness of its own intensity.

She was looking lovelier, too, than ever he had seen her; and though,
heaven knows, her beauty owed but little to richness of dress, yet
there was a something of taste and elegance in her attire, rude as it
was in quality, that pleased the eye of one who had acquired a
knowledge of what constitutes beauty in other times and circumstances.
She had twined a bright red handkerchief through the profuse masses of
her jetty black hair, and had brought a single fold partly across her
broad clear forehead. Her full round arms were bare up to the
shoulders; and, as if in sport, she had cast her red mantle round her,
like the plaid of a Scottish shepherd, contrasting strongly, but
finely, with the drapery of a blue gown beneath. Her head was bent
like the beautiful head of Hagar, by Correggio; and her dark eyes,
their long lashes resting on her sunny cheek, were cast down, well
pleased, upon one of the children of the tribe, who, leaning on her
knees, was playing with the silver ring that circled one of the taper
fingers of her small brown hand.

Lena did not hear the approach of any one till Pharold was within
fifty paces; but the moment his well-known step met her ear, she
started up and ran to meet him, with smiles that were, perhaps, the
brighter because she felt that she had something to atone for, weighty
enough to be concealed, and yet not to oppress her very heavily.
Pharold pressed her to his bosom; and whatever he might try to
believe, he felt--felt to his heart's inmost core--that there was at
least one person on the earth that he should wish to remember him,
after the stream of time had washed away his memory from the hearts of
others.

He gave but one moment to tenderness, however; and the next, turning
to the rest of the gipsies, he inquired, "What news of the boy?" The
old woman was instantly called from one of the tents, and came
willingly enough to make her report to Pharold, though she grumbled
audibly all the way at being hurried, and at such tasks being put upon
her at her years.

"Well, Pharold, I have done your bidding," she said, in a tone both
cajoling and self-important--"I have done your bidding, and have seen
the lad. Poor fellow, his is a hard case, indeed; and such a fine,
handsome boy, too, and so happy a one as he used to be--"

"But what said he, woman?" interrupted Pharold, sternly. "Keep your
praises of him till he be here to hear them, and thank you for them;
for, doubtless, he is the only person who will do so. Tell me what he
said of his situation."

"What he said!" replied the beldam; "why, what should he say, but that
if he be not got out to-morrow night--that is, this night that is
coming,--he will be sent away to the county jail, and hanged for the
murder of that fellow that is dying or dead up at the house? That's
what he said."

"But did he say how he was to be delivered?" asked Pharold. "That is
the question."

"Yes, to be sure he did," answered the old woman. "Do you think I went
there for nothing? He may be delivered easy enough, if folks like to
try. You know the windows of that there strong room, Pharold, well
enough, and I know them too, for I was in there for half a day or
more, when old Dick Hodges swore to my nimming his cocks and hens. He
lies in the churchyard now, the old blackguard, for that was in the
old lord's time. But, as I was saying, you know the windows well
enough. When they had you up at the house, and wanted to make a
gentleman of you, but found they had got hold of the wrong stuff--"

Pharold's brow grew as dark as a thundercloud. "On, woman, on with
your story," he cried, "and turn not aside to babble of the past. What
have you or I to do with the past? You were the same then that you are
now, only that the vices and follies of youth have given place to the
vices and follies of age."

"Well, well, I'm sure I'm telling my story as quickly as it can be
told," replied Mother Gray; "but as I was saying, you know the windows
well enough, and know that any one that is at all strong could knock
off two or three of the bars, and let the boy out in a minute. Any one
could do it."

"Oh, but he said that nobody but Pharold must come," cried Lena,
eagerly, forgetting for the moment all caution, and then reddening,
like the morning sky, as soon as she had spoken.

"Ha!" cried Pharold, turning his keen dark eyes full upon her, "said
he so? and how know you that he did say so, Lena? Ha!"

The poor girl turned redder and redder, and looked as if she would
have sunk into the ground, while Pharold still gazed sternly upon her,
as if waiting an answer; but the ready cunning of the old woman came
to her aid with a lie. "How does she know that he said so?" cried the
beldam: "how should she know it but by my telling her?"

Lena heard the falsehood more willingly than she would have spoken it,
though by her silence she made it her own, as much as if her lips had
given it utterance.

"'Tis well, 'tis well," said Pharold, with a bitter smile curling his
lip,--"'tis well. So he said that none but Pharold should come? Now
tell me, woman, if your tongue be not so inured to falsehood that it
cannot speak truth,"--Lena burst into tears, and crept back to her
tent, while Pharold went on,--"tell me why this boy said that none but
Pharold must come, when any one else could remove the bars as well?"

"Because he said that any one else who did not know the park might
make some mistake," replied the old woman, "and so ruin both himself
and poor Will."

Pharold mused for a moment or two and then asked, "Was all quiet when
you went?"

"As quiet as a dead sheep," answered the old woman, with a grin.

"And no one stirring in the house or in the park?" demanded Pharold.

"In the park all was dark and solitary," she replied: "I saw nothing
but some fine fat deer, and an owl that came skimming along before us
in the long walk; and on the outside of the house all was quiet enough
too: but there were two rooms above where there were lights; and I
waited awhile to see if they would be put out: but they were so long,
that I made up my mind, as all the rest was still, to creep on; and I
got close under the boy's window and called his name, and he told me
that the lights were in the room where the man is dying."

Pharold mused again; but the man whom we have heard called by the name
of Brown, a powerful gipsy of about forty years of age, took a step
forward, and laid his hand kindly upon Pharold's arm. "I will tell you
what, Pharold," he said, "this seems to me a doubtful sort of
business. I do not think the boy would do any thing willingly to trap
one of us: but he may have been taken in somehow; and it does seem as
if there was something strange about it; so I'll tell you what, I'll
go, and the old woman shall show me the way."

"No, Brown, no," said Pharold; "I would put upon no man what I was
afraid to do myself,--if I could be afraid to do any thing. If there
be no treachery, there is nothing to fear: and if there be treachery,
I should be base, indeed, if I let any of my people fall into what was
meant for myself. No, no, I will go: no man can avoid his hour, Brown.
We all know that when fate has fixed what is to happen, we may turn
which way we will, but we shall not escape it. I will go; and if there
be treachery, let it light upon the heads of those that devised it. It
is my fate--I will go."

"No, no, Pharold," said the other; "let me go. To me they can do
nothing. Me they cannot charge with any crime, even unjustly; for I
was not in the park at all when the man was shot. You and all the
others were, though you went there to prevent it; and so, if they
catch you, they may send you to prison: but if they catch me, they can
do nothing with me. They can but say I came to speak with the poor boy
through the bars."

Pharold, however, persisted. It had ever been his habit among his
fellows to take upon himself the execution of any thing difficult or
dangerous, and he regarded it almost as a privilege, which he clung to
the more, in the present instance, from a superstitious conviction
that fate was leading him on, and that it was useless to struggle
against its influence. "There yet remains the whole day before us," he
said, when he had silenced opposition, "and but little remains to be
done. Call all the people round me, Brown, for I am going to speak
with them,--perhaps it may be for the last time."

The gipsies who already surrounded him saw well that a presentiment of
approaching death weighed upon the mind of him who had been so long
their leader, and it is but doing them justice to acknowledge, that
most of them grieved sincerely to observe that such was the case.
None, however, offered comfort or consolation; for their belief in
their own superstitious traditions was far too strong for any one to
dream even that such a presentiment might prove fallacious. The rest
of the tribe were soon called together; and, stretching themselves out
in various groups around, with the clear forest stream bubbling and
murmuring through the midst, and the bright sun streaming through the
oaks and beeches upon the bank on which they lay, they waited in
silence for what Pharold had to say. The tone he assumed was simple
and calm, perhaps less marked and emphatic than that which he
generally affected. "My friends," he began, "I am going this night
upon a matter more dangerous than any that I have ever yet
attempted,--at least so, for many reasons, I am led to think; in it I
may probably be taken by men who hate and persecute us; and if I be so
taken, do not deceive yourselves--I shall never return among you
alive. I feel it, I know it; and, therefore, if by the first light of
to-morrow's sun I have not returned, look upon me as among the dead,
take up your tents, and go as far as you may. When you are so far from
this place that they cannot follow you to persecute you, seek out what
has become of the clay that I leave behind. Lay me in the earth, in
some green wood, but where the summer sun may shine upon me, and the
winter snow may fall: turn my face to the eastward, and put one hand
upon my heart, and let not the earth that covers me be more than four
palms deep.[7] When you have done all this, forget me; but forget not
what I am going to say. Remember, ever before all things, that you are
a nation apart, and mingle not with the strangers among whom you
dwell. Let them follow their way, and you follow your way. Give
obedience to their laws, but maintain your own liberties: bend to
their power, but preserve the customs of your fathers. Shut, them out,
too, as far as may be, from among you: let them not learn either your
history, or your language, or your knowledge; for if they do they will
make these the means of softening and enslaving, under the pretence of
civilizing and improving you. Forget not that you have been, and that
you shall yet be, a great people; nor ever think that there are too
few of you left for the time of your greatness to come. Look at this
acorn: it fell from a great tree, that has been cut down; and though
now it be smaller than the egg of a wren, it shall be as great as the
mightiest of the forest. So is it, and so shall it be, with you. None
of you can ever gain so much as I could have gained by abandoning my
people; but I would not do it. I refused wealth, and ease, and honour,
and I chose poverty, and wandering, and persecution, because I was
born of the gipsy race, and would not belie the blood of my fathers,
by mingling with the persecutors of our people--because I would not be
chosen from among them for a plaything and an experiment. I learned
their knowledge, though they learned not ours, and I returned to mine
own as true in heart as when I left them. Thus let it be with you all;
and if, after I am gone, the name of Pharold is ever mentioned, let it
be as an example of how true our people should be to the ways of their
fathers."


---------------------

[Footnote 7: The gipsy tribes throughout Europe are so like one
another in their habits, that it is extraordinary so great a
difference should exist in their manner of burying their dead as has
been observed among them, especially when they attach much importance
to the method they each pursue. Among the greater part of the
continental gipsies the habit of burying their dead under water
prevails, but to other tribes, again, the forest affords a place of
sepulture; and to others, I have heard, the summits of high
mountains.]

---------------------


He paused, and there followed among those who surrounded him the
low murmur of people who draw their breath deep after a long and
eager attention, but no one spoke; and in a few minutes Pharold
proceeded:--"If I return no more, there will be some one wanting to
lead and direct you all aright. My choice falls upon you, Brown, as
the calmest, and the wisest, and the bravest, with years sufficient to
ensure experience, and yet with vigour unimpaired by age. Do you
consent, my brothers, that he shall be your Ria?"

The choice was one which all anticipated, and with which all were
pleased, except, perhaps, two or three, who, feeling that they ought
to be satisfied though they were not, and that they must submit
whether they liked it or not, yielded with the rest, or, perhaps, gave
more clamorous approval. "I have now," continued Pharold, turning
towards Lena, who, since the people had been called round him, had
remained near in silent tears while he had been speaking,--"I have now
spoken to you of all things save one. I leave among you my wife, then
a widow; and as Heaven knows I have dealt justly with you all, so, I
beseech you, deal justly and kindly by her. Be unto her as brethren
and sisters. I supplied unto her the place of parents that are dead;
you supply unto her, I beseech you, my place when I am dead also. Let
her share with the rest in what you gain, until she shall choose out
some one to be to her a support and a husband. Let her choice depend
upon herself, but oh, let her choice be good; let it not fix upon a
fair form or a smooth tongue, but upon a strong mind and a noble
heart."

He spoke firmly, but, perhaps, somewhat bitterly; and Lena, though she
raised her eyes for a moment with a look of imploring deprecation,
said nothing, but wept on in silence. "And now," continued Pharold, "I
will have done, my friends, with but one more injunction, which is,
keep together. Let not the people of the land separate you, but be ye
true among yourselves."

Thus saying, he rose from the bank on which he had been leaning, and
the rest sprang upon their feet also. His scanty auditory then
dispersed to their several occupations again, though some lingered for
a few minutes, gazing upon him as on one they might never see more
after that day was over; and Pharold, after speaking a few words in a
gentler tone to Lena, laid his hand upon the arm of the man Brown, and
walked with him slowly down the course of the stream.

Their conversation was long: many were the sage and prudent maxims
that Pharold gave to him whom he had pointed out as his successor,
many the wild and singular cautions which he suggested. It was, in
fact, his lesson of political economy and good government; but, as it
would not suit any other world but the little world for which it was
intended, it were useless to repeat it here. He did not, until the
end, refer again to himself in any way; but, after having spent
nearly two hours in giving instructions respecting the rule and
protection of the tribe, he added, "I need not tell you, Brown, that I
feel the flame going out--not that it is weaker, not that it is less
bright--the broadest blaze of the fire is often the last, but it is
near its end; and if it be not to-morrow or the next day, in the
manner that I apprehend, or in the way my enemies seek to make it, yet
death will come soon, in his own time, and by his own path. Look
there!" and he spread out before his comrade his broad palm, traversed
with the many lines and marks which are usually to be found there. The
other gipsy gazed on it for a moment, gravely, but made no reply; and
Pharold went on:--"Nevertheless, as I have heard the ignorant and the
conceited declare, that people often do things themselves to bring
about a fate that is foretold them, I will neglect nothing that can
turn aside mine. If, then, by dawn to-morrow, I have not returned to
you, send instantly a trusty messenger to the small village of ----,
where I have sent several times before, to the House of Mr.
Harley--many of the people know it--bid them tell him for me, that I
am in prison, on a false accusation which he knows of, and that if he
would save me, he must come over to Dimden soon. See that it be done
rightly, Brown; for were anything to happen to me without his
knowledge, he would say that I had used him unkindly, or had not
confidence in his honour."

"I will do it myself, Pharold," replied the gipsy: "I will take one of
those that have been over, to be sure of the place, and will see the
man myself, if it be possible."

"Oh, he will see you," answered Pharold; "he has learned bitter
lessons in life, and knows that a better heart may beat under a
gipsy's bosom than under the robes of peers and princes. Now, then, I
have said all, Brown: and fare you well, my friend. You at least will
not forget me."

"Never!" answered the other; and they parted. During the rest of the
day a degree of gloom naturally hung over the party of gipsies; and
wherever Pharold turned, there were eyes looking at him, with some
degree of superstitious awe, as one in whom approaching fate was
already visible. Evening, however, came at length, and night began to
fall; and, ere the first twinkling star could claim full possession of
the sky, a thin whitish autumn mist rose up from the valleys, and came
drifting with the wind through the trees, and down the course of the
little stream by which the gipsies' tents were pitched. Pharold
remarked it with satisfaction, exclaiming, "May it last, may it last.
With such a mist as that, and a dark autumn night, he were a keen man,
indeed, that could take me in Dimden Park."

As far as the continuance of the mist went, he was gratified to his
wish; for it not only remained, but increased in density to that
degree, that even round the gipsies' fires the dark faces lighted by
the red glare appeared dim and phantom-like to those who sat on the
other side of the blaze. Pharold himself remained from sunset till
nearly midnight in his tent; and Lena had not appeared at all from the
time he had spoken to the tribe in the morning. At length Pharold came
forth; and the gipsies, who were still congregated round the fires,
thinking that he was about to join them for a time ere he went, made
room for him among them; but he glided on past them all, merely
saying, in a low voice as he came near the spot where Brown was
placed, "I go! do not forget!"

He then walked rapidly on, threaded the most intricate mazes of the
wood, traversed the common above the park, leaped the park wall, near
the spot where Dickon and his party had entered on the ill-starred
deer-stealing expedition, and paused for a moment to look around him,
and consider his further proceedings. The mist, which lay heavy on the
common and the lawns, was still more dense and dark amid the covered
walks and narrow paths of Dimden Park; but the obscurity proved of but
little inconvenience to one so much accustomed to wander in the night
as Pharold. Long habit of the kind seems, indeed, to give another
sense, and to enable persons who are possessed of it to distinguish,
as it were instinctively, obstacles in their way which the eye could
not have detected.

