There was, however, in his bosom a misdoubting in regard to the lad's

fate, an apprehensive uncertainty, which moved him, perhaps, more than

if he had been assured of his capture; and ere he quitted the park, he

approached as near as possible to the mansion, to see if any such

signs of unusual bustle were apparent, as might furnish information to

a mind habituated to extract their meaning rapidly from every vague

and transient indication that met his eyes. As he stood beneath the

trees, the first thing he beheld was a boy run up the steps of the

house, and Pharold instantly concluded that it was a messenger

returned with some news. The moment after three or four men issued

forth; but instead of taking any of the roads that led from the house,

they began to traverse the lawn between the mansion and the nearest

point of the park-wall. One man halted half-way between, the others

went on; but at the first trees again another paused, and Pharold

thought, "They have discovered me and think to surround me, but they

will find themselves mistaken;" and with a quick, stealthy step, he

glided through the wood towards the angle of the park next to the

common. None of his senses, however, slept on such occasions; and ere

he had emerged from the bushes his ear caught the sound of low voices,

speaking in the very direction which he was taking, showing him that

he had been discovered and pursued before he had perceived it, though

the persons who were now before him must have come from the

gamekeeper's house, and not from the mansion. Wheeling instantly, he

retreated in a direction which led to one of the most open parts of

the park; but Pharold was well aware of what he did, and knew the

ground even better than those who followed him. As soon as he reached

the savanna, he emerged at once from the trees, and with a quick step

began to traverse the green. A man who had been stationed at the angle

instantly caught sight of him, and gave at once the shout which had

been appointed as a signal. The other keepers came up at a quick pace,

narrowing the half circle in which they had disposed themselves, and

penning the gipsy in between their body and the river. He scarcely

hastened his pace, but allowed them to come nearer and nearer, till at

length his purpose seemed to strike the head keeper suddenly, and,

with a loud imprecation, he called upon the man nearest the water to

close upon the object of their pursuit, adding, "He is a devil of a

swimmer!" But Pharold had been suffered to go too far. He sprang

forward at once to the bank, plunged in without a pause, and in a few

strokes carried himself to the other side, where, amid thick brushwood

and young plantations, he was perfectly secure from all pursuit.

CHAPTER III.

I know no reason why we--the readers and the writer--should not now

quit those characters which have lately been occupying us, and return

to others not less worthy of our care, till we have brought their

actions and their feelings up to the same point of time whereunto we

have conducted our other personages. The best form, perhaps I might

say the most classical, in which a tale like the present can be

related, with the exception of the autobiographical, is the dramatic;

and holding strongly with the liberty accorded to British dramatists

against the straight-waistcoat of Aristotelian unities, I believe that

he who sits down to write a book like this has as much right to shift

his scene and change his characters when he pleases as a playwright.

The necessity of so doing exists in the very state of being in which

we live in relation to one another. Everyday we find that in five or

six families, the actions of each of which have mutually a great

influence on the others, events are occurring, and words are being

spoken, which bring about great and important results in the general

fate and relative position of those five or six families, and, in

fact, work out their united history, without one house knowing at the

time what was doing in the other. The task, then, of the writer, if he

would follow the best of guides, nature, is to take such a group of

five or six families, whose fate some common bond of union has linked

together; and, changing from house to house as soon as the interest of

the events in each requires the scene to be shifted, to paint what he

there sees passing; and thus, in a series of pictures, to give the

general history of the whole. Stupid must be the man, and impotent the

imagination, weak the judgment, and treacherous the memory, which

cannot bear the change of scene without a long refresher in regard to

the people about to be seen again, or the events of which the writer

is once more going to take up the thread!

Could not this change be made, the circumstances which were taking

place at Morley House, and, what is still more important, the feelings

which were thrilling in the bosoms of its inhabitants, would of

necessity be all left untold, or be related in a long unnatural

resume. In truth, the feelings of which we speak are worth some

consideration; as feelings, indeed, always are: for, could one write

the history of man's heart and its motives, how much more interesting,

and instructive too, would the record be, than the brightest volume

that ever was written upon man's actions!

For some time after Colonel Manners quitted Morley House, Marian de

Vaux continued to sleep under the influence of strong opiates, which

the medical man had found it necessary to give her in the morning.

