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.