Thus he walked on, through the thick trees and among the narrow paths
of the park, without ever either taking a wrong direction, or running
against any of the massy trunks round which the small footway turned.
Ever and anon, however, he stopped, to listen, but all was still:
there was not a voice, a footstep, a rustle, a sound of any kind to be
heard, till he entered one of the principal alleys leading towards the
house, when a distant clock struck a quarter to twelve, and, as if
roused by the sound, the owl poured forth her long melancholy cry, and
flitted slowly across Pharold's steps, stirring slightly the foggy air
with the scarcely heard wave of her light wings.

Pharold marked its voice, and felt it flap past him; and, in that mood
when the heart connects every external thing with its internal gloom,
he muttered, "Hoot no more, bird of ill omen! I am prepared and
ready!"

The end of the alley which he had chosen opened upon the side of the
lawn, at the distance of perhaps a hundred yards from the house. But
the fog was too thick for even the bare outline of the mansion to be
visible; and the only thing that indicated its proximity was the
appearance of two or three rays of light, pouring from the apertures
in some window-shutters, and streaming through the white mist, till
they lost themselves in the night. Pharold paused and gazed; and
emotions as mingled, but less painful, affected his bosom, as those
which had been experienced by Lord Dewry when he had last looked
towards the same building. All was silent around; he felt himself
secure in the obscurity; he was in no haste to go on; and as he stood
and gazed towards the dwelling where two years of the happiest part of
life had been spent, his mind naturally reverted to the past. He
called up those boyish days, the pleasures he had then enjoyed, his
friendship with one noble-minded youth, and the injuries he had since
received from the other companion of his boyhood. He thought of what
he had been, and of what he might have been; of the promises held out
to him by those who would have kept them; of the prospects that were
open before him, if he had chosen to follow them; he thought of the
life of honour, and respect, and fortune, which might have been his;
and he compared it with the life of wandering, and persecution, and
anxiety, which he had led from the day he quitted that mansion to the
hour that he stood there again, in the sear and yellow leaf of years,
in the close of man's too brief existence. It was a melancholy
retrospect, and he could not but feel it as melancholy; but there was
a proud, stern satisfaction mingled with it all, enhanced even by the
magnitude of the sacrifice he had made. He felt a deep gladness in
knowing, now that life lay behind him as a past journey, that he had
adhered to his persecuted people, in spite of every temptation that
could have led him to abandon them; that voluntarily and perseveringly
he had made their fate his fate, in preference to a more splendid
destiny than hope herself could have led him to expect. He felt proud,
too, and justly, that those feelings and principles which had won him
the strong affection of the noble and good in another class, and among
another people, had never been forgotten amid dangers, and perils, and
sorrows, and temptations; and that he could lay his hand upon his
heart, as he gazed up towards the mansion, and say, I have been as
noble in poverty and wandering as if I had never quitted the shelter
of those once lordly walls.

He stood and gazed for near ten minutes; and then ending his revery,
as all deep contemplations end, with a sigh, he turned slightly from
the path he had been pursuing, skirted round the edge of the wood,
and, without crossing the open space, approached through the trees
that part of the building called the justice-room, which lay, as we
have seen, contiguous to the chamber in which the boy was confined.
Since he had been there, however, the river had encroached so much
upon the bank, that no one less active and expert than himself would
have found space to pass between the walls of the high old chapel-like
projection, so called, and the edge of the bank above the water. He
accomplished it, however, though with some difficulty; and then,
turning the angle of the building, approached the window of the strong
room. Raising himself on a ledge of ornamental stonework, which ran
along the basement, he put his hand through the bars to feel whether
the inner window was closed or not, and finding that it was shut, he
knocked gently on the glass with his knuckles. The moment after, it
was opened, and the voice of the youth demanded, "Who is there?"

"It is I, William," said Pharold; "are your limbs free?"

"They are free of cords," answered the lad in a voice that trembled
with agitation, and, perhaps, with remorse--"they are free of cords,
but I cannot get out."

"I will open the way for you, then," answered Pharold; "but when I
have picked out the mortar from these bars, you use your strength to
force them out from within."

The boy made no answer, but listened to hear if those who lay in wait
had taken the alarm; and a hope did cross his mind that they might
have neglected their watch on that dark and chilly night, and that
Pharold might give him the means of escape, without the consummation
of the treachery to which he had yielded. The hope increased, as
Pharold, with a small crow bar, gradually loosened the iron from its
socket in the stone, and yet no one appeared; and as soon as it was
practicable, the boy, using his whole strength from within, forced out
the lower end of the bar. The space, however, was not yet large enough
to give a passage to his shoulders, and the gipsy instantly applied
himself again to loosen the neighbouring bar. "Oh make haste, make
haste," cried the youth, with almost frantic eagerness--"make haste,
Pharold, make haste!"

"Hush!" cried Pharold, sternly, and turned hastily to listen; but at
the same instant two men sprang upon him. The gipsy struggled to cast
them off, but his foot slipped, and they both fell with him to the
ground. Ere he could rise, two more were added to the assailants; and
finding resistance vain, Pharold instantly abandoned the attempt,
suffered his arms to be pinioned with a burning heart, and followed
whither they led him.

Several lights and several figures appeared at the small backdoor to
which they conducted their prisoner; and more than one lantern was
raised to his face, and more than one inquisitive countenance stared
into his, as he was taken through some long stone passages towards the
very room from which he had been endeavouring to liberate his
treacherous young companion. The four men who had seized him hurried
him on, keeping close together, as if afraid that, notwithstanding all
their efforts, he might still escape. At the door of the strong room
they paused; and one, producing a key, proceeded to apply it to the
lock, and to undraw the heavy bolts and bars. Pharold spoke not a
word; but the moment the door was open, and the light, from some
lanterns behind, flashed in through the aperture, his eyes sought the
unhappy youth, whose face was covered with tears.

Pharold had only time to ask himself, "Is he guilty, or is he
innocent?" when, springing past him and those that conducted him, the
lad made straight towards the door. One of those behind instantly
stopped him, exclaiming, "Holla, my lad, where are you going so fast?"

The one who had opened the door, however, turned round almost at the
same time, crying, "Let him go, let him go; now we have got this one,
we do not care for the other. Let him be off as fast as he will."

The gipsy's doubts were cleared up in a moment. He saw himself
betrayed by one of his own people, whom he was in the very act of
rescuing; he saw himself delivered up by one for whom he had been
risking so much; he saw his most generous feelings made use of as
snares to take him; and he believed that she whom he loved more than
anything on earth was a party to the infamous treachery by which he
had been entrapped. Oh, how he hated the whole human race!

So deep, so powerful was the agony that he suffered, that, without a
word, without a movement, he stood upon the spot to which his captors
thrust him forward, his dark eyes bent upon the ground, his pinioned
hands clasped together, as if they had been riveted with iron, his
limbs as motionless as if they had been stone. The people round gazed
at him, but he saw them not; they taunted and they sneered, but his
ear was dull. He felt not at that moment the insolent gaze, the brutal
jest, the loss of liberty, the very hands that wrung his muscles. He
felt alone that he was betrayed, that his love and his confidence had
been cheated and dispised. All the rest was nothing. That, that was
the iron that entered into his soul! Ere he had been there a minute,
the keeper Harvey, who had not been among those that took him, pushed
through the gaping crowd, to assure himself that the report which had
reached him was true. But there was something in the gipsy that the
man felt and feared, with feelings full of hate, indeed, but nearly
akin to awe; and when he saw him stand there like a statue, in the
stern bitterness of utter despair, a faint conception of his
sensations thrilled even through the coarse mind of the keeper; and
after a hasty glance, without proffering a word, he made the rest
retire, and following them himself, locked and barred the door.

At about three o'clock in the morning, those who watched in the gipsy
encampment were roused by a hasty step, and in a moment after the boy
William, all panting and wild, stood by the fire. "What news? what
news?" cried one of the men, eagerly; "where is Pharold?"

"Bad news!" answered the youth, gazing round him with a look of
bewildered consciousness: "they have caught Pharold as he was helping
me out of the prison."

"Brown," cried one of the men, approaching a neighbouring
tent--"Brown, here is bad news; they have caught Pharold, and here is
Will come back."

Brown instantly started from the hut and came out to the fire: but he
was not the only one; for Lena's sleepless ear had caught the tidings,
and she too rushed out, with many others that the noise had awakened.
Wild apprehension and distress were in her eyes; but she spoke not,
while Brown proceeded rapidly to question the lad on what had
occurred. The trembling tone in which he answered might proceed from
fatigue and agitation at his escape, the varying colour on his cheek
might be the flash of the newly stirred up blaze; but there was a
rambling and inconsistent character about the story that he told
concerning his own escape and the capture of Pharold that raised doubt
in many. "You rushed past the people," said Brown, after many other
questions, "and got out even after they had taken Pharold. Did no one
try to stop you?"

"Yes," answered the lad; "one man did; but I got away from him, too,
and ran as hard as I could. But why do you look at me so, Lena?" he
added, unable to bear any longer the keen, fierce glance which she had
never withdrawn from his face for one moment from the time she had
first come forth.

"Why do I look at you so?" said the girl, stepping forward boldly
towards him, and casting back the jetty hair from her forehead while
she spoke, with a burning cheek and flashing eye, and almost frantic
vehemence of tone--"why do I look at you so? Because, base traitor,
you have betrayed him that came to save you--and you know it
well!--because you have cheated me into persuading him to go;--and oh,
if such a foolish thing as love for me had any hand in what you have
done--and I say boldly before them all that I believe it had--may that
love stay by you to curse you to your latest day! For think not you
will prosper in your villany--I hate you! I abhor you! I spit upon
you! and I call God and the heavens to witness, that if there were not
another man in all the earth I would die sooner than be your wife!
Cast him out from among us, Brown, cast him out! Dickon was but a
child in villany to him; Dickon was wilful and violent, but he was not
base and false; Dickon might be a rebel, but he was never a traitor.
Cast him out, Brown, cast him out; for the blood of my husband is upon
him; and I will not dwell in the same tents with him. He cannot deny
it; his face speaks it; his tale is not even like truth. Oh, my heart
misgave me when he used so many vows and protestations last night that
he would not have Pharold put in danger for the world. Truth is more
simple; and he is a traitor, and the seller of his friend's blood!"

She spoke with all the energy of passion and indignation: her eyes
flashed, her arms waved, her very form seemed to increase in size with
the wild vehemence of her feelings; and the unhappy youth in the
meantime stood before her, with bent head and averted glance, like a
convicted criminal before his judge.

"You are guilty, William," said Brown, gazing on him with pity,
mingling a drop or two of milder feeling with the sternness of his
abhorrence for a crime almost unknown among them,--"you are guilty."

The youth made no answer; and after a pause the other went on:--"You
must go out from among us, for we cannot shelter a traitor. And yet I
grieve for you, William, that anything should have tempted you to
commit such a crime. But still you must go out from among us; for if
we be not all faithful to each other, in whom can we trust? Yet I
would not cast you alone upon the world, so that one fault might bring
on a hundred; and therefore I will send you down to the north country,
where, on the side of Cheviot, you will find more of our people, among
whom I have a brother: seek him out, and tell him I sent you to him."

"I will not go there," answered the youth, doggedly--"I will not go
there, to have this story thrown in my teeth every hour; I will rather
go and seek out Dickon, and rove with him."

"No, no, Billy, my chick," cried the old woman Gray--"no, no, go down
to the Yetholmers, as Brown says--a merry set they are, and a free,
and I will go with you, my lad. I dare say Dickon has gone thither
already; and, do you hear, Bill, I dare say among the bold young lads
thereabouts we may be able to get up as fresh a band as this is; and I
have got a good penny under my cloak, and I will be a mother to you,
my boy. Then who knows when you are a smart young fellow, with a
goodly band of your own, whether this young minx here, who has flown
at you like a wild cat, about that Pharold, who is no great loss any
how--perhaps she may be sorry enough that she was not more civil."

"I shall be sorry," said Lena, in a less violent, but not less
determined, tone than she had before used--"I shall be sorry if ever I
hear the name of such a base and cowardly thing as he is upon this
earth again."

"Well, well, scornful mistress Lena, you may rue," replied the beldam.
"What say you, Will, will you take me with you?"

The youth at first had shown no very strong liking for the old woman's
company; but the hopes of better fortunes which she had held out to
him, the boldness with which she had taken his part, the stern and
reproachful looks of all around, and the feeling that he was parting
for ever from all those with whom his life had hitherto been spent,
made him willing to cling to any fragment of familiar things which
would remain with him to soften the breaking of all accustomed ties.
His conscience, too, reproached him bitterly with what he had done;
and the company of any one would have been preferable to solitude with
his own heart. Willingly, therefore, he caught at her proposal; and
drawing himself up, prepared to steel himself against the contempt of
his comrades, while the old woman went to make her brief preparations:
but he saw nothing around but the stern, cold looks of persons who, in
hatred and scorn, were waiting to see his departure. It was more than
he could bear; and, calling to the old woman to follow him down the
stream, he turned sullenly away, and walked slowly on without a word
of adieu to any one.

"Brown," said Lena, laying her hand upon the gipsy's arm--"Brown, I
know what I am going to ask is in vain, for Pharold, when he went,
felt the shadow of death upon him, and I am a widow; but did he not
tell you any way to rescue him, if he should be taken? He spoke with
you long, and he said to me, too, that there was some way that might
deliver him, though he spoke not clearly. Oh, if it be so, and he have
told you how, lose no time, spare no exertion; for though, God knows,
I was deceived by that base villain's artful speeches, and believed
that my husband was safe, yet I feel--although I know my innocence of
thought, or word, or deed--I feel as if I were guilty of his death."

"No, no, Lena, no, no. We all know that you are not," answered Brown,
in a kindly tone; "but go you to your tent, poor girl, and trust to me
to do every thing to rescue Pharold that can be done. First, I will
try the only means that he himself pointed out. I will follow his
directions to the letter. Then, if that should fail, I will try what
strength of arm can do; for I will not let him be lost if I can save
him. He was a good man, and a wonderful man, Lena. We shall never see
his like among us."

Lena burst into tears: they were the first that she had shed, but they
were too bitter for any restraint; and turning to her tent, she gave
way to them in solitude. In the mean time Brown turned to call one of
the younger gipsies, who, on more than one occasion, had been
Pharold's messenger, to inquire after Edward de Vaux; but ere the
young man had joined him, Mother Gray, as she was called, tottered up,
with a bundle on her arm, to bid him adieu.

"Fare ye well, Brown," she said; "fare ye well. I hope you may make a
better head of the people than Pharold has been: a pretty mess he has
got us all into here. I hope you may do better; but I doubt it, for
you were great cronies, and would never listen to what I advised. So I
am going to people who know how to manage matters better."

"Get ye gone, then, old mischief-maker," answered Brown; "get ye gone,
and the sooner your back is turned upon us the better. I have seen
nothing prosper yet with which you had any thing to do; and I dare
prophesy that those people will never know peace or happiness where
you are suffered to meddle. So get you gone, and Heaven send you a
better heart and judgment. And now," he continued, speaking to the
young man who had come up, "tell me, Arral, have you not been for
Pharold to a house on the other side of the hill--the house of one
Harley?"

"To be sure," answered the young man, "I have been four times."

"Then come with me thither, now," answered Brown, "and lead me by the
shortest way, for I would be there, if possible, before day-break."

"That is not possible, Brown," answered the other; "for it wants less
than an hour of the light, and go as you will it will take two hours
and a half."