Whether he did right or wrong--whether it would have been better to

let her meet grief boldly face to face, or was better to shield her

from the violence of its first attack--each must judge as he feels;

but he had known her from a child, and he had a notion that hers was a

heart which would be easily broken if sorrow was suffered to handle it

too roughly. At all events, while this state continued, she enjoyed a

cessation from grief and apprehension; but still, how different was

her slumber from the calm and natural repose of a heart at ease! The

dull poppy with its leaden weight seemed to keep down and oppress

feeling and thought, not to relieve and refresh them; and in her

beautiful face, even as she slept, there was something which told that

the slumber was not natural. Oh! the sweet profound sleep of infancy,

how beautiful it is! that soft and blessed gift of a heart without a

stain or a pang, of a body unbroken in any fibre by the cares and

labours of existence, of a mind without a burden or an apprehension.

It falls down upon our eyelids like the dew of a summer's eve,

refreshing for our use all the world of flowers in which we dwell, and

passing calm, and tranquil, and happy, without a dream and without an

interruption. But, alas! alas! with the first years of life it is

gone, and never returns. We may win joy, and satisfaction, and glory,

and splendour, and power--we may obtain more than our wildest ambition

aspired to, or our eager hope could grasp; but the sweet sleep of

infancy, the soft companion of our boyish pillow, flies from the

ardent joys as well as the bitter cares of manhood, and never, never,

never returns again.

The apothecary had ventured on large doses of the drug, and Marian's

slumber continued for many hours; but at length she woke, pale,

languid, sick, with her ideas all confused, and yet her heart not the

less ill at ease. "Is that Isadore?" she said, gazing towards the

window at which some one was standing, and over which the shades of

evening were coming dim and fast. Isadore approached her bed, and

Marian asked eagerly, "What news?" She could not put her question in a

distinct form, for her mind refused to fix itself precision upon

anything; and besides, with the common self-cheatery of fear, she

loved not to give her apprehensions voice.

"I have no news, dear Marian?" replied Isadore, sitting down by her.

"Sorry I am to say that Colonel Manners has returned without any

tidings; and he has since gone over to my uncle's, to see whether

anything may be known there in regard to these extraordinary

circumstances."

Isadore had framed her answer, with a view of alone hiding from Marian

that anything had been discovered to confirm their fears, and of

turning her mind from the search on which Colonel Manners had been

employed: but the result went further than she had expected, or even

wished; for it was her purpose only to break the force of grief, not

to raise expectations which were likely to be disappointed. Hope,

however, is the most adroit of diplomatists, and takes hold of the

slightest word or circumstance in its own favour with skill and

agility unparalleled. The words of Isadore, simple as they were,

lighted again in a moment the half-extinguished flame in the bosom of

her cousin. She remembered the suspicions concerning the illegitimacy

of his birth, with which Edward had gone to visit the gipsies; she

remembered his fiery and impatient nature, and the agitation into

which even the apprehension had thrown him; and hope instantly

suggested that he might have found his fears confirmed, and, wild with

anger and distress, might have flown instantly to his father's house.

It is true he was on foot; it is true he had quitted the house during

the night; it is true that he was not likely to take such a step

without writing to relieve her mind; but it is the quality of hope to

trample on improbabilities, and Marian de Vaux obtained a momentary

relief. Still she would fain have had her hopes confirmed by the

opinion of others: but she could not expect to do so without

explaining the reason why she entertained them; and that reason could

not be explained without entering into some details in regard to

Edward's communication with the gipsy, which she knew not whether she

were justified in making. Her mind was so confused with the effect of

the remedies employed to obtain sleep, that she was long in

determining what was the best to do, and remained silent, while

Isadore kindly and gently strove to suggest as many motives for

consolation as she could imagine. At length, however, as Marian

revolved all the probabilities in her mind, she recollected that other

causes might render the disclosure of Edward's feelings and intentions

necessary; that he might not be found at his father's house; that

strict and immediate investigation might be required; and that, under

those circumstances, a knowledge of all that her lover had proposed to

do previous to his sudden disappearance might be requisite to those

who were employed in searching for him, in order to render that search

at all effectual; and although she shrunk from the idea of betraying,

in the slightest degree, the confidence he had reposed in her, yet she

felt it necessary to give every information in her power which might

lead to the result they sought. She determined, then, at length, to

speak of what had passed between De Vaux and herself on the preceding

day; and only hesitated whether to relate it to her aunt or to her

cousin. Mrs. Falkland's kindness and strong good sense were not to be

doubted; but yet Marian knew Isadore thoroughly, and knew that there

was more judgment and tact under her usual gayety than was apparent.

