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.