"We must do our best," answered Brown, "and can do no more. Go on.
Keep together, my lads," he continued, turning to the rest of the
gipsies,--"keep together till I come back, which will be before the
sun is more than half-way up. But have everything ready to go in case
of need."

Thus saying, he followed his guide; and pursuing very nearly the path
by which Pharold had returned, he arrived in about two hours and a
half at the same house to which Colonel Manners had been conducted. By
this time, however, the sun had been long above the horizon; and when,
after walking through the little shrubbery, they approached the door
of the dwelling, a carriage and four smoking horses, with two servants
in Mrs. Falkland's livery, were seen standing before the house. The
gipsies, however, made their way boldly on, and rang the bell. This
intimation was instantly answered by the servant, and, while they
were still speaking to him, a shrill cry--evidently from a woman's
lips--rang through the passage. Ere the servant could ask their
business, a door on the right was thrown open, and the fine head of
Sir William Ryder appeared, exclaiming, "Henry, Henry! Bring water!
She has fainted!"

A few moments of bustle and confusion succeeded, during which the
gipsies were allowed to remain with the door open, and without any of
those suspicious precautions which the very fact of their race would
have excited against them in any other dwelling. At length the servant
returned; and Brown's first question was, "Is the gentleman who was
hurt worse?"

"No, much better!" answered the servant, "and you may tell Mr.
Pharold--"

"I can tell him nothing," interrupted Brown, "for that is what I have
come here to say--that his enemies have caught him; and that, if Mr.
Harley would save him, he must bestir himself speedily."

"Indeed!" said the servant, "indeed! that will not be good news to my
master's ear; but I must break in upon him to tell it nevertheless.
Wait a minute, my friends, and I will go and see what he says."

The servant then entered the room where his master was, and from which
proceeded the sounds of eager voices speaking. A moment or two after
the door again opened, and the gipsies were joined by the person they
sought. Their story was soon told, and easily understood; and the brow
of their auditor knit into more than one deep wrinkle, as they spoke.

"I will bestir myself," he said, in answer to Brown; "I will bestir
myself, and that instantly too. So rest satisfied in regard to your
friend's fate; for, be assured, that I can break the net in which
they have entangled him as easily as I could a spider's web; and I
will do it, too, with less remorse than I would the toils of the
hunter-insect. I will not lose a moment. Henry, have horses to the
carriage, and let me know when it is here."




                             CHAPTER XI.


"Has the parson come?" demanded the low faint voice of Sir Roger
Millington, as he turned round from a brief and half-delirious doze,
on the morning after Pharold's capture: "has the parson come?"

"Not yet, sir," answered a sick-nurse, who was now the only person
left to attend him. "It is not ten minutes ago since you first told me
to send for him."

"I thought it had been much longer," said the dying man. "But what is
all that noise in the house? They seem as if they were making all the
disturbance that they could, on purpose to kill me with the headache."

"I dare say, sir, it is some of the other magistrates come, sir,"
answered the nurse; "for last night it seems they caught the gipsy,
Pharold; and, when I went down to send for Dr. Edwards, his lordship
was sitting in the great parlour with Mr. Arden, waiting for two other
magistrates to make examination, as I think they call it. I should
scarcely have dared to send else--that is, if I had not known he had
his hands full for many a good hour, because you see, sir, he forbade
any one to let Dr. Edwards see you, whether you wished it or not."

"Ah! did he so?" said the dying man, bitterly; and then, after a long
pause, he added, "but he would not care about it now, my good woman.
That declaration that he teased me into making last night, was all
that he wanted; and now I may die when I like--with or without benefit
of clergy?" and he groaned faintly and sadly at his bitter jest upon
himself. "But do you think I am dying, woman?" He went on, "I have
lost all the pain; but I am fearfully weak; and my legs and feet have
no feeling in them. Do you think I am dying? Ha, nurse, what does the
doctor say?"

"He says you are very bad, sir; but he hopes--" replied the nurse.

"Pshaw!" interrupted the other; "you have been tutored too. I wish the
parson would come; he would tell me the truth."

"I am sure I wish he would too," cried the woman; "for he knows better
than I what ought to be said to you, sir."

"Ah, I see how it is, I see how it is," cried the unhappy man; "I am
dying, and they have kept it from me till they had got all that they
sought;" and, like the stricken king of Israel, he turned his face to
the wall, while one or two hot and bitter drops scorched his eyelids,
and trickled over his cheeks. After a long silence, however, he again
turned towards the woman, saying, "He is very long; I wish to God he
would come! I have a great deal that lies heavy at my heart; and I
would fain hear some words of comfort before I die. You do not think
he will be frightened away by what that rascally lord has said?"

"Ah! no, sir; no fear!" answered the nurse; "Dr. Edwards is not a man
to be frightened away by any body or any thing, so long as he thinks
he's doing his duty. He is not one of that sort, sir. Why, last year,
when the terrible catching fever was raging down in the village, and
every one that took it died, he was night and day at the bedsides of
the poor people that had it, although the doctor told him a thousand
times that he was risking his own precious life: but he saw that it
gave them more comfort than any thing to see him; and so he went at
all hours, and into all places."

"I wish he would come," groaned the dying man; "I wish he would come."

Almost as he spoke, there was a cautious step in the anteroom, and the
lock of the door turned under the quiet noiseless hand of one
evidently accustomed to the chambers of the sick. The next moment the
clergyman entered, and advanced closely towards the bed, although his
heated brow and quick breathing showed that he had lost no time in
obeying the summons he had received. He was a man between sixty and
seventy, with scanty white hair covering thinly a high broad forehead,
across which the cares and sorrows of others, more than his own, had
traced two or three deep furrows. His countenance was grave, but mild;
and his eyes full of both the light of feeling and the light of sense.

The nurse rose up from the chair in which she had been sitting at the
pillow of the dying man, and Dr. Edwards quietly took her place,
without appearing to see that Sir Roger Millington was eying him from
head to foot; and, notwithstanding his situation, was comparing the
person before him with the prejudiced image of a _parson_, which
habits of vice had alone enabled his imagination to draw.

"I am much obliged to you for admitting me, my dear sir," said the
rector, in a kindly tone. "How do you feel yourself? Are you in less
pain than when I last saw you?"

"Yes, I am in less pain, sir," answered the other; "but I rather
believe that is no good sign. At least they told me, when I was in
torture, that pain was a good omen for my recovery; and now I am in no
pain at all, I suppose it is a bad one."

"I am not sure that it is a good one," answered the clergyman gravely;
"but at all events it has this good with it, that it leaves your mind
and faculties perfectly free to consider fully your situation, and to
take whatever measures, temporal or spiritual, may be necessary for
your comfort and consolation."

"Ay, that is what I want to come to, Dr. Edwards," answered Sir Roger,
"and I am glad you have come to it at once. But first tell me--and I
adjure you by Heaven to tell me true, for these people deceive me--am
I dying, or am I not?"

"I would have answered you truly without any adjuration," answered the
clergyman. "None can, sir, or ought to say to another that it is
impossible he can recover; for God can and does show us every day the
fallacy of our judgment in the things that we best comprehend: but I
do believe that you are in such a situation that it were wise to
prepare yourself for another world without loss of time."

"Then I am dying," said Sir Roger, solemnly.

"I am afraid you are," answered the clergyman. "To deceive you would
be a crime: your surgeon has himself told me that human skill can do
nothing for you."

Sir Roger Millington drew his hand over his eyes, and groaned heavily;
but after a brief pause he withdrew the white colourless fingers
again; and looking steadfastly at the clergyman, said, "It is a
terrible thing to die, sir; more terrible than I thought. I have
fought in more than one battle, sir, and have had my single affairs
too; but I never found out how terrible a thing death is till I came
to lie here, and see life flow away from me drop by drop."

"Because in no other case had you time for thought," answered Dr.
Edwards; "but, believe me, oh! believe me, that the very time for
thought which you seem to regard as an evil, is the greatest mercy of
Heaven. Few, even of the very best of us, if any, can keep his heart
and mind in such a condition of preparation, as to be ready to pass
from this state of mortal sin into life eternal, and to the immediate
presence of a pure and perfect Being, who, though he is merciful, is
likewise just, and will by no means leave the impenitent transgressor
unpunished. No man, my dear sir, when he has years and days before
him, should trust to the efficacy of a deathbed repentance--a moment
which perhaps may not be granted to him; but when a man has gone on in
thoughtless neglect, through the vigour of careless existence, and
unexpectedly finds himself at the end of life with only a few short
hours between him and that judgment-seat, where nothing can be
concealed and nothing palliated, he may then take unto himself the
blessed hope that repentance never comes too late, that our Saviour
himself showed upon the cross that the last hour, the very last
minute, of human life may yet obtain forgiveness of all the offences
of the past, by evincing true repentance, founded on true faith."

"But how can I show either true repentance or true faith?" exclaimed
the dying man, with a peevish movement of the hand. "All I can do
is, to say I am very sorry for everything I have done wrong; and
that I believe the religion in which I was educated to be the true
one--although I have thought very little about it, since I was a boy
at school. But it is no use! it is no use talking!" he added, seeing
the clergyman about to reply; "I have done many a thing, especially
lately, that cannot be forgiven--for which I shall never forgive
myself; and so, how can I expect God to forgive them, who is better
than I am, and who never knew what it was to be tempted as I have
been?"

"You _can_ expect God to forgive them, _because he is_ better than you
are, and because we have an intercessor at his throne, who has known
what it is to be tempted, even as we are; because we have a mediator
in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who was rendered subject to
temptation a thousand-fold more terrible than any that we can endure,
in order that he might obtain forgiveness for even the greatest of
sinners, who truly repents him of the evil he has done. Indeed,
indeed, you greatly err in your ideas of God's mercy. But we had
better, I think be left alone;" and he made a sign to the nurse, who
immediately retired into the anteroom.

"I am sure," said the wounded man, feeling, in some degree, the effect
of such consolatory hopes--"I am sure I do most sincerely repent of
some things that I have done within this last week, and indeed all
that I have done throughout the course of my life that is evil; and I
do think, now that it is too late to mend it, that if I had taken a
different course, and acted in another manner on many occasions, I
should not only have been more comfortable now, but a happier man
altogether."

"Doubt it not! doubt it not!" said the clergyman. "Those that sow in
sin shall reap in bitterness: but still have good hope: the very
conviction of the magnitude of your sins which you seem to entertain,
is the first great step to sincere repentance; and sincere repentance
once obtained, the atonement is already prepared in heaven--the
abundance of God's mercy is ready to blot out our iniquity from before
his sight."

"Ah, but there are many things very heavy on my heart and my
conscience!" said the other. "Tell me, Doctor Edwards, tell me," he
added, in a gloomy and anxious tone, "tell me, can a man who has said
that and done that, which can take away the life of another upon a
false charge, hope to be saved?"

The clergyman half started from his seat; and the other, sinking down
again on the bed from which he had partially raised himself, exclaimed
bitterly--"I see how it is! I see how it is--no hope for me--and so I
will die as I have lived, boldly, without thinking about it."

"You greatly mistake me," cried the clergyman; "I wished to imply
nothing of the kind."

"No, no," said Sir Roger, "say no more--I saw it in your face. I can
easily imagine that a man may be pardoned for running another through,
when they were hand to hand--I remember many people in the Bible that
did the same--and I doubt not that many another little sin might be
forgiven; but for taking a man's life that never hurt one, by a
cold-blooded cowardly lie--I dare say that there is no forgiveness for
that!" and as he spoke he drew his breath hard, and set his teeth, as
if working himself up to meet the worst.

"God makes no such distinctions, as far as he has revealed himself to
us," answered Dr. Edwards. "Murder, whether committed with the steel,
or the poison, or the falsehood, is equally murder in his eyes. I was
indeed surprised to hear you charge yourself with such a crime; but I
repeat what I said before, that for that, as for every other sin,
there is abundant mercy in heaven for him that sincerely repents him
of the evil--"

He paused; but the knight made no reply, and remained with a
contracted brow, a muttering lip and a wandering eye, struggling
between two opposite states of feeling,--the habitual daring which
despair had again called to his aid, and the fear of death, and
judgment after death. "Let me urge you," continued the clergyman, when
he perceived that he did not make any reply--"let me urge you to
consider for one moment what must be the state of him who, under the
circumstances which you have named, neglects the only opportunity
allowed him for repentance, and suffers the few short moments granted
mercifully for that purpose to escape unemployed. Remember, sir, that
death is not sleep! that the moment the eyes are closed on this world
they open on another! Remember that the disembodied spirit, freed from
the frailties and the motives of the flesh, must of necessity feel, in
all their bitterness and blackness, the crimes which here we can
palliate to ourselves, as well as conceal from others!--Remember that,
with feelings thus heightened, with eyes thus unblinded, the man who
has committed the crime which you mention, and has neglected to repent
of it fully, must go into the presence of the omniscient Creator, to
meet, in the face of thousands of worlds, the being whom his falsehood
and his baseness had destroyed--that he must hear his crimes
proclaimed in the ears of all, must listen to his eternal
condemnation, and must bear unceasing punishment, the never-dying
consciousness, not only of the crime that he has committed, but of
having neglected the opportunity of repentance--of having castaway the
mercy offered even to the last hour of life. Think, think of his
horror and his shame, and his torture, and his remorse, and, oh!
choose the better path, and, even at the eleventh hour, repent and be
saved!"

The dying man writhed under the picture of the future presented to his
mind, a picture which he had ever contrived to shut out from his own
eyes; but now, as the reality was about to present itself,--as but few
short hours, he felt too well, only intervened between him and the
fulfilment of all,--the conviction of its truth and its awfulness
forced itself upon his heart, even to agony; and with clasped hands,
as the clergyman concluded, he cried out, almost in the words of the
Jewish lawyer, "What shall I do to be saved?"

"Repent sincerely," answered Dr. Edwards; "and as the first great
proof of your repentance, make whatever atonement you can yet make for
the very horrible crime with which you charge yourself--"

"I can, I can make atonement!" cried the dying man, raising himself
joyfully on his hand as the thought was suggested to his mind; "I
can--I can make atonement, and I feel that then I shall die in peace.
I can save the innocent,--I can punish the guilty,--and I will do
both, if God gives me two hours more of life."

"Such indeed will be the earnest of a true repentance," cried the
clergyman, "and it is thus that a deathbed repentance can alone be
confided in as efficacious. I wish not to pry into the secrets of your
heart, sir, any further than may be necessary for the purpose of
affording you advice and consolation. We believe that the ear of God
is ever open to our confessions as to our petitions, and therefore
that to him they should be made; but if I can aid you in carrying into
effect your purpose of full atonement, command me; and be sure that no
earthly consideration of either fear or hope will induce me to pause
or waver in the execution of my duty. I say what I have just done,
because an evident desire has been shown by those who should know
better, to hold you back from the only true way to peace of mind. God
forgive me! if my suspicions wrong any man; but before I came to-day,
I thought the conduct pursued towards me strange; and now that I have
heard so much from your own lips, I think it more than strange."

"And you think right," said Sir Roger. "It is more than strange, but
it is all part of a plan. I see it all now--I see it all. He--he--Lord
Dewry concealed from me at the first that I was dangerously hurt. He
would not let me see you or any one else who would have dared to tell
me so, because he was afraid I should blab. He would not let me have
my papers over from Dewry Hall, pretending they had been forgotten;
because he was afraid that I should destroy those we had manufactured
between us; and last night, when I was half delirious, and would have
signed away my soul for an hour's quiet and rest, he tormented me till
I made a declaration before witnesses, that I had received a note from
a man who never gave it me, and that this gipsy Pharold, whom they
have now got below, was one of those who fired when I was wounded;
though in truth I believe he did not come up till after."

"This is horrible, indeed!" said the clergyman, not a little agitated
by the very painful tidings that he heard. "But let me beg you, sir,
as you hope for pardon and eternal life in that world to which you
must soon depart--let me beg you instantly to take measures to remedy
the evil that you have been seduced into committing."