She knew, too, that with her she should be able to relate and to keep

back just as much as she thought proper; while her aunt's keen and

rapid questions, she felt, might draw from her more than she was

justified in communicating.

"Do you know, Isadore," she said, at length, "I am in some hopes that

Edward may be heard of at his father's house: it would not surprise me

if he had gone thither."

Isadore felt that she had a delicate part to play. She was glad to see

that Marian was more composed than she could have expected; and, of

course, she would have wished to maintain that state of composure,

till apprehension gradually changed into grief, without any new shock

to her feelings: but she still felt that she had no right to encourage

hopes which must soon be broken; and she replied, "I am very happy,

dearest Marian, that you do think so; but is it not strange that he

should go thither, and be so long absent, without letting any one

know, when he must have felt that so many would be uneasy?"

"It is strange," replied Marian; "but I think I can account for that.

I am about to tell you something, Isadore, which you must make what

use of you think fit, in case Colonel Manners has not found poor

Edward at Dewry Hall; but as it refers to matters which he might not

wish told to any one, you must ask me no more than I am inclined to

speak; and unless it be necessary, perhaps, had better not mention it

to any one but my aunt."

"I will obey you to the letter, dear cousin," replied Isadore; "but I

foresee that you are going to speak of his visit to the gipsy, which,

indeed, surprised us all."

"It is the cause of that visit I am about to tell you," answered

Marian; "for perhaps the facts connected with it may throw some light

on the business, if Edward be not at his father's. But you remember,

Isadore, that Colonel Manners went up yesterday morning to the

gipsies--I believe, because you teased him about them."

"Yes, indeed, I believe it was one of my silly jests," replied

Isadore, with a sigh, "that made him go at all. I shall leave off

jesting for the future, Marian."

"Nay, nay! never, Isadore!" replied Marian, shaking her head.

"However, Colonel Manners brought Edward down a letter from one of

them called Pharold, which distressed him a great deal; for it told

him things concerning our own family, and his part of it particularly,

which would be very terrible if true. He determined, after speaking to

me upon the matter, to go up to the common this morning, in order to

investigate the whole; and if he found any reason to believe that the

gipsy spoke the truth, his mind, I am sure, would be in such a state

that he would hardly know what he was doing. Under these

circumstances, it is very likely that he might go over at once to

inquire more of his father, without thinking of anything else in the

pain and anxiety of the moment."

"No, Marian, depend upon it, he would think of you," cried Isadore,

somewhat incautiously.

"I could easily forgive him for not doing so," replied Marian,

"notwithstanding all the pain I have suffered, if I could be sure that

he is safe at the Hall."

"Pray God it maybe so!" replied Isadore; "and if it be, we shall

undoubtedly hear from Colonel Manners to-night."

There was something so despairing in the tone with which Isadore

pronounced--"Pray God it may be so!" that Marian took alarm.

"Isadore," she said, looking at her steadily, "I hope you are not

deceiving me. Your heart is not one to be so easily cast down; your

lips, dear cousin, are not accustomed to such sad sounds. Tell me the

truth, Isadore, I beseech you. Have you heard anything of Edward?"

"No, indeed, Marian!" replied Isadore, glad that she had put her

question in such a shape that she could give it a negative; and yet

hesitating a little at the utterance of one word approaching

insincerity, a vice that her mind had never known. "No, indeed," she

said, "no one has heard anything of him as yet."

Marian marked her hesitation, however, and replied, in a low voice, "I

should always like to know the truth, Isadore; and I am sure you would

tell it me, dear cousin. You know how I love Edward; and I think it no

shame to acknowledge to you, Isadore, that I do not believe there ever

was a human being that loved another as I have loved him." She paused;

and though she knew that Isadore needed no new insight into her heart

to see how totally that heart was given to Edward de Vaux, yet, as she

spoke, the crimson came again into her cheeks, and mottled her brow

and temples, even to speak her love in the hearing of one who already

knew it so well. "Nevertheless, Isadore," she continued, "feeling

afraid of my own heart, and my own great happiness, I have schooled

myself to remember that the blessings of this world are anything but

permanent, and have prepared myself to say, if God should require me

to yield them, 'Thy will be done.' Of course, since Edward went into

active service, I have felt it the more necessary to be always thus

prepared; and though I have tried not to imbitter existence by

apprehensions, nor to keep myself in continual fear, I have

endeavoured never to forget that Almighty Wisdom may hourly require

sacrifices, at which we must not repine."