"Yes, yes, I will do my best to remedy it," answered the dying
man, whose passions were now excited against the seducer who had led
him forward to crimes from which even his mind had shrunk, all
accustomed as it was to evil of a less glaring kind. "Yes, I will do
my best.--Ay, and he affected to feel so much pity and friendship for
me too, till he got what he wanted, and now he has not been near me
all day. Ay, ay! and he promised me every thing on earth that could
make life happy to me, when he knew that I was dying:--but he shall
not triumph in his villany. No, no!"

Although the clergyman was very willing that justice should be done,
yet even that consideration was secondary in his mind to the wish of
leading the unhappy man before him into a better train of feeling ere
he passed to things eternal. "By all means," he said, "let us proceed
as fast as possible to make the atonement that you speak of, and to
secure justice to the oppressed and innocent man you mention; but in
doing so, my dear sir, do not forget for one moment your present
situation. Let not wrath, or disappointment, or irritation, influence
you. Let your sole motive be, as far as human nature is capable of
controlling and purifying its motives, the desire of showing, by full
atonement, that repentance which, with faith in the merits of your
Saviour, may be effectual to salvation."

"Well, well, I will do my best!" answered the dying man. "But let us
make haste, for I am beginning to feel faint; and there is a dimness
comes occasionally across my eyes, and a rush like water in my ears,
that disturbs me. How shall we set about it, Dr. Edwards?"

"The best way will be to call in witnesses," answered the clergyman,
"and to draw up before them a complete statement of everything that
you think proper to reveal, therein setting forth that you are
perfectly aware of your situation, and that you are in a competent
state of mind for making such a declaration. I myself am a magistrate,
although I seldom act; and will give the document every formality in
my power."

"Ay, but the witnesses! the witnesses, sir!" said Sir Roger; "I am
afraid that he may come in every minute and disturb the whole."

"There is no fear of that, I believe," answered the clergyman. "In the
first place, I would not permit such an interruption, were he a
monarch; and in the next place, I was told that he and several
magistrates were assembled to examine some prisoners before
committal."

"Ay, it is Pharold, the object of all his hate, that they have got
hold of," replied Sir Roger; "and they will have him off to jail on
the very things I stated against him."

"Then, indeed, no time is to be lost!" answered Dr. Edwards. "The
surgeon was to follow me here very soon; for I left him in the
village. His assistant and the nurse are in the next room; and I am
not sure that I did not hear his step also come in a moment ago. Thus
we shall have sufficient witnesses, and one who can testify to your
mind being clear and unbiassed. Shall I call them in?"

Sir Roger gave a sign of assent; and gazed eagerly towards the door to
which the clergyman proceeded, as if he feared that some one else
might be without. No one was in the anteroom, however, but the
surgeon, his assistant, and the nurse; and Dr. Edwards having called
them in, and briefly stated his object, they approached the bed, and
the assistant, having obtained writing materials, seated himself as
near the sick man as possible, to take down his exact words. Sir Roger
was about to begin, but the clergyman interposed:--"One moment, my
friend," he said mildly; "we must not forget our care for your eternal
salvation, under any other consideration. Let us pray to God that the
spirit under which this declaration is made may be the spirit of
truth, divested by his grace of human passions and frailties, that the
repentance of which it is the fruit may be pure and sincere, and may
be accepted;" and kneeling down, he offered a short but emphatic
prayer, so full of simple and unaffected piety, that Sir Roger
Millington found feelings springing up in his heart which he had not
known for years, and which made the warm drops rise into his eyes.

The knight then proceeded in a voice, faint and agitated indeed, but
nevertheless one which, in the profound silence that reigned around,
could be distinctly heard. He took up his tale in years long back; he
related how, in better times and circumstances, he had won a large sum
from Sir William Ryder and the Honourable Mr. De Vaux. The first, he
added, had always the character of a frank, open-hearted, but gay and
thoughtless young man; the latter that of one whose keen shrewdness
would have ensured him the highest fortunes, if the violence of his
passions had not on many occasions marred his best-laid plans. The
day, he said, had been fixed for the payment of the money, and it had
been shrewdly suspected that there would be difficulty in procuring
it; but the very day previous to that appointed for the discharge of
the debt, Mr. De Vaux's brother was murdered; and, consequently, that
gentleman succeeding to his title and estates, the payment was made
without delay.

He then passed over at once the twenty succeeding years, and briefly
but distinctly recapitulated all that had taken place since; he had
come down from London, in the hope of mending his broken fortunes by
an application to the wealthy peer.

All this, however, has been already detailed, and needs not
repetition, though it caused more than one glance of surprise and
grief to pass between the clergyman and the surgeon. Nevertheless, for
the time, they made no comment, but suffered the dying man to proceed
uninterrupted as long as he seemed inclined to go on. When he paused,
however, and looked round feebly towards the clergyman, as if to
ask,--"Have I done enough?"--Dr. Edwards rejoined, "If you will permit
me, sir, I will ask you one or two questions, to which, of course, you
will answer or not, as you think fit. This young gentleman will take
them down, however. They shall be short," he added, seeing a look of
impatience cross the sick man's face; "may I ask, did his lordship
assign any reason for the enmity he showed towards the gipsy Pharold,
and for taking such unjustifiable steps to destroy him?"

"He said that he was sure that he, Pharold, had been the real murderer
of his brother," answered Sir Roger; "but I have my own thoughts upon
the subject." He paused, as if hesitating whether to proceed or not;
and the clergyman paused too, for the mind of every one present had
been led towards a suspicion so dreadful, that each felt a degree of
awe at the thought of hearing his own doubts confirmed by those of
another. At length, however, Sir Roger Millington raised himself upon
his elbow, as if he had made up his mind to a painful effort, and
fixing his dim and hollow eyes upon the clergyman, he said, in slow
but solemn tone, "That was what he told me; but, as I am going into
the presence of the Almighty, and casting away all malice against the
man, I declare, that I believe he himself was the murderer of his
brother, that Pharold knows it, and that such is the cause why he
persecutes him even to death. Write that down, young man, for although
I cannot discover all the links in the chain, nor all the motives of
his cunning heart, yet it is fit they should be inquired into, and
that the innocent should be delivered."

The assistant wrote, and read what he had written, and the knight made
an impatient sign for the paper and the pen. When they were given to
him, he scrawled his name faintly at the bottom. "And now, doctor," he
said, looking towards the surgeon, "you certify there, that this
declaration was made by me, when I had all my senses about me as fully
as if I were in perfect health; and you, Dr. Edwards, certify that, at
the time I made it, I knew that I was dying, and did it as the only
proof I could give of my sincere repentance for many sins, of which
the paper he wrung from me last night was not among the least. You may
well say that I know I am near my end," he continued, "for I believe
that I am nearer it than any one thinks."

"Take a little wine and water, Sir Roger," said the surgeon, looking
at him, and remarking that strange and awful grayness, which generally
precedes dissolution, coming like the shadow of some unseen cloud over
the sick man's face; "take a little wine and water. It can do you no
harm."

"I know that too well!" answered the other, in a hollow voice,
drinking the draught which the nurse handed him. "It can neither do me
harm nor good--for it is all passing away." The wine seemed, however,
to revive him for a moment, and he eagerly besought the clergyman to
take the paper which had just been signed to the magistrates assembled
below. "Let them not pursue their injustice even so far," he said, "as
to send an innocent man to jail. I have been in a jail myself, and
know what it is."

"I think," answered Dr. Edwards, "that perhaps I maybe of more service
with you here; for now that you have proved your repentance really,
let me strive to assure you all the comforts thereof. I have much to
say to you--much consolation and hope yet to hold out to you, if you
will permit me."

"Oh! yes; stay, stay, by all means," said the wounded man; "do not you
leave me. He can take it to them: for he can do this wretched carcass
no good now: let him take it;" and he pointed with his finger towards
the nurse, though, beyond doubt, it was the surgeon he intended to
designate, distinctly showing that his sight had failed, though his
power of hearing still remained.

"Perhaps you will have the kindness to do so," said Dr. Edwards,
speaking to the surgeon; "but take care that it does not get into the
hands of any one who may suppress it; for though we can all bear
witness to the contents, yet the document itself is most valuable. I
think I heard that Mr. Simpson was among the magistrates below. If so,
give it into his own hand; for, though a calm and quiet man, he has
much good sense and much firmness. But let us fold it up and seal it
first."

The surgeon undertook the task, though, it must be confessed, not very
willingly, for he loved not to do any thing to any one that might
afford matter of offence. He spent some time in inquiring where the
magistrates were, and some time in consulting with a constable at the
door of the great hall whether it would be proper for him to go in. In
short, at length, as he had just made up his mind, and had his hand
upon the lock, the nurse whom he had left with the sick man, and who
thought it absolutely necessary that he should be present at a
patient's death, came eagerly to tell him that the unhappy Sir Roger
Millington was in the last agonies. It was too good an excuse for
shifting upon another an unpleasant duty to be lost; and, putting the
paper into the constable's hand, he bade him go in and deliver it
directly into the hands of Mr. Simpson the magistrate. The man
received the commission as a matter of course, and proceeded to
execute it, while the surgeon returned to the sick room. He opened the
door--all was still--the assistants stood holding back the curtain,
and gazing fixedly in--the clergyman was kneeling by the bedside, with
his eyes raised towards heaven.




                             CHAPTER XII.


While the dark and solemn scene of death had been passing above, with
half-closed windows and a darkened apartment, events scarcely less
painful had been taking place below, in the broad light of a clear
autumn day.

Six magistrates, whom Lord Dewry, with the usual overacting of
conscious guilt, had invited, in order to give every appearance of
impartiality and justice to his unjust designs, dropped in one by one,
and were ushered into the chamber where the peer sat waiting with
burning impatience for the arrival of the whole. Totally indifferent
to the business themselves, each as he came in tortured the baron with
light and impertinent gossip,--of the weather, of the harvest, of the
prospects of the country, of the new fashion of dress swords, and the
exquisite effect of Maréchal hair-powder; and forced him into
conversation while his heart was full of deep stern thoughts, that
abhorred the idle topics on which he was expected to speak. Some,
however, mentioned his son, and congratulated him on the rumour of his
safety, which had already spread over the county: and here alone the
peer found matter on which he could converse feelingly; for the news
of his child's safety had come to him, in the midst of the fiery
passions that were agitating his bosom, like the thought of a drop
of cold water to Dives in the midst of his torments. Each of his
visiters wished to know more than general rumour had already told, and
many were the inquiries in regard to how Captain de Vaux had been
wounded, and who Mr. Harley could be, who had lately taken the house
at Little ----. Of all this, however, Lord Dewry could tell them
nothing. Colonel Manners's letter had been as laconic as possible;
and, therefore, the peer could merely reply, that it appeared the
wound had been received by accident, but that he intended to go over,
in order to hear more, as soon as they had concluded the business on
which they were assembling.

At length the number was complete; and Lord Dewry, having asked the
servant who ushered in the last tardy magistrate if all were prepared,
proposed that they should proceed to the old justice-room, where they
would find everything ready for them.

"The old justice-room!" cried bluff Mr. Arden; "I have not been in
there for many a year, my lord. But I have seen many a thing done
there, in my young days, that we should not dare to do now. They did
not mince the matter in those times; and I remember in the year
forty-five--now some three or four-and-twenty years ago--it was quite
enough to be _strongly suspected_ for a man to find his way to prison
very soon, without all these examinations and investigations. But they
are cutting down our powers every day, gentlemen. 'Pon my soul, I
think, when they have cut off every other part of my magisterial
rights, they will cut off the tails of my coat, for the _better
protection of the subject_, as they call it."

A loud laugh followed; and thus with mirth and merriment they
proceeded along the passages of a house, where despair and indignant
grief waited anxiously in one room, and suffering, remorse, and death
tenanted another. Preceded by two or three regular constables, they
reached the little vestibule before the door of the justice-room,
where fifteen or sixteen persons were assembled, anxious to witness
the proceedings. They had not, however, been admitted without
selection; and among them were to be seen none but small tenants and
dependants of the lord of the mansion. The little crowd drew back as
the magistrates approached; and, the folding-doors being thrown open,
they entered the large old-fashioned hall, which had been prepared for
their reception. It formed, as has been before said, a long
parallelogram at the extreme of the building, built out upon the high
bank to the west, and had probably been designed originally for a
chapel. Four tall windows on either side rendered the aspect of the
whole light and cheerful; and from the south-east the sun, as bright
and warm as in the height of summer, was pouring a flood of glorious
light, which streamed in long oblique rays of misty splendour across
the perspective of the hall. A table, covered with the various
implements for writing, crossed the farther extremity of the
apartment; and beyond it was an array of chairs for the magistrates,
while at each end was a seat for the clerks; and a smaller table,
also, under one of the south-east windows, was furnished with paper
and pens for another secretary. The windows on that side were open,
and the warm soft breath of the southerly wind was felt fanning the
cheek, and breathing of nothing but peace, and gentleness, and
tranquillity.

The magistrates proceeded to their places, and each taking a seat,
left the chair in the centre vacant for the peer; but he, however,
declined it, and begged Mr. Arden, as the senior, to preside at their
proceedings.

"Nay, nay, my lord," replied the bluff old squire; "your official
station in the county, as much as your rank, gives you the
precedence."

"In the present instance, however, my dear sir," replied Lord Dewry,
"I must appear before you as a private individual, as I am here in
some sort as the accuser, and if you find cause to commit the
prisoner, I must become the prosecutor. Therefore, I will sit here
beside you, but without exercising any official authority in a matter
where I am in a degree a party."

"The prisoner cannot say that your lordship has not every disposition
to give him impartial justice," answered Mr. Arden, taking the vacant
chair. "You would have him let off before, when I would certainly have
committed him; and now you will not exercise your authority where he
is concerned. Let him be brought in, however. Constables, bring in the
prisoner." Two men instantly departed from the farther end of the hall
for that purpose, and while they were gone some formal business was
transacted, the clerks received their instructions, and one or two of
the magistrates looked into Blackstone's new work, the volumes of
which had been scattered about upon the table. At length a murmur and
the sound of footsteps were heard, and the doors being again opened,
the constables re-entered, followed by the persons who had been
waiting without, reinforced by several of the servants of the peer, as
well as by the footmen and grooms who had accompanied the magistrates
thither. The principal object of the whole group, however, was of
course the prisoner Pharold, and on him every eye was instantly fixed.
Walking between the two constables, who did not attempt to hold him,
he advanced boldly up the middle of the hall, and with a slight
contraction of the brow, and curl of the lip, gazed on the party
assembled to interrogate him with stern and fearless calmness. His
wrists were handcuffed, but no other restraint was put upon him; and
when he had advanced within a few yards of the table at which the
magistrates were seated, he paused of his own will, and waited as if
in expectation of what was to follow, merely turning round to some of
the crowd who followed, saying, sternly, "Do not press upon me; you
are near enough."

Mr. Arden put on his spectacles, and after gazing for a moment or two
at the prisoner, he turned towards Lord Dewry, and said, "My lord,
will your lordship be good enough to state the charge against this
man; as of course that part of the business referring to the murder of
your son must be dropped, since it fortunately turns out that he is
alive. There are, however, I think, still two serious charges to be
disposed of, and probably our best plan will be to examine into them
separately: by separately, I mean, distinct from each other, though,
as many of us have come some distance, we had better go into both ere
we depart."