"You are indeed a sweet creature!" cried Isadore, casting her arms

round her cousin's neck; "I wish that I were half as good!" Marian

leaned her brow upon her cousin's shoulder; and when Isadore again

looked at her, she found that Marian was weeping.

In a few moments Marian wiped away her tears, and went on: "You will

think that, after boasting of all this preparation, I ought not to be

so overcome now--nor, indeed, so much as I was this morning; but the

truth is, when Edward returned, half my fears vanished. I thought that

all danger was over; and little remembered that he who had escaped

from battle and from storm, might be snatched from me in the bosom of

peace, and in his own home. But I am better now, Isadore, and firmer,

and stronger; and therefore I will beg you and my aunt to let me hear

at once everything that occurs; for though you are interested too, I

know, deeply and sincerely, yet you can neither of you feel as I do."

"Perhaps that is the very reason, dear Marian," replied Isadore, "why

it would be better to keep from you all the rumours and reports, which

could only rack all your feelings with alternate hopes and fears,

without leading you even to any certain conclusion."

"Oh, no!" said Marian; "no! let me hear all, Isadore! I am now again

prepared. I do not say that I shall not weep--I do not say that I

shall not be anxious--I do not say that I shall not tremble with hope

and fear: but I do say, Isadore, that the knowledge of whose hand it

is that guides the whole--and my firm, perfect, undoubting,

unchangeable belief that His will is mercy, and His way is wise--will

be my support and consolation to the end."

"And I will never believe," said Isadore, warmly, "that He will leave

such confidence unrewarded and unprotected."

"Oh, no!" answered Marian; and she then added, in a sadder tone, "But

He, seeing more wisely than we do, may yet think fit to afflict us,

Isadore. However, I am still prepared, and will meet whatever may

come, as little repining as I can."

The conversation proceeded for some time in the same tone, nor was its

effect small in soothing the mind of her who suffered; for, in moments

of grief, the human heart forgets all the treasured consolations which

reason, and philosophy, and religion have garnered up in years of

tranquillity; and it is not till we examine the stores that we have

gathered that we remember the sources of comfort which we ourselves

possess.

Marian then expressed her intention of rising, and begged Isadore to

send her maid from the dressing-room. Her cousin would fain have

dissuaded her; and proceeded to inform her mother of Marian's

intention of coming down to the drawing-room; but Mrs. Falkland did

not disapprove of the idea, especially when she learned from Isadore

the state of her niece's mind. "We must endeavour," she said, "to keep

any sudden tidings of evil from our poor Marian; but in other

respects, perhaps, occupation of any sort may do her good; for I know

too well, Isadore, that nothing can be worse than the fears and the

pains with which our own imagination fills up the interval of

suspense, when, alone and sleepless, we sit and watch away the weary

hours, till doubt and fear have grown into the too painful certainty."

Marian was not long in following her cousin to the drawing-room; and

though a few tears rolled over her cheeks as Mrs. Falkland pressed her

to her bosom, she soon regained at least the appearance of composure.

By degrees she learned all that Colonel Manners had discovered, except

the indications which most strongly tended to confirm his

apprehensions for De Vaux; and she heard, also, all that he had done

towards obtaining further and more certain information. Marian,

however, inferred, from the measures that had been taken, that both

her aunt and Manners did entertain serious fears; and her heart sunk

to find her own alarm confirmed by that of persons so much more

thoroughly acquainted with the world than herself. Soon after she

had come down, the servant, who had been despatched to Mr. Arden,

returned with the tidings that he was absent from his own house, and

was not expected back till the next morning. Inquiries, too, were made

by the people who had been left to guard the wood, whether it were

necessary to keep up their patrol all night; and in Manners's absence,

Mrs. Falkland ordered it to be done at any expense. Many a rumour,

too, of many a likely and many an unlikely occurrence, reached the

drawing-room through the old butler, who, with one other man-servant,

had been retained in the house while the rest had been despatched to

reinforce the people on watch round the wood.

Thus passed the evening, but no tidings arrived from Colonel Manners;

and as minute after minute and hour after hour went by after the

period which they calculated might have brought them the news of De

Vaux's being at his father's house, the hopes of all the party sunk

lower and more low, and at a late hour Mrs. Falkland persuaded Marian

again to go to bed.