Lord Dewry paused for several minutes ere he replied; and looked over
some papers which he had laid upon the table before him; but in truth
a momentary feeling of doubt and embarrassment crossed his mind. He
had determined most positively to urge against the gipsy the death of
his brother; he had arranged all his plans for that purpose; he had
matured them perfectly; he had secured, as far as human ingenuity
could go, every link of the chain; and nothing remained but to cast it
boldly round his victim; and yet, at the very moment of execution, a
doubt and apprehension, a sort of prophetic hesitation, seemed to
seize him, and he wished that it had been possible to abandon the
charge of the murder of his predecessor, and to confine his accusation
to the deer-stealing and the death of Sir Roger Millington, which was
now, as he well knew, so near, as to effect all that could be wished,
by rendering the charge against Pharold capital.

He wavered for a moment, then, but he saw that the very wish to give
up an accusation so boldly made would appear suspicious, if any one
discovered it; and turning to Mr. Arden with a faint smile, he asked,
"With which of these charges had I better commence, my dear sir? The
one which is susceptible of the most immediate proof is that referring
to the recent offence."

"No, no, my lord," replied the magistrate, "take them in the order of
their dates. Let us get rid of the ancient business before we begin
the other. 'Tis well to be off with the old love before we be on with
the new, my lord."

"As you think fit," answered the peer, somewhat disappointed at the
magistrate's decision, but determined, as he must proceed, to proceed
boldly. "Well, then, my charge is as follows:--that the prisoner
Pharold, now before you, did, on the 18th day of May, in the year
17--, feloniously and with malice aforethought put to death my
unfortunate brother, the late Lord Dewry, in or near that part of the
road from Morley village to Green Hampton, which crosses the wood
called Morley Wood; and I am now ready to produce sufficient evidence
to induce you to commit the prisoner to the county jail for trial."

While he spoke, the gipsy's eye rested on him with a glance so stern,
so keen, so searching, that he felt as if the dreadful secret of his
bosom--all its motives and all its feelings, its doubts, its
apprehensions, its remorse, its complicated plans and subtle
contrivances, were undergoing, one by one, the examination of that
dark, fixed regard. Though he looked towards the prisoner as little as
possible, yet the gipsy's eye was a load upon him, that oppressed and
would have confused a less powerful mind than his own. Even as it was,
however, he could not bear it without emotion, and turning abruptly to
Mr. Arden, he went on,--"I trust, Mr. Arden, that you have brought
with you the notes of the former examination."

"Everything! everything, my lord," replied the magistrate; "prepared
as I was for the case, I brought every memorandum that could at all
bear upon it; and I think my clerk had better read the depositions
made at the time, and then you can proceed with any new facts which
may have since come to your knowledge."

The peer bowed his head, and the clerk, under Mr. Arden's
instructions, proceeded to read a variety of documents relating to
facts with which the reader is already acquainted. It is unnecessary,
therefore, to repeat them; but the demeanour of the two persons
principally interested in the details was in itself sufficiently
singular to attract the attention of some of the magistrates, though,
if they sought in their own minds for the motives, they were mistaken
in the conclusions at which they arrived. During the reading of all
the formal and immaterial part of the depositions, the gipsy remained
with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and his head slightly bent, with
the aspect of one who hears a thing with all the details of which he
is too familiar to give it any deep attention. But when the clerk came
to his own deposition, and read the declaration which he had made of
having seen the murder committed, and marked the murderer so
particularly as to be able to swear to him if he ever saw him again,
his lip curled with a bitter and a biting sneer, and, raising his
head, he fixed his eyes upon his accuser, with a gaze that might well
have sunk him to the earth.

Lord Dewry, however, encountered not his glance. He felt that the
gipsy's look must be then upon him; and, though he kept his own eyes
steadfastly on the papers before him, he turned deadly pale under the
consciousness of his own guilt, and the knowledge of what must be
passing in the bosom of the innocent man he had accused.

"This is your declaration, made twenty years ago, prisoner!" said Mr.
Arden, examining the gipsy's countenance through his spectacles.

"I know it is," answered the gipsy; "and it is truth, which twenty
years cannot change as they have done you and me, hard man!"

"Egad, he's right there!" cried the magistrate; "twenty years have
worked a woful change both in my eyes and in my teeth; but, thank God,
I can ride as fresh as any man after the hounds, and shirk neither
fence nor gate."

"Have you anything to add to your declaration, prisoner!" asked Mr.
Simpson, in a milder tone. "Nothing," answered Pharold. "Let me ask
you, however," continued the other, "whether you have ever, by any
chance, seen the murderer since the events which you have detailed in
this paper?"

"More than once!" answered the gipsy.

"Then, why did you not point him out for apprehension?" demanded Mr.
Simpson.

"Because no one asked me," replied Pharold. "I told yon hard old man,
that I would point the murderer out if he were set before me; but I
never promised any of you to be as one of your hounds, and seize the
game for your sport or advantage."

"Then if the murderer were brought before you," asked another
magistrate, "would you point him out, and swear to him?"

The inquiry was taking a turn unpleasing to the peer; for although he
felt well convinced that Pharold would, sooner or later, retort the
accusation upon him, and was ready to meet it boldly and calmly, yet
he was not a little anxious to conclude his own statement of the case
first, and to bring forward every circumstance which could criminate
the gipsy, in order to take all weight from the testimony of his
adversary, and make the magistrates pass it over with contempt.

"I think," he said, rising ere the gipsy could reply--"I think,
gentleman, if you will now permit me to proceed with what I have
further to adduce, you will find the matter very much simplified, and
can then examine the prisoner in whatever manner you think fit."

"Certainly, my lord! certainly!" said some of the more complaisant of
the party; but the magistrate who had put the question was less easily
turned aside; and he replied,--

"Permit the prisoner, my lord, to answer my question in the first
place. My memory is bad," he added, dryly, "and before we got to the
end I might forget it. Now, answer me, prisoner,--that is, if you do
not object--there is no compulsion, remember,--if the murderer were
brought before you, could you and would you point him out, and swear
to him!"

"That I could do so," answered Pharold, "I have already said; but that
I would do so, I do not know. It would depend upon circumstances."

Lord Dewry looked suddenly up, and their eyes met, but there was
nothing in Pharold's glance at that moment but cold stern
indifference; and those who saw the look he gave the peer could not
have distinguished that he was moved towards him by any other feelings
than those which might well exist between the accused and the accuser.
Lord Dewry paused, and a momentary feeling of remorse for that which
he was engaged in crossed his bosom, now that he saw even persecution
would hardly make the gipsy violate his word so far as to betray his
fearful secret. But he had gone too far to recede, and he crushed the
better feeling. He called up the image of Sir William Ryder returning
to England, and supporting a charge against him by the testimony of
the gipsy; he recalled the state of feverish apprehension in which he
had lived for twenty years; and he went on with the work he had begun,
resolved that the struggle should be commenced and ended now for ever,
in the vain hope that thus his latter days might pass in peace!

"Now, my lord," said the magistrate, when the gipsy had replied--"now,
my lord, I beg pardon for having detained you."

"Well, then, sir," answered Lord Dewry, with some of his haughty
spirit breaking out even then--"well, then, if it quite suits your
convenience, I will proceed. I must give a slight sketch of some
events long passed, gentlemen; and the clerks had better take it down
as my deposition, which may be sworn to hereafter. Not very long after
my brother's death, gentlemen, I had some money transactions to settle
with an honourable friend of mine, one Sir Roger Millington; and I
went to London for the purpose. I found him just returned from
Ireland; and he told me that, in the neighbourhood of Holyhead, he had
met with an accident by which one of his finest horses had nearly been
killed; but that he had obtained a secret from a gipsy there by which
the animal had been completely cured. You may easily suppose I gave
the anecdote but little attention at the time. In settling our
accounts, however, Sir Roger had to give me, in change for a larger
sum, several smaller notes, on which he wrote his name. I took no
great notice of these bits of paper till I returned to the country,
when, on looking them over, I found, to my surprise, that one of them
was marked with my brother's own name, in his own handwriting. This
led to further examination; and in this banker's book, and also in
these memoranda, I found, by the dates and numbers of the notes, that
the very note in question must have been drawn by my poor brother from
his bankers the day before his death. The next thing to be discovered
was, where Sir Roger Millington had obtained it; but, as that
gentleman was continually moving about from place to place, some time
elapsed ere I could see him again. When I did so, however, I found
that he had received this very note from a gipsy called Pharold, at
Holyhead, in change for a larger one given him in order to purchase
the secret by which the worthy knight's horse had been cured."

"A most singular coincidence!" cried Mr. Arden. "Murder will out,
gentlemen!"

"For a long time no trace could be discovered of the gipsy," continued
Lord Dewry; "but at length he suddenly reappeared in this
neighbourhood; and one of my keepers obtained information that he and
his gang had laid a plan for robbing my park of the deer. On his
telling me this, I ordered him to take such measures as he thought
expedient for seizing the whole of them in the fact; much more
anxious, indeed, to capture my brother's murderer than to punish the
deer-stealers. It so happened, that just at the same time Sir Roger
Millington came down to pay me a visit; and on hearing that the
culprit was likely to fall into our hands that very night, he insisted
upon coming over here, both to direct the operations of the keepers,
and to satisfy himself that this gipsy Pharold is the same from whom
he received the note. I would fain have persuaded him that it was a
wild scheme; but he was a soldier, gentlemen, and accustomed to
contemn all dangers. The unhappy result you know. He was mortally
wounded, and is now lying in a state of delirium, if he be not already
dead. Last night, however, I took advantage of a time when his mind
was quite clear and rational, to obtain from him this declaration in
the presence of competent witnesses; and herein you will find that he
positively states that the man Pharold, whom he saw with the gipsy
deer-stealers in Dimden Park, was the same from whom he received this
note."

"Foul, hellish liar!" exclaimed Pharold, starting abruptly from the
state of calm and apparently indifferent thought in which he had been
standing, with his eyes fixed upon the handcuffs on his wrists, and
his head bent down. "Foul, hellish liar! He never either gave me
aught, or had aught from me! I cured his noble beast for nothing; and
not for his sake either; but he gave me naught, nor would I have taken
his gold if he had offered it."

"What, then," cried Mr. Arden, "you acknowledge that you did see this
gentleman at Holyhead, and did cure his horse by some nostrum in your
possession! Clerk, take that down carefully."

"Ay, and take down that, if in dying he say he either gave me aught or
received aught from me," continued Pharold, vehemently, "he goes to
the place appointed for liars and false witnesses, if the great God of
all the universe be a God of justice and righteousness."

"Do you know, gentlemen," said Mr. Arden, turning round and rubbing
his hands, "I think that quite enough has been elicited to justify us
in committing the prisoner without further ceremony."

"We might perhaps be justified," said Mr. Simpson; "but I think there
is something more required of us than that, both by our own
consciences and our precise duties. It lies with us to prepare the
case as far as possible for superior functionaries; and, therefore, I
should propose that we proceed at once to collect every information
that is to be procured, and that we do not think of committing the
prisoner till we have done so. A great deal more still remains to
be--"

Here one of the constables advanced from the other end of the hall,
and passing quietly round the table, interrupted the magistrate by
handing him a sealed packet, which he instantly opened, and proceeded
to read the first lines. While he did so, the constable advanced to
the spot where the peer sat, and spoke a few words in a low tone of
voice, while another magistrate, taking advantage of Mr. Simpson's
silence, proposed that they should adjourn to the bedside of Sir Roger
Millington, and receive his deposition officially.

"I am sorry to say," answered Lord Dewry, with as grieved and
melancholy an air as he could assume, under circumstances which were
in reality satisfactory--"I am sorry to say, gentlemen, that the wise
and judicious proceeding just suggested cannot be executed, as the
constable has this moment informed me that my poor friend is no more.
His dissolution occurred a few minutes ago; and though I grieve for
the loss of my friend, it would be vain to say that I am sorry that an
event which was inevitable should have taken place so soon, when every
hour of prolonged existence was an hour of torture."

"I trust, then, that the declaration which he made last night," said
the same magistrate, "was in every respect such as to be admitted in
evidence. Will your lordship permit me to examine it?" The paper was
handed to him, and he cast his eyes over it without any comment. Mr.
Simpson, however, was evidently strongly affected by the packet he had
just received. He returned more than once to several of the passages
it contained; and when he had satisfied himself of the precise terms,
he let the hand which held the paper fall over the arm of the chair;
and with a pale cheek and a look of deep thought, continued gazing at
vacancy for several moments.

The first thing that seemed to rouse him was a renewal of Mr. Arden's
proposal for the instant committal of the prisoner, when, turning
round abruptly, he said, "No, Mr. Arden! no! we have not half gone
through the case; and something has just been put into my hand which
gives a very different aspect to the business altogether. This is a
very painful paper, gentlemen; and the task put upon me is a very
painful one, but, however, our duty must be done; and I will not
shrink from mine. However, let me beg your lordship in the first
instance to remark that this thing is no seeking of mine. For many
members of your lordship's family I have the utmost respect and
regard, and I would not willingly do anything to hurt any of your
house; but, as I have said, my duty must be done."

While he spoke, the gipsy's eye lighted up anew, but the countenance
of the peer fell. His colour varied twenty times in a minute; but ere
the magistrate had done speaking, he had recovered his self-command,
and determined on his course, whatever might be the nature of the
communication which Mr. Simpson had received. "To what end, may I
ask," he said, haughtily, "to what end does all this tissue of idle
words lead, sir? Let me beg you to explain yourself, for I can
conceive no circumstances under which your professed regard for my
family should interfere in any way with the execution of your duty."

"You shall hear, my lord, you shall hear," answered Mr. Simpson, with
more mild dignity than the peer had imagined he could assume.
"Constables, clear the hall there."

"Shall we take away the prisoner, sir?" demanded one of the men who
stood by his side.

The magistrate paused, and then replied, after a moment's thought, "He
has a right to hear anything that may benefit himself. He is here
before us without legal advice or assistance of any kind; and he must
not be shut out from a knowledge of facts which he may have to
communicate to his counsel hereafter. You, constable, however, retire
to the door. I think we are enough to manage one handcuffed man should
he prove turbulent."

None of the other magistrates interfered: the hall was cleared; and
Pharold was left standing in the midst, with no other witnesses but
the magistrates and their clerks. Restraining all his feelings by a
mighty effort, the peer sat sternly gazing upon the speaker, with the
violent passions that were working within, discernible only in the
starting sinews of the thin clenched hand which he had laid upon the
papers before him.

"What I have to read, gentlemen," continued Mr. Simpson, "has just
been sent me by the excellent rector of this parish, Dr. Edwards; and
it is entitled The dying declaration of Sir Roger Millington, knight.
It is, gentlemen, to the following effect;" and he proceeded to read
the confession which fear and repentance had induced the dying man to
make. The agitation of the peer was dreadful; but it was alone
internal; and all that was externally perceptible were those signs of
passion and indignation which an innocent man might feel at a false
accusation. At length, however, when, in conclusion, the unhappy Sir
Roger charged him boldly as the murderer of his brother, Lord Dewry
started up, exclaiming,--

"The raving madness of a delirious and dying man! How can you,
gentlemen, sit and listen to such trash! But I will soon bring you
proof of what state the man was in, when that canting old fanatic saw
him and he turned towards the door.

"Sit down, my lord!" said Mr. Simpson, sternly. "I cannot allow you to
leave the room."

"Sit down! not allow me!" cried the peer, turning upon him with all
the dark and haughty spirit of his heart flashing forth. "Do you dare,
sir, to use such terms to me in my own mansion?"

"Anywhere, Lord Dewry!" replied the magistrate. "I say, sit down! or I
must give you in custody to one of the officers, _I_ will show you,
gentlemen, in what state of mind was the deponent when he made this
declaration. Here is the attestation of the surgeon and his assistant,
that Sir Roger Millington was, at the moment he signed this paper,
perfectly sane and rational; that he did it under the full knowledge
that he was a dying man; and that every word here written was exactly
used by himself. Gentlemen, this requires immediate investigation; for
every word here written must greatly affect the prisoner before us."