Sleep, indeed, visited Morley House but little during that night; and

the next morning early, a note was received from Colonel Manners,

informing Mrs. Falkland that nothing as yet had been heard of De Vaux.

So far Mrs. Falkland communicated the tidings she had received to

Marian, before she had risen; and, notwithstanding all the fortitude

she had endeavoured to assume, and the most careful guard she had been

enabled to put upon her heart, yet Marian had so far encouraged hopes

which now suffered disappointment, that medical aid was again obliged

to be called; and it was judged expedient once more to dull her sense

of grief and fear by strong opiates. The latter part of Colonel

Manners's communication, which spoke in plain terms of the murder of

poor De Vaux, Mrs. Falkland did not, of course, read to her unhappy

niece. In it, however, he informed her, that when he arrived at Dewry

Hall, he had found measures already in progress for arresting the

supposed murderers upon another charge, and had waited to know the

result. They had proved, unfortunately, without effect, he said; as no

one had been taken but a lad, from whom he was afraid little

satisfactory information was likely to be gained: but still it was his

purpose, he added, to go over to Dimden with Lord Dewry, previous to

returning to Morley House, in order to hear personally what evidence

could be extracted from the prisoner. In conclusion, he recommended,

if Mr. Arden had not taken measures for searching the wood in which

the gipsy had been seen, before his letter arrived, that such a step

should be resorted to directly; as the messenger who brought the news

of the affray at Dimden had not been able to say whether Pharold were

present or not.

After the receipt of this letter, Mrs. Falkland waited anxiously for

the arrival of Mr. Arden; but it was late ere he came. He then asked

eagerly what further discoveries had been made, and Mrs. Falkland

communicated to him the substance of Colonel Manners's letter. The old

gentleman, whose heart was warm and kind, notwithstanding a certain

degree of severity of manner, and a persevering adherence to the

letter of the law, which often made him appear harsh and unfeeling,

sympathized truly with De Vaux's family; and spoke of Marian, and the

state of bereavement and distress into which her cousin's loss must

have cast her, with words of tenderness and pity which brought a

bright drop or two even into his own eyes. He then touched as

delicately as his nature permitted upon the subject of Lord Dewry's

letter to him, which he had received that morning; and triumphed a

little in the accuracy of the opinion he had formerly given in regard

to Pharold the gipsy being the real murderer of Mrs. Falkland's late

brother.

Mrs. Falkland started, and combated the idea with various arguments,

which had been satisfactory to her own mind at the time. Mr. Arden,

however, informed her, that in his letter of that morning, Lord Dewry

had asserted, that he had acquired positive proofs of the gipsy's

guilt; and Mrs. Falkland was silent, but not convinced. That Pharold,

either in some fierce dispute, or in some accidental affray, might

have killed her unfortunate nephew, or that his companions might have

done so, without his will or concurrence, Mrs. Falkland did not doubt:

but she had heard too much of his character and behaviour in youth to

believe that, twenty years before, when he was still a young man, he

could have been so hardened in guilt as, for the purpose of paltry

plunder, to take the life of the only man for whom, with the exception

of his own tribe, he had shown affection. For Lord Dewry's fierce

accusation on the present occasion, she accounted easily by a

knowledge of his character, and conceived it very possible that the

rage and hatred which he felt at the very idea of the gipsy having

murdered his son, might make him regard as proof positive any slight

additional suspicions which he had found cause to form against Pharold

in regard to his brother's death. However, as she took no pleasure in

speaking of her brother's weaknesses, she made no answer; and Mr.

Arden began his proceedings for the purpose of causing the wood in

which Colonel Manners imagined he had seen Pharold to be so thoroughly

searched as to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the gipsy still

remained in it or not.

As all those who have attempted to search a wood must know the task is

not an easy one; and before a sufficient number of people could be

collected, and all the orders and directions could be given, it was

late in the day. As the men, however, who had kept patrol for so many

hours were now weary of the task, and there existed many doubts

whether any inducement would make them undertake it during another

night, there was no possibility of delaying the search till the

following morning; and Mr. Arden accordingly set out, taking as many

of Mrs. Falkland's servants with him as could by any means be spared,

in order to make their proceedings as effectual as the short remaining

space of daylight permitted.