Lord Dewry had cast himself down again in his chair; but wrath in the
present instance supported hypocrisy; for it was anger and indignation
he sought to assume, and the former at least, in the present instance,
required no acting. He folded his arms upon his breast, he rolled his
dark eye over the form of the magistrate, and he set his teeth in his
nether lip till the blood almost started beneath the pressure. In the
mean while there was a confused and murmuring conversation among the
magistrates, some standing, some sitting, and all talking together. At
length Mr. Arden exclaimed, in a loud voice that overpowered the
rest,--

"Well, well; this matter requires much consideration. Let us at all
events remand the gipsy for four or five days, while we inquire into
the rest. Here, he might be tampered with; but let us remand him to
the cage at Morley."

"Remand me!" cried the gipsy, in a tone that called instant attention,
while his deep black eyes seemed flashing with living fire. "Remand
me! remand a man that you know to be innocent! Are these your boasted
laws? is this your English equity? Have you no more freedom in your
hearts than this? Did ye but know what real freedom is, ye would feel
that nothing upon earth,--neither gold, nor wealth, nor friends, nor
pleasures, nor health, nor life itself, to the freeman,--is half so
dear as liberty! If ye take his gold, ye call it robbery; if ye take
his life, ye call it murder; but I tell you, that every minute and
every hour of liberty is more than gold or life; and yet, base
hypocritical tyrants, without scruple and without remorse, you take
from your fellow-creatures, on the slightest pretence, the brightest
possession of man, the noblest gift of God. Ere you know whether your
fellow-creature be guilty or not ye doom him to the worst of
punishments, ye confine him in dungeons, ye fetter his free limbs with
iron, ye deny him God's light and God's air, ye make him the companion
of devils and fiends, and then ye find that he is innocent, and send
him forth into the world degraded, corrupted, vile as ye are
yourself,--punished without guilt, and robbed of many a long day of
golden liberty by those who pretend to dispense justice, and who talk
of equity. Out upon ye, I say! and out upon your laws! If there were
such things as liberty and justice in the land, the very rumour that a
fellow-creature was deprived of his freedom for an hour, would gather
together half the land to see justice done; and he who dared unjustly
to deprive a freeman of his liberty would be punished as a traitor
against the rights conferred by God. Then would not this bright and
beautiful land bear the multitude of prisons that darken the sunshine
in every town and village; and speedily the very use for them would be
forgotten; for man's heart, ennobled by freedom, would forget crime;
or crime, punished on the spot, would be a lesson far more awful. Now
ye debase yourselves and your fellow-creatures, and expect them to act
nobly; ye punish the innocent with the worst of punishments, and
expect them to refrain from guilt. If I am innocent of the crime with
which I am charged,--and God knows, and ye all know, that I am,--let
me go free. If I be guilty, punish me with death, but take not away my
liberty. Death were light, but one other night in a dungeon would
crush my very soul!"

There was something so strong, so fiery, so impetuous, in the whole
tone and manner of the gipsy, that the magistrates, taken by surprise,
sat silent and attentive, till he had concluded an appeal which they
certainly had not expected. "There is some reason in what you say,"
answered Mr. Simpson, mildly, "and, perhaps, if we had tasted a few
hours' imprisonment ourselves, we should not be so ready to send
others to that fate, as we are found too often. However, now answer
me, prisoner: you have declared that if the murderer of the late Lord
Dewry were set before you, you could recognise him, and swear to him.
I ask you, therefore, do you see him now?"

A powerful emotion, which he could not resist, made the peer suddenly
turn away, as the magistrate thus addressed the gipsy; and Pharold's
dark keen eyes fixed sternly upon him. For several long, terrible,
anxious moments the gipsy was silent, and many were the strong and
agitating passions which struggled in his heart, and threw their
alternate shadows over his countenance; but at length he replied, in a
low but solemn and distinct voice, "I have said that I could tell, but
I have not said that I would; and I now say that, come what will to
myself, I will accuse no man."

The magistrates gazed at each other for a brief space, both surprised
and perplexed; but at that moment there was heard the sound of
chariot-wheels, the step of a carriage violently thrown down, and a
considerable bustle and speaking in the passages beyond. The next
instant the door of the hall was thrown open, and a gentleman entered,
with his hat still on his head, and a large fur cloak cast round him,
as he had got out of his carriage.

"I really must have the hall kept clear," exclaimed Mr. Simpson. "We
are here in private deliberation, and no one must be admitted."

The stranger, however, without paying the slightest attention, walked
straight up the middle of the hall; and laying his hand upon the
gipsy's arm, as he passed the spot where he stood, "I have come," he
said, "to deliver an innocent man." The next moment he advanced to the
table; and taking off his hat gazed round upon the magistrates.

The effect produced upon several persons present was no less strange
than sudden. The peer, with a countenance as pale as ashes, a
quivering lip and haggard eye, staggered up from his seat, grasped the
arm of the intruder, and holding him at arm's length, gazed in his
face, with an expression of doubt, and surprise, and horror. Mr. Arden
rubbed the glasses of his spectacles, exclaiming, "Good God! good God!
This is very strange! It can't be--no, it can't be!"

"It is! it is!" exclaimed the peer, falling back into his chair, and
covering his eyes with his hands. "It is! it is! thank God! oh! thank
God!" and the deep groan which accompanied his expression of joy, far
from lessening its force, seemed to speak that the load of worlds was
taken off his heart.

"In the name of Heaven, sir, who are you?" exclaimed one of the
younger magistrates.

"Who is he?" exclaimed the gipsy, "who should he be, but William Lord
Dewry. There are plenty here who must know him well."

"And none better than myself," cried Mr. Arden. "My Lord, are you
living or dead?"

"Living, sir," replied the person whom we have hitherto known by
the name of Sir William Ryder. "Had I not believed, gentlemen, that
in this hall I have as much right as any one, I should not have
intruded upon your deliberations; but as I learned this morning
that my friend Pharold here, to whom I owe my life, was brought
before you on a charge of taking it, I felt myself bound to interfere.
You must, therefore, permit me to be present at your further
deliberations.--Edward," he continued, turning to his brother, "you
had better retire. We have matter for much thought and for much
emotion between us, which were as well confined to ourselves alone."

"But, my lord'. but, my lord!" exclaimed Mr. Arden, "here is an
accusation made formally against your brother, also, of the same crime
with which the gipsy was charged."

"Who made it?" exclaimed Lord Dewry, looking somewhat reproachfully at
Pharold.

"Not I," answered the gipsy,--"I bring a false accusation against no
man."

"At all events, sir," rejoined the peer, turning to Mr. Arden, "it
must be sufficiently evident to all, that my brother, whatever may
have been our personal differences, cannot be guilty of my murder, as
I am here alive and well. I say again, therefore, that you had better
retire, Edward, and leave me to conclude this business as I see fit;
unless, indeed," he added--"unless you are inclined to contest either
my identity or my rights."

"No, no, no!" cried the other, starting up vehemently, and clasping
his hands together, while the burning tears of intense emotion rolled
rapidly over his cheeks. "No, no! So help me God, I would not lose the
knowledge that you are living for the highest rank and noblest fortune
that the earth could give; and I tell you, William, that to lay down
at your feet that which I have wrongfully possessed, to give up to you
wealth and station, and retire to poverty and obscurity, will be the
happiest act of my whole life. It will! it will! as there is truth
in Heaven, whatever my conduct heretofore may have caused you to
believe--and now I leave you."

"That is one step at least," said the peer. "Fare you well for the
present. I will join you soon.--And now, gentlemen," he continued,
turning to the magistrates, as his brother, with a slow and faltering
step, quitted the hall--"and now let us proceed, as quickly as
possible, to render justice to a man who has been erroneously accused,
and subjected already to some loss of liberty,--a loss which I know is
more bitter to him than the loss of life would be."

"Why, my lord, one would think you had turned gipsy yourself," said
Mr. Arden, "you speak so exactly the same sentiments which he has
himself expressed."

"I have mingled much with persons who feel the same ardent love for
uncontrolled liberty," replied the peer somewhat dryly, "and it is
therefore that I wish at once to proceed to those matters which may
instantly set this good and honest man at liberty. It is evident,
gentlemen, that the charge against him must instantly be discharged,
and therefore it may be better to order those unworthy handcuffs to be
taken instantly from his wrists."

"Not so fast, my lord," said Mr. Arden, who was not well pleased with
the tone in which the peer replied to him, and who had also a strong
disposition to commit every one who was committable. "Although your
sudden, miraculous, and very strange reappearance must of course put
an end to all proceedings relative to a murder which has not taken
place, yet there is another charge of a nature equally grave against
the prisoner, which renders it impossible to discharge him in the
summary method which you seem inclined to urge. There is a charge of
deer-stealing followed by murder, in both of which crimes it is pretty
evident that the prisoner has taken part. I should like to know, too,
before I part with him, whether the whole story that he told of your
being shot by a man on horseback had any foundation, or was a mere
invention."

"In regard to the last point I will satisfy you at once," replied Lord
Dewry, "as far as I ever intend to satisfy any one. I was met by a man
on horseback, as I believe the gipsy told you, who demanded money of
me, and on my refusing it, somewhat harshly indeed, he did fire at and
wound me. My horse took fright, and plunged into the river; I fell
from the saddle, deprived of all sense; and had not that good man,
Pharold, leaped into the stream, dragged me out, and given me into the
hands of those who tended me with kindness and wisdom, my fate would
not have been doubtful for a moment. In regard to my after-conduct,
private motives determined it, into which no one has any right to
inquire. They were such as satisfied my own heart and my own
understanding, and that is sufficient."

"And pray, my lord," demanded Mr. Arden, "were you acquainted with the
person who wounded you? Could you swear to him?"

"I am not making a charge before you as a county magistrate," replied
Lord Dewry; "but telling you an anecdote as an old acquaintance; and
let me add, that my story is done. In regard to any further charge
against Pharold, there is, I think, by this time sufficient evidence
collected at the hall door to prove that he took no part either in the
destruction of the deer or the violence offered to the gamekeepers. If
you will order the persons who were present to be called in you will
soon be satisfied."

"I beg your pardon, my lord," said Mr. Simpson: "I am most happy to
see you once again, when such a thing appeared impossible; but still I
am afraid the course you suggest cannot be pursued."

"And why not, sir?" demanded Lord Dewry: "I believe that I have the
pleasure of speaking to Mr. Simpson, though time has somewhat altered
his features: if so, I address both a humane and reasonable man; and I
ask why cannot the plain and straightforward course I propose be
pursued at once?"

"Let them have their way, William de Vaux! Let them have their way!"
cried the gipsy, whose dark features had been working under the
influence of many a contending passion since his friend had appeared.
"Let them have their way! One and all they are set in their own hearts
to do injustice. What, indeed, are they there for, but to dispense
that kind of injustice that you call law? Let them have their way!
They are but working out the inevitable will of fate; and though they
bring the curse of innocent blood upon their head, they needs must do
it."

"If your lordship, during your long absence, have not forgot entirely
the customs of this country," replied Mr. Simpson, as soon as he could
make himself heard, "you will perceive at once, that, as one of the
unfortunate victims of this deer-stealing affray has died in this very
house, not half an hour ago, it is our bounden duty not to discharge a
prisoner against whom a charge upon oath of participation in the crime
has been made by an eyewitness, until the coroner shall have sat upon
the body, and returned a verdict; nor have we, I believe, any right to
take the matter out of the coroner's hands, by previously examining
the witnesses, which must afterward appear before his jury. I am
grieved to oppose you, I am grieved to inflict further imprisonment on
a man of whose innocence I do not entertain any strong doubts; but
Harvey, the head keeper, has sworn that the prisoner was present,
aiding and abetting, when Sir Roger Millington was wounded, and we
should not be justified even in receiving bail till the coroner's jury
have returned their verdict."

Lord Dewry bit his lip, and remained silent for a few moments, while
Mr. Arden rubbed his hands, and elevated his eyebrows with the air of
a man who considers all opposition as silenced; and the gipsy eyed the
bench of magistrates with a look in which scorn was the only
expression that tempered hatred and indignation. "Pray, sir, how long
must it be ere the coroner can be summoned?" demanded the peer. "You
know not what you are inflicting upon a man as honest as any one
present. To him every hour of his freedom is more than life; and I
could give you fully sufficient proof to show that while his innocence
of the crime charged against him is clear, the punishment inflicted on
him by imprisonment cannot be estimated by the feelings of other men
under such circumstances."

"The coroner cannot even be summoned to-day, my lord," replied Mr.
Arden; "and, consequently, it must be to-morrow or the next day ere
the gipsy can be liberated, even if the result be as favourable to him
as you expect. But what are two or three days spent in a snug warm
room to a man who has never known any thing better than a hovel in a
sandpit? Where is the great hardship? I see no very severe
infliction."

"To him it is the most severe," replied Lord Dewry; "and if it be
possible--"

"Cease, cease, William," cried Pharold, in a bitter and earnest tone;
"you degrade those noble lips by pleading in vain to men who can
neither understand your heart nor mine. Besides, it matters not, it
matters not. The long weary line of life has come to its end with me.
All that I had to do is done. I have seen you break through all your
good and wise designs, all your humane and generous scruples, for
the purpose of defending and delivering me; I have seen you return to
your home, and claim your own; and so far I have seen my utmost
desire. But hear what I have seen more," he continued with a rising
tone, while his eye flashed, his dark cheek flushed, and his brows
knit together--"hear what I have seen more, William de Vaux, and then
see whether I ought to care for anything else after. I have seen my
people mock my care, and refuse my counsels! I have seen one of my own
tribe betray me, in order to liberate himself! I have seen the wife of
my bosom take part in the scheme for delivering me over to
imprisonment and death, by the means of my best affections! I have
spent a whole bright autumn night in a prison! I come forth into the
day with bonds upon my hands, and I hear myself condemned, without
crime, to the torture of a longer slavery in chains and stone walls!"
As he went on, he spoke more and more rapidly, and his eye rolled over
the magistrates, as he lashed himself into phrensy, by a
recapitulation of his sufferings and his wrongs. "But think not," he
continued furiously, "think not that bolts, or bars, or walls shall
keep me in another night, in the living tomb into which ye have thrust
me! No, no, there is always a way for a bold heart to set itself free!
Thus, thus I spurn your chains from me!" and by one great effort of
skill and strength he slipped his hands out of the handcuffs, which
were somewhat too large, and dashed them down into the midst of the
hall.

"Constables! constables!" shouted Mr. Arden.

"You call in vain, hard, stone-hearted man," cried Pharold, shaking
his clenched hand at him, "you call in vain;" and bounding to the side
of the hall on which the tall windows had been thrown open, he set one
foot upon the secretary's table, and with a single spring reached the
high window sill, catching with his hand the small stone column on
which the casements hung. There he paused for one moment; and turning
his head, exclaimed, "William de Vaux, noble William de Vaux,
farewell,--for ever, and ever, and ever, farewell."

He let go his hold: he sprang forward, and was lost to the sight. The
next moment the dull heavy splash of a large body falling into the
water rose up and was carried by the wind through the open windows
into the justice-room.

"Run round, run round," cried Mr. Arden to the constables, who were
now hurrying in; "he has escaped through the window; run round there
by the outside."

One or two instantly followed these directions; but another sprang up
to the window to mark the course of the fugitive, and point it out to
the pursuers.

"He must have jumped into the stream, gentlemen," said the man,
turning to speak to the magistrates, as soon as he had reached the
spot where Pharold had stood the moment before. "He must have jumped
into the stream, for there is not footing for a mouse."

"He did, he did: we heard him," answered Mr. Arden. "Look out, and see
where he comes to land. My lord, why do you cover your face with your
hand? you seem more sorry for the prisoner's escape than I
anticipated."

"It is because I know him better than you do, sir," answered the peer;
"and I fear that you have driven him further than you imagine."