During his absence Mrs. Falkland and her daughter remained in that

painful and exciting state of suspense in which every minute has its

expectation, and every minute its fear; and as Marian still slept,

Isadore walked out into the garden, in hopes of finding some

refreshment in the cool air of the autumn evening. When she had passed

about half through the garden, with her eyes turning mechanically from

time to time upon the flowers, but with her thoughts far otherwise

occupied, she perceived a boy of about ten years of age, who worked

under the gardeners, approaching her, cap in hand.

"Please, miss," he said, "I think I have found out something."

"And pray, what have you discovered, Harry?" demanded Isadore, as he

paused.

"Why, ma'am," answered the boy, "I heard the gentleman yesterday, and

all the folks, indeed, talking of footsteps, and asking where there

were any to be seen, in sorts of unlikely places--"

"And have you found any?" exclaimed Isadore, speaking eagerly, from

some of those vague, and often fallacious anticipations which rush

upon the mind in thousands when it is excited by any strongly-moving

cause.

"Why, yes, ma'am, you see," replied the boy; "the gardener, when he

was going away to search the wood, sent me down to the other side of

the park to cut some box for the borders; and by the little door close

by the river, which has not been opened these two years, I saw the

marks of a gentleman's foot in the gravel, which is softish down on

that walk, and greenish, too, for it ha'nt been turned this autumn."

"But how do you know it was a gentleman's foot?" demanded Isadore. "It

might be either the gardener's, or the under-gardener's, or the

gamekeeper's, for anything you know, Harry."

"No, no, miss," answered the boy; "I know it was a gentleman's, for

they have little feet, and this was not bigger than mine; and it was

not a woman's foot, because the heel was different."

"And a boy's?" said Isadore; "why might it not be a boy's?" The youth

rubbed his head, saying, "It might be a boy's, miss; but I do not

think it, miss, any how: I am sure it was a gentleman's--quite sure."

Isadore endeavoured to discover the grounds of this certainty; but

when people whose ideas are not very clear upon a subject are pressed

by those who would fain help them to disentangle the ravelled skein of

their thoughts, they not unfrequently take refuge in a sort of blank

stolidity, which prevents others from finding out the causes that they

themselves are not able to explain. Such was the case in the present

instance, and the only answer that Isadore could obtain to her

questions, shape them how she would, was, that he--the boy--was sure

that the footmarks were those of a gentleman.

With these tidings, however, with every willingness in the world to

believe that they were true, and with a long train of phantom hopes to

boot, Miss Falkland returned to her mother, taking the boy to the

house with her. Mrs. Falkland listened with attention, and replied

that it would be at least worth while to send down the old butler

directly, to ascertain the facts more precisely.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, do not send him, mamma!" exclaimed Isadore.

"He is so fond of miracles, that he will declare it is the foot of an

elephant. We shall never come at the truth from him."

"But whom can I send, then?" demanded her mother. "All the other

servants are away; and both the gardener and under-gardener are with

Mr. Arden."

"I will go myself, mamma," replied Isadore. "I shall have plenty of

time to get there and back before it is dark; and I will take the boy

with me to show me the place."

"You are right, Isadore," replied Mrs. Falkland: "the fact may be of

no importance, but it may be of much; and, consequently, it is worth

our own examination. I will go with you, my love, if Marian be still

asleep. Wait one moment, and we will go and judge together."

Mrs. Falkland was not long absent. Marian was still lying overpowered

with the opium; and the two ladies, having joined the boy in the hall,

set out upon the search. While her mother was absent, however, Isadore

called her own maid, and stationed her at one of the windows, whence

she could see the spot to which the boy referred, and the path leading

to it. She gave her also directions to remain there, and, in case of

either Mrs. Falkland or herself making a signal, to send or come down

to them in all haste. "I feel a sort of presentiment," thought

Isadore, as she gave the orders, "that this expedition will end in

something of importance."

Whatever it was likely to end in, the maid obeyed her orders as

punctually as such orders generally are obeyed; that is to say, she

remained two minutes at the window; and having seen Mrs. Falkland and

Isadore walk about a hundred steps upon the path, she thought, "Dear

me! I can just get the cap I was trimming, and be back again here long

before they are at the other side of the park." But, as she crossed

the hall, she met with the old butler, who detained her just to ask

her where his mistress and Miss Falkland were gone; and then told her

a story, which he had heard when he was young, and the incidents of

which were very like those connected with the fate of poor Mr. Edward

de Vaux. Every hair on the maid's head stood on end, and gave her so

much occupation, that, ere she could get back to her post, it was too

dark to trim the cap any further; she therefore, immediately and

punctually, turned her eyes on the spot which her mistress had

directed her to observe, and watched most carefully, now that she

could see nothing at that distance.