"I can see nothing on the river, gentlemen," cried the constable, "but
the bubbles and the eddies where he must have gone down. There's a
shoulder, there's a shoulder, I do believe; and his long black hair as
I live:--it is gone again; he is down--I see no more of it."

Lord Dewry started up and rushed out; but it was in vain that every
effort was made to find the gipsy living or dead. The constables who
had run round the justice-room declared that they had never seen
anything rise. The other, who had watched from the window, soon became
very doubtful in regard to the reality of the objects he had seen
floating down the stream. An old labourer, who had been working at a
distance, stated that he had remarked something fall from the window
of the justice-room into the water, but had seen nothing come to land.
The peer, with as many people as he could collect, followed the course
of the river for some way; and the constables, though with different
views, pursued the same course. In the meanwhile, the magistrates
continued in deliberation, as it is called; although it must be
acknowledged that their conversation referred much more particularly
to, and rested much more pertinaciously upon, the strange return of
Lord Dewry, the various circumstances which could have given occasion
to his absence, and the various events to which his re-appearance
would give rise, than even to the disappearance of the prisoner, and
the after-measures to be adopted.

The matter, however, was quite sufficiently interesting to make three
quarters of an hour pass unnoticed; and at the end of that time a
servant appeared to inform them that, as the body of the unhappy gipsy
could not be found, Lord Dewry did not intend to intrude upon them
again, and that he had only to request that due information of the
death of Sir Roger Millington might be given to the coroner.

The magistrates received the message--probably as it was intended--as
a hint that their further presence at Dimden was not desired. Mr.
Arden laughed, and declared that he would take care to tease his
lordship for his want of courtesy, by asking him unpleasant questions
whenever he met him; but Mr. Simpson, on the contrary, looked grave
and sad, and as he parted with his fellow-magistrates declared his
intention of withdrawing from his official duties. "I should never,"
he said, "be able to remove from my mind the impression of that
unfortunate gipsy's fate, and I should fear that it might have some
effect upon the execution of my duty in future."




                            CHAPTER XIII.


Day had waned, night had overshadowed the world several hours, and
Mrs. Falkland, with Marian, had long left the house in which Edward de
Vaux lay ere any sounds intimated that the master of the mansion had
returned. Anxious, bewildered, and impatient, De Vaux lay sleepless
till ten o'clock, when the rapid rush of rolling wheels, and the quick
footfalls of the horses, as they passed his window, told him that he
whom he expected had arrived.

A few minutes elapsed without his appearance in the sick man's room,
however, and, with his characteristic impatience, De Vaux concluded
that "the fools had said he was asleep," and was sending to declare
the contrary, when the door was quietly opened, and the person he
wished for approached his bedside.

"I am most happy to see you, my dear sir," said De Vaux, looking up in
the fine bland countenance that was bent over him, "for I cannot
sleep--I cannot rest--till I ask you who, who is it that I see?"

"Ah! I perceive that your aunt has betrayed me," said Lord Dewry. "She
recognised me instantly this morning; but I laid strict injunctions
upon her, for many reasons, to keep my secret with you till I
returned. But I expected more than was reasonable. There is a proverb
against a woman keeping a secret."

"No, no," said De Vaux: "she did not exactly betray you. She let a few
words accidentally fall, that only served to rouse my curiosity, which
she then refused to satisfy."

"And what said Marian?" demanded the other, with a smile.

"Oh, she said nothing on the subject," replied De Vaux, "but she
looked happier than I ever beheld her; and that too seemed to confirm
some vague surmises which my aunt's words had called up. But yet I
cannot believe it--it is impossible--I knew you myself as Sir William
Ryder in America--every one knew you by that name there--and I cannot
believe the wild fancy that has taken possession of me."

"It is nevertheless true," replied the peer. "Sir William Ryder has
slept for more than twenty years in a village churchyard in Ireland,
and I am--what I suppose you suspect--your uncle. Agitate yourself
with this matter no more to-night, my dear boy: suffice it," and he
pressed his nephew's hand kindly in his own, "suffice it that I am
proud to have Edward de Vaux for my nephew, and shall rejoice to
acknowledge him as my son."

The words were oil and wine to the heart of Edward de Vaux, but still
there was something wanting. "Thank you, thank you," he replied, still
holding his uncle's hand in his own; "but yet one word more before you
go:--that dreadful story that the gipsy told me--that story that drove
me almost mad--it is not, it cannot be true. My father did not--could
not--"

"Edward," replied his uncle, gravely, "on no account must I do wrong
to the memory of a noble-hearted man. The gipsy told you true, as far
as he knew the truth. Nay, do not shudder: there are many palliating
circumstances which he did not know, but which I will relate to you
hereafter, in order to calm and tranquilize your mind. In the meantime
be satisfied with knowing that, as far as I am concerned, all that was
painful in the past shall be forgotten and buried in oblivion for
ever. Nor, indeed, would I, even to you, so far withdraw the veil from
things gone as to give any explanation, had it not been by my
authority and directions--under a mistaken view of your character and
heart--that the gipsy related to you as much as you already know. Your
knowledge of thus much renders it necessary for your own peace that
you should know more; which I will tell you as soon as you are well.
Rest assured, however, that all which you have yet to hear is good and
not evil, and will tend to alleviate and soften what is past."

With such information Edward de Vaux was forced to rest contented
during the whole of the following week, for he could draw no more from
his uncle; and he feared, by questioning any one else upon the
subject, to raise suspicions which he trusted were as yet quiet in the
minds of all others. The rest of the little world, however, in which
these events had taken place, were not so soon satisfied. The
immediate neighbourhood of Dimden and of Morley House was, of course,
more agitated than the rest of the county; for there it may be said
that the stone had dropped into the water, and though the rippling
circles that it made extended far and wide around, yet each eddy was
fainter and fainter, of course, as it became farther removed from the
centre. In the immediate vortex, however, not only for nine days, but
nearly for nine months, all was gossip, and rumour, and confusion.
Every one had his own distinct report of the transactions which had
taken place in regard to the return of the old Lord Dewry; every one
had his own version of the story; and as neither the peer himself, nor
any of his family, gave either encouragement or refutation to any of
the statements, but held a stern and rigid silence upon the whole
affair, every one was left to enjoy his own version undisturbed, and
to make himself sure that it was the right one, by any logic that he
thought proper to use.

There is no such diffusible a substance in nature as truth; for though
an infinitely small piece of gold can be spread over a wire that might
girdle the great earth, yet a much less portion of truth will serve to
gild a much greater quantity of falsehood. Thus, in all the stories
that were current, it is more than probable that some portion of truth
existed; and many of them, aided by curious inquiry and shrewd
conjecture, came very near the real facts of the case.

The good-natured world of course anticipated all the disagreeable
things that were to happen. Lawsuits innumerable were prognosticated;
Lord Dewry was to compel his brother to refund the long enjoyed rents
of his estates; the brother was to deny his claim and rights
altogether; the marriage between Edward de Vaux and his cousin was to
be broken off; and some persons even anticipated that the lover would
shoot himself, and the lady die of consumption.

None of these events, however, did really take place. Lord Dewry
showed himself in no hurry to take possession of his estates either at
Dimden or at Dewry Hall, but his title was not the less generally
recognised and his rights undisputed. His brother, indeed, lay for
many weeks ill at Dimden House; and, under the influence of feelings,
which those around him did not rightly comprehend, besought Lord Dewry
not to visit him till his strength was recovered, or till his death
was near.

Edward de Vaux still remained at his uncle's cottage at the little
town of ----, tended by its owner with all the care and affection of a
father. His recovery was somewhat tedious indeed; and it was long ere
the surgeons permitted him to rise. From that period, however, his
convalescence proceeded more rapidly, and the kind tone of all his
uncle's conversation--the hope, the cheerfulness, the sunshine, that
beamed through it all--tended to sooth his mind, and turn it from
everything that was painful in his situation. At length it was
announced that he might with safety drive over to Dimden to see his
father: and on the day preceding that on which he went, as soon as the
short twilight of winter was over, Lord Dewry ordered his doors to be
closed against all the world; and walking up and down the room--as was
his custom when he spoke on matters of deep interest--while his nephew
lay on the couch beside him, he entered into the long promised
explanation of his past conduct.

"I need not recapitulate, my dear boy," he said, "all that you have
already heard, nor tell you how bitterly I suffered from a loss, the
pain of which can never be wholly forgotten. At the time it nearly
drove me mad. At all events it made me look upon everything in nature
through a false medium, made me hate mankind, loath even the society
of my best and dearest friends, and find agony rather than consolation
in the sight of the infant which my lost angel had left me, and which
to a more sane and less impatient spirit would have been a source of
joy and comfort to my latest hour. It was under these circumstances,
and with these feelings, that I suddenly met my brother in the
neighbourhood of Morley House, while I was riding over to the county
town, with the purpose of giving him such a sum as I could spare at
the time, but of refusing the greater part of the assistance he
demanded. I had many other causes for dissatisfaction in regard to his
conduct besides his boundless extravagance; but of those causes we
need not speak. I acknowledge that I treated him harshly; and that,
not contented with rejecting his demand, I rejected it in that stern
and peremptory tone which was in some degree cruel, for grief had
hardened me for the time against all those things to which at other
moments I yielded most willingly. He pleaded more earnestly, more
humbly, than could have been expected from one who had no small share
of pride; but I refused to hear, and only repeated my determination.
Words of great bitterness passed between us; and at length he drew
forth a pistol, saying that nothing was left him but death or
dishonour, and that he preferred the former. I remember not the exact
words of my reply; but they were galling, bitter, and ungenerous; and
as I spoke them, I spurred on my horse. The next moment there came a
loud report, a giddiness of my eyes, and I felt myself reel in the
saddle. For the moment my powers over my horse were lost; and taking
fright at the sound, he plunged down the bank, lost his footing, and
slipped into the river. Nay, Edward, look not so distressed, remember
the shot might be accidental; my brother was following me eagerly at
the time, with the weapon in his hand which he had threatened to raise
against his own life: a plunge of his horse, a false step, an
accidental movement, might discharge the pistol without his will. I am
willing to believe it so; and I have never inquired further. If you
are wise, Edward de Vaux--if you are wise, you will inquire no further
either. There are few situations in which doubts are preferable to
certainty, but there are some, and this is one. Suffice it that,
whatever your father's intention was, he was driven at that moment,
both by despair and by a brother's harshness, to a state of mind in
which he could hardly be held responsible for his own actions. I
forgive him from my heart for that deed, though others have taken
place lately which I fear I cannot forgive--at least not as yet. But
of these no more: I seek not to be your father's accuser. I would
rather exculpate him as far as possible."

De Vaux sighed deeply, and still kept his hands clasped over his eyes,
for he could not but feel that his uncle willingly deceived himself,
in order to palliate the actions of his father. "Let me now turn,"
continued Lord Dewry, "to my own fate and conduct. The wound I had
received, though not dangerous--having passed obliquely along the back
of my head and neck, only slightly grazing the bone--was sufficient to
stun and confuse me; and although in the plunge into the water I was
thrown free of the horse, I should certainly have been drowned, had it
not been for the activity and courage of the gipsy Pharold. I knew
little that passed till I found myself lying on the moss, in the thick
wood above Morley Point, with two gipsies standing by me, one of whom
was my deliverer. I was still bleeding profusely; and Pharold was in
the very act of sending his comrade for help to bear me home. My first
words, however, were directed to stop him; and I besought the
companion of my boyhood to have me carried to the tents of his people,
and to conceal my escape from every one. The very first impulse on
recovering my recollection had been to execute a plan, which had often
occurred to me within the last few weeks previous to that time, of
abandoning state, and station, and society altogether, and wasting
away the rest of my days in grief and mourning. Had I been a Roman
Catholic at my wife's death, I should certainly have devoted myself to
the cloister; and the only consideration which had prevented me from
quitting England and all my former connections, had been the thought
of the inquiries and the search that would be made for me, and the
annoyance to which such proceedings might subject me. Now, however,
the opportunity was before me. I easily gathered, or rather divined
from the circumstances in which I found myself, that no one was
acquainted with my being still in life but the gipsy and his comrade:
I knew that my child, with an ample fortune and numerous connections,
would be well protected and cherished by my sister; and I resolved
instantly to seize the only opportunity I might ever have of quitting
without inquiry or pursuit, scenes that were full of painful memories,
and society which I detested. The rest was easily arranged. I felt
that I was but slightly wounded. Pharold would have done whatever I
chose to dictate on earth; and I was borne to the gipsies' tents, and
tended with as much care and skill as if I had lain in a palace,
surrounded by friends and servants.

"None knew me personally but Pharold himself; and he pledged himself
solemnly to conceal the fact of my existence from every one. It was
agreed that his tribe should instantly remove to a distance, carrying
me with them; while he remained, in order to watch the subsequent
proceedings of my family, and give me information thereof. He was
absent for several days; and when at length he rejoined his people, I
found that he had been himself arrested, and in some degree suspected
of having murdered me. He told me, however, that my brother had been
the first to assert his innocence, and to effect his liberation. This
conduct pleased me; and I resolved to linger in England some time
longer, in order to mark your father's after proceedings. Through the
exertions of Pharold, I learned all that took place. I found that,
however he might have acted in other circumstances, my brother acted
nobly towards my child; and I took some pleasure, the first that I had
known for months, in viewing the emotions of his heart through the
conduct to which they led. The pleasure, however, was of a very
mingled nature; and at length I prepared to set out for Ireland, with
the intention of proceeding thence to America. At Holyhead I removed
from the tents of the gipsies, with whom I had hitherto continued,
because I was aware that Sir William Ryder, an old acquaintance both
of my brother's and my own, was to visit Pharold on Edward's account,
in order to ensure more perfectly the gipsy's silence. He came at
length, but in coming his horse took fright, threw him, and nearly
killed him on the spot. He likewise was borne into the gipsies' tents,
and for some days hovered between life and death. I saw him often,
without being seen, and many a time as I stood in the shadow, while
Pharold conversed with him, I heard him express bitter sorrow and
repentance for all the follies into which he had been led, and depict
vividly the writhings of a noble spirit under the consciousness of
having dipped deeply in vice and become a participator in crime. I
became interested in him, and determined in other lands--for he also
was following exactly the same track towards America as myself--to let
him know of my existence; which would at least relieve a part of the
load under which he suffered. He partially recovered, and proceeded to
Ireland; but he never reached America; for ere he could embark, the
consequences of the injuries he had received in his fall assumed a
severe character, and at a small inn, in a small and wretched Irish
port, I found him dying and alone. His surprise on seeing me had
nearly killed him; but he soon regained composure, and I remained with
him till his last hour.

"By his advice, and authorized by his own hand, I took his name; and
by means of papers which he gave me at his death, have received ever
since the annuity of a thousand per annum, which my brother had
settled upon him; nor did I think myself unjustified in either of
these actions, for I only assumed a rank inferior to my own, and
received money which to all intents and purposes was mine. However, as
Sir William Ryder had a numerous acquaintance, it became necessary to
fix my abode in such a spot as would remove every chance of my assumed
name being questioned. My feelings too at this time led me to seek
solitude, and an entire change, not only of scene, but of all the
circumstances of life. Thus I retired to the spot where you found me,
during the late war; and there, in the midst of savage life, and
various sources of interest and excitement, I gradually recovered
calmness and peace. Of my life in America I need give you no picture,
as you have seen how it passed; and I have now only to explain further
the motives of my return.

"Every human thing is weak in its resolves, and I not less than
others; but still, in some degree, it is happy that it should be so;
for our determinations are always the children of circumstances, and
upon circumstances also must their execution ever depend. Like a
madman and a fool, I had fancied that in Marian's mother I had found
imperishable happiness; and when she was suddenly snatched from me, my
whole feelings, my very soul, seemed turned into bitterness and
disappointment. In bitterness and disappointment, then, I had resolved
never to love another human being, and to cast off every tie that
could bind me to human affections: but time brought resignation and
consolation; and a longing, a thirst to see my child and my native
land often came upon me with overpowering force. I sought not to
resume wealth or station. I sought not to mingle again in cultivated
society; but the yearning of the heart of a father and a man towards
my daughter and my country were sometimes hardly to be resisted. That
my child was well, happy, and protected, I learned from the constant
correspondence which I kept up with the gipsy Pharold; and, at the
same time, the interest which I took in the wild tribes around me, and
the love they evinced towards me, acted as a strong tie to the land in
which I had settled. I wavered often, but I resisted long; till, at
length, I became acquainted with your admirable friend Manners, and
through him first personally knew yourself. Your very name was full of
interest to me; but how much was that interest increased when, by some
casual words which passed between you and your friend, I learned that
you were destined to become the husband of my only child. All the
faults of your father's character rose up before my imagination his
very faults towards your mother were remembered and when I pictured to
myself my dear Marian suffering under similar conduct, my heart was in
an agony of doubt and apprehension. From that moment I watched your
every word and action with eager anxiety, striving to judge your mind
and heart. I did judge you, Edward, and I judged you wrongly. There
was a fastidiousness, an irritability, an impatience, a degree of
pride, that put me strongly in mind of your father; and although I
thought I saw some nobler traits, yet I was anxious, doubtful, ill at
ease; and I determined, at any risk, at any cost, to try you to the
uttermost, ere you received the fate of my child into your hands. I
did try you, Edward, and somewhat too severely; and both for having
mistaken your nature, and made you suffer deeply, I now ask your
forgiveness. At the time you left me, I was engaged in negotiating the
purchase of a large tract of land to be reserved for certain tribes of
Indians, but a larger sum was required than I could command; and this,
with the other circumstances I have mentioned, hastened my return to
England. I arrived in my native country even before you did; but a
thousand difficulties surrounded me which I had not foreseen; and my
anxiety and eagerness made me act with less caution than I should have
done. I had no agent in whom I could confide but the gipsy Pharold;
and although he wrought in every thing exactly under my directions,
yet a thousand circumstances, over which we had no control, turned our
actions from their course, and led to results that neither of us
anticipated. My intention was not to claim either my name or my
estates, if I found that you were worthy of my child: but I have been
forced forward, from step to step, as if by the strong hand of fate,
till at length it became an imperative duty to disclose myself, in
order to deliver the innocent from persecution. One satisfaction,
however, I have obtained, which is, that I can now feel unbounded
confidence in the man to whom I leave the happiness of my child in
charge. Remember also, Edward, that I have resumed my own rights,
without compromising the honour or reputation of your father--"

"Indeed! indeed!" cried De Vaux, starting up, and grasping his uncle's
hands. "Thanks, thanks, my dear sir! That is a blessed relief indeed!
But will not people suspect--"

"They cannot do so reasonably," replied Lord Dewry. "The secret, my
dear boy, remains with you and me alone, and never to a living
creature shall it pass my lips, as I hope for happiness hereafter."

"But the gipsy!" cried De Vaux, "the gipsy!"

"The gipsy is no more!" replied his uncle, a shade coming over his
countenance. "Persecution and severe laws have driven him to despair,
and despair to death. And now, Edward, to-morrow you are about to
visit your father; in regard to letting him know what information you
possess, act as you shall think fit. Were I in your circumstances, if
possible, I should conceal from him that I knew aught beyond common
report; but if you do communicate to him the knowledge you have
obtained, add that for all and every fault towards myself I forgive
him from my heart and soul, but that his conduct towards Pharold the
gipsy rests dark upon my mind; and that, perhaps, it would be better
if we did not meet again till time had softened the remembrance.
Present him, Edward, with this packet also. It contains a deed
which will prevent him from feeling any great change of fortune
from my return."

De Vaux coloured as he took it; and his uncle added,--"You must not
again make me deem you proud, Edward."

"No, no, my dear sir," replied De Vaux. "What I have suffered has not
only been a trial, but will, I trust, prove a cure; for the errors
that you saw and justly feared, were fully as real as apparent. I
cannot but feel pained, however, that we should have so small a right
to expect--to expect--" He paused, hesitated a moment, and then
added,--"to expect bounty at the hand which now bestows it."

"Call it not bounty, my dear Edward," answered his uncle, "nor couple
yourself with others in any shape, for in this deed you are in no
degree interested. The fortune which Marian inherits from her mother
will render you independent, till my death renders you wealthy. And
now to conclude, ere I wish you good-night:--I have been forced to
speak to you long of your father. In doing so, though I have tried not
to spare my own faults, I have been obliged to dwell for long upon
his; but I have done so once for all, and I never more mention them
again, either to his son or to any one else. It has been as painful
for me to speak, as for you to hear. It is over; and now, good-night!"

We might dwell longer upon the feelings of Edward de Vaux; but we have
only space left for his actions. The next morning early he set out to
visit his parent, and it was late ere he returned. When he did so,
however, he announced to his uncle that, although still unwell, his
father had quitted Dimden, and removed a few stages on his journey to
a remote part of the country, in which he had determined to fix his
residence.

"Of course, my dear sir," he added, "every inducement, but one, would
lead me to remain here, in the scenes wherein I have been brought up,
which are full of sweet recollections, and which contain her I love
the best on earth. Nevertheless, he is my father; and I cannot suffer
him to linger through the hours of sickness, in sorrow, dejection, and
solitude, when, perhaps, the society of his son may give him
consolation, or, at least, afford some diversion to his thoughts.
To-morrow, therefore, I will see Marian; and then, if the surgeons
will let me, will set off to follow my father. As soon as his illness
is terminated," and he spoke with a look of pain and apprehension, "I
will return, and claim a promise which is more valuable to me than
life; and, in the meantime, I know that none who are dear to me will
think the worse of me for having in this instance preferred duty to
happiness."

Lord Dewry made no opposition to his purpose, and it was accordingly
executed. Two months elapsed without any event of importance. Lord
Dewry took possession of his rights again; and rumour and gossip, at
every fresh incident in our drama, revived more and more faintly, till
at length they died away, and gave place to newer things. The body of
the gipsy Pharold was never found; and a vague report spread over the
country that he was not dead, but had returned to his people, and had
been seen in several places by persons who were acquainted with his
person; but the origin of this report could not be traced; and certain
it is, that The Gipsy never again presented himself before any of the
family of De Vaux. The tribe which he had led disappeared from the
country; and whither their wanderings conducted them, or what was
their fate, the writer of this book cannot tell, though it appears
that Mr. Arden, that indefatigable magistrate, pursued them with his
usual vigour, on the charge of deer-stealing and murder, but was
unsuccessful in the attempt to identify any of the parties. In the
meanwhile two inducements led Lord Dewry to establish his permanent
residence at Dimden, rather than at the newer mansion which his
brother had inhabited; first, that it was full of memories that he
loved; and, secondly, that it was near those who were the dearest to
him on earth. Colonel Manners, for his part, had prolonged his stay at
Morley House for some time; but he then returned to London, promising
faithfully to renew his visit, when the same cause which had brought
him first into that part of England was again urged as a plea for
revisiting it. To the surprise of all his military acquaintances,
however, shortly after his arrival in the capital, Colonel Manners
resigned the command of his regiment, and retired upon half pay.
Various causes were assigned for this proceeding; but the real motive
lay hidden in his own bosom, deeper than he liked to own even to
himself.

While these events were passing, Edward de Vaux wrote often to his
uncle, and still more frequently to Marian; but at the end of two
months the peer received a letter in which his brother's handwriting
was faintly to be traced. It was short, and to the following effect:--


"My Lord,

"I am dying; and a few days are all that remains to me of life; I
therefore venture to ask that you would see me once more before we
part--perhaps for ever. I would fain receive your forgiveness from
your own lips. I would fain tell you how that remorse--which led me on
to new crimes and more intense sufferings at every step, while it was
the companion of terror and despair--has conducted me to repentance
and consolation, now that the burden has been lightened by your
return. I have not only wronged you, but I have fearfully wronged
others, and I acknowledge it with sorrow and with shame. Nor will I
attempt to excuse or palliate any part of my conduct; for you, whose
life has passed without spot, cannot tell the goading power of that
fiery scourge with which one great crime drives us on to a thousand
more, in order to conceal it. My cruel, I might almost say insane,
persecution of an unhappy man who, as I hear, is now no more, had such
feelings for its cause; but I know too well that if my deep and bitter
repentance be not accepted by the Almighty, it will be no vindication
of a great crime to urge that it was the consequence of another. In
regard to my offences towards yourself, I have been punished by twenty
years of those torments which have been assigned to hell itself--the
worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched. But this is
not enough; and if I did not trust that the deep repentance which I
feel may obtain some better expiation of my offences than my own
sufferings can afford, I should die without hope. I do hope, however,
that mercy may be found; and oh, my brother, let me beseech you to
encourage that trust, by seeing me, and assuring me of your full
forgiveness, ere I go to another world."


The peer lost not a moment, and arrived at his brother's bedside
before the last scene was over. He found in him, however, scarcely a
trace of what he had been even three months before. At that time,
intense mental exertion and activity had apparently given him power to
bear up under all the load that pressed upon his heart; but the sudden
re-appearance of his brother, and the events which accompanied it,
seemed to have broken, in a moment, the staff under his hand, and he
had fallen at once into age, decrepitude, and decay.

Lord Dewry and Edward de Vaux returned not after to Dimden Hall in
deep mourning; and though joy certainly sparkled in the lover's eyes
as he once more held Marian to his heart, yet for many weeks he was
grave and sad, and only recovered his cheerfulness by degrees. Nor
indeed even then did Edward de Vaux ever resume the same demeanour
which he had formerly borne. Sorrows, anxieties, and humiliation had
rendered him grave; but they had nevertheless in no degree made him
less amiable in the eyes of those that loved him. On the contrary,
whatever had been frivolous, or fastidious, or irritable in his
nature, had been removed; and in the trials he had undergone he had
cast away the impatient pride, which was the worst quality he had
possessed, and had obtained a calm dignity, which had a better and a
nobler foundation. Marian de Vaux did all she could to sooth, to
comfort, and console him; and in the end, if there was anything on
earth of which he was proud, it was of the love and the conduct of her
he was shortly to call his bride. As soon as De Vaux urged the
fulfilment of the engagement between Marian and himself, he met with
no opposition; and the day was fixed. Manners was immediately informed
of the fact; and, according to the invitation he received, came down
to Morley House a fortnight before the time appointed for the
marriage. Even six or eight months will work their change in every
one; and Isadore Falkland remarked that Colonel Manners neither seemed
in such good health nor such good spirits as when last she had seen
him: but ere the ceremony took place, in the air of the country and
the cheerful society which he now enjoyed, he had recovered both; and
only now and then gave way to a moment or two of absent thought.

All was now gayety and cheerfulness: and as nothing occurred either to
delay the wedding again, or to imbitter the after lives of Edward and
Marian de Vaux, we shall pass the whole over with the fewest possible
words--they were united and were happy.

But one scene more, and we have done. On the day succeeding that of
the wedding, there was, according to the custom of that time, a grand
and solemn dinner given at Morley House to all the grave and reverend
seniors in the neighbourhood. It was now the height of summer; and
though men sat long and drank deep in those days, yet people who were
sufficiently reasonable to condemn the practice, and sufficiently firm
to contemn an idle sneer, could rise from table when they liked, even
then. Thus, about an hour after the ladies had retired, and just as
the sun's lower rim touched the horizon, Colonel Manners, who had been
strangling a whole generation of yawns, rose and sauntered to the
window. Mr. Arden, who had sat next to him, instantly seized the
decanter, and exclaimed, "Come, come, colonel; your glass is charged."

"Thank you," answered Manners; "I do not drink any more."

"Poo, poo," cried the magistrate; "no flinching, colonel; your glass
is charged--charged to the muzzle; and a gallant soldier like you will
never refuse to fire it off."

"I am on half-pay," answered Manners, with a smile; and moving towards
the door, notwithstanding all Mr. Arden's objurgations, he left the
room.

In the drawing-room he found the ladies scattered in various parties,
and engaged in various occupations. Mrs. Falkland was paying such
attention to her guests as the circumstances required; but Isadore, as
if she had quite forgotten them, was standing at the far bay window,
looking at the setting sun and thinking--

Manners advanced as quietly as possible to the same spot, and spoke a
few words to Miss Falkland, which she answered in the same tone. It
was a low one. The conversation might thus have gone on for a long
time without disturbing any one; but Lady Margaret Simpson, who sat at
the other side of the room, was fond of being a third; and in about
five minutes she crossed over and joined them.

"Well, Colonel Manners," she said, "I have not been able to speak a
word to you all dinner-time, and I wanted to talk to you about the
wedding. Has not this been a very fortunate termination to all that
bad business?"

"Most satisfactory, indeed," answered Manners, with a glance towards
Isadore, who looked vexed and provoked. "I doubt not that De Vaux and
his fair bride are fully of your opinion."

"Oh, they of course think so," rejoined Lady Margaret; "and there can
be no doubt that marriage is a very right and very proper thing, when
fortune, and rank, and all that agree. Do you not think so, my dear
Miss Falkland?"

"Certainly, madam," answered Isadore, in a tone which argued a doubt
whether she should laugh or cry; "I dare say it is a very proper
thing."

"Then now tell me," cried Lady Margaret, in a gay and happy tone of
raillery--"then now tell me, why you--who I know have had three very
good offers indeed--why you yourself do not marry? Tell me the truth,
now."

"Oh, certainly I will," answered Isadore, half gayly, half pettishly.
"It is, I suppose, because I do not think it worth while to marry
without love; and if the man that I could love does not choose to
propose to me, it is quite impossible, you know, that I can propose to
him."

God knows whether the colour that spread over Isadore's face came from
within or without,--whether it was a rush of warm blood from some deep
source in her heart, or the warm beams of the setting sun reflected
from the damask curtain on her cheek. However that might be, she felt
that the crimson was growing too deep, and turning round, upon some
light excuse, she left the room. Manners remained for a moment or two
to hear some more of her ladyship's pleasantries; and then declaring
that he could not abandon, even for the pleasure of her society, his
sunset walk in the garden, he strolled out through the anteroom, which
was not the way that Isadore had taken. When he reached the lobby,
however, he remembered that there was a certain music-room, of which
he had remarked that Isadore Falkland had lately become extremely
fond, and as he had by this time acquired a strong liking for the
things that she liked, he turned his steps thither instead of to the
garden.

No sooner did he open the door, than he beheld Miss Falkland seated
near the window, with a handkerchief in her hand, engaged in the
somewhat sad occupation of wiping tears from her eyes. "Good God,
Colonel Manners!" she exclaimed, as soon as he appeared, "leave me,
leave me, I beg."

But Manners did not obey. On the contrary, advancing rapidly towards
her, he took her hand, saying, "Miss Falkland, I am either the most
happy or the most miserable of men. I have broken through all my
resolutions; I have exposed myself to love, where I have no right to
entertain a hope; I love for the first time, deeply, passionately,
sincerely, and it is for you to say whether that passion shall be my
curse or my blessing."

Isadore replied not, but her tears burst forth more vehemently than
before; and the hand that Manners had taken remained trembling in his.
Manners pressed her to his heart; and Isadore ended her flood of tears
upon his bosom.

It was nearly three months after this event ere Isadore Falkland again
met Lady Margaret Simpson; and then her ladyship's first exclamation
was, "Goodness, my dear Miss Falkland, they tell me you are going to
be married to Colonel Manners! Well, I do declare, when you are so
very handsome, it is a great pity that he is so ugly."

"Ugly!" cried Isadore. "Ugly! Lady Margaret! He is the handsomest man
in all the world!" and she continued to think so to her dying day.



                               THE END.











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