CHAPTER IV.

Isadore and Mrs. Falkland, in the meantime, took the little path

towards the brink of the river, in the immediate neighbourhood of

which lay the spot where the boy had remarked the footsteps. Mrs.

Falkland had lived too long in the great school of disappointment,

human life, to suffer her expectations to be greatly excited; but

Isadore, with a spirit naturally more enthusiastic, and as yet

unchastened by any deep sorrows, felt her heart beat high, and her

hopes struggle up against her fears, as she set out to take a more

active part than she had hitherto been able to assume in the search

for her cousin. The path wound along through the park, meandering

considerably, perhaps in conformity to the taste of some ancient layer

out of parks, or perhaps in consequence of the usual roundabout and

circuitous nature of man's paths. Isadore, like all ardent minds, was

tempted to make a more direct way for herself across the lawns; but

Mrs. Falkland, in a more practical spirit, remembered that the grass

was damp, and that it was not worth while to wet her feet for the

purpose of saving half a minute. She adhered, therefore, to the

gravel; and, as her more venturous daughter met with a little swamp

occasioned by a spring, which obliged her to go round, they arrived at

the spot they sought about the same time.

The spot itself, however, needs some description, and, indeed, it has

been already described once before, with a special injunction to the

reader to remember all the points and bearings which were then

detailed. However, lest memory should be treacherous, we will once

more take a view of the scene, as it was presented to the eyes of Mrs.

Falkland and her daughter, who were at that moment looking exactly

west-north-west. Before them was a little shrubbery of evergreens and

indigenous plants, kept as low as possible, so as just to hide the

wall of the park, against which it rested, and yet not to cut off from

the windows of the house a beautiful rocky bank, which rose on the

other side of the wall to the height of a great number of feet. This

bank formed one of the faces of a small wooded promontory, or rather

peninsula, which was joined on to the hills by a narrow neck, over

which the high-road passed after having skirted the other wall of the

grounds. It was surrounded everywhere but at that point by the river.

The summit was covered with rich wood; and down the sides also, in

every place where the rock did not rise up abrupt and bare, a thousand

various trees and shrubs had rooted themselves in the clefts and

crevices, or towered up like pinnacles from the top of every detached

fragment, and overhung the calm, still bend of the river, which served

as a mirror to all the beauties round about it. The setting sun, with

his lower limb just resting on the western hills, was pouring a flood

of splendour down the valley of the stream; and his full light

bursting upon the face of the rock to the left of Mrs. Falkland and

Isadore, found its way round in bright catches of purple light,

illuminating every tree and angle of the rock that stood forward

before the rest.

Pouring on, too, the beams streamed down the little footway which--cut

through the low shrubbery to a door in the wall--led out to another

path running from the high-road to the river, between the park and the

cliff; and by the clear light thus afforded it was easy to see the

marks of which the boy had spoken. They seemed to have been made by

some one coming from the grass on the side of the river upon the soft

gravel of the path, and had turned suddenly towards the door, where

they disappeared, as if the person had passed through. They were

small, too, as the boy had described, and were evidently not a

woman's; but neither Mrs. Falkland nor Isadore were sufficiently well

acquainted with De Vaux's footprints to feel anything like certainty

concerning them. It were vain to deny, however, that the hopes of both

were raised, though Heaven knows those hopes were vague and indistinct

enough. Had either Mrs. Falkland or Isadore been asked what they

expected to find, they would probably have answered, "Edward de Vaux;"

but had they been required to assign a reason for such expectations,

to account for his absence, or to point out any principle upon which

he could have abandoned the society of those he loved, and yet linger

in their neighbourhood, they would have been embarrassed for a reply.

But affection does not pause to argue. Hope, too, is ever most

powerful when she triumphs over reason, and, though it may seem a

paradox, expectation is never so vivid as when we know not what we

expect. Hope, then, as bright as sunshine, but as vague and undefined

as that sunshine when it streams through the morning mist, was lighted

up by the sight of those footsteps. As Mrs. Falkland gazed on them,

and traced them distinctly to the door, she exclaimed, "How very

stupid it was of me not to bring the key!"

"I have a key, ma'am," said the boy, groping in the pocket of his

jacket; and producing it accordingly, he advanced to the door and

opened it. Mrs. Falkland now looked eagerly for more traces; but none

were to be seen close to the door, though the ground was composed of a

reddish sort of sand, which would easily have taken the print of even

a light foot. At the distance, however, of about five feet were to be

seen two deep marks of the same kind, but close together, with the

heels more profoundly indented in the sand than the front of the foot;

and it became evident that some one had leaped from the top of the

wall. This was made still clearer, when, turning back, Mrs. Falkland

examined the door, on the top of the lock of which several patches of

gravel had been left by the foot of some one who had taken that means

to reach the summit of the wall. In the mean time Isadore was eagerly

tracing on the footprints, which led straight from the deeper marks to

the bank; and on one of the large stones close by the river, she soon

found the impression of a foot in red sand stamped upon the green

mould with which the fragment of rock was covered.

"Here, mamma, here," cried Isadore. "He must have passed here, and

that since the rain of last night, too; for if you look, the marks are

quite sharp, while some old ones going down towards the water are

nearly washed away. I should not wonder if he were here now."

"Hark!" said Mrs. Falkland; "did you not hear a noise above there?"

They listened, but all was silent; and at length Mrs. Falkland added,

"We have done wrong, my love, in not bringing more people with us,

even if they were but women. The wood is so small and so shut in by

the river that it might be searched easily."

"Send the boy back to the house, mamma!" cried Isadore, quickly: "he

can bring down the butler, and probably some of the others may have

returned. We can remain here, and watch till they come."

"But, Isadore," said Mrs. Falkland, gravely, "it is growing dusk and

late, and the place is lonely and obscure: I do not see any good that

two women can do here alone."

"Oh, Harry will be back in a moment, mamma," cried her daughter; "and,

besides, nobody could hurt us. Any one on the high-road would hear a

scream from this place."

Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued eagerly,--"I will

tell you how we can manage it then, so that there can be no danger.

Send him back for the people, and you go into the park to the little

mound; there you can see the high-road quite across the point."

"But I will not leave you here alone, my love," cried Mrs. Falkland,

in some surprise at the proposal: "indeed I cannot think of doing

that."

"But, mamma, I have been here a hundred times alone before," replied

Isadore; "and, besides, what I mean is, to get up to that little point

where Marian and I have sat many a day. When I am there, you will be

able both to see me and to hear me if I speak to you; and if any

danger were really to happen, I could make the people with the cattle

in the opposite meadow hear me, while you could also make them see or

hear you from the house; and I set Charlotte at the window to watch."

Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued rapidly, "Run,

Harry, up to the house as fast as ever you can go; bring down Mr.

Gibson and any of the men you can find, and do not lose a minute."

"I am afraid that this is not very prudent, Isadore," said Mrs.

Falkland, as the boy ran off like lightning; "but I suppose your plan

is the best one to follow now that he is gone. I will turn back to the

mound then, while you go up there. But if the boy does not return

before the twilight grows thicker, come down, by all means."

"I will come down whenever you tell me, mamma," said Isadore; "and I

can hear everything you say at the mound."

Without more words, then, Mrs. Falkland hastened to take up her

station at a little rising ground in the park, from the summit of

which she could see, not only the whole of that part of the high-road

which crossed the neck of the little promontory, but also the extreme

angle of the cliff above the river. Isadore, in the meanwhile, climbed

up by a steep and somewhat rugged path, which had been made at her

request some years before, to a small point of rock which commanded a

view both up and down the river, and afforded one of the most

picturesque landscapes, on either side, that the country possessed.

The height was not more than ten or twelve feet above the stream, and

the distance from the mound in the park not a hundred yards, so that

any one speaking in a loud voice could be heard from one spot to the

other. The ascent, however, while it continued, was steep, and

Isadore's heart beat when she reached the top--nor, perhaps, was it

the exercise alone that made it palpitate. Although she had not

displayed any fear, she was not without some slight degree of alarm;

and felt not a little of that sort of excitement and agitation which

is not indeed fear, but which often produces very similar effects. She

looked back as soon as she reached the point of the rock, but Mrs.

Falkland was not yet in sight. Another instant, however, brought her

mother to the top of the mound, and Isadore demanded, "You can see the

high-road, mamma, can you not?"

Mrs. Falkland did not at first distinguish what her daughter had said,

and Isadore repeated the question. Not that in this inquiry she was at

all influenced by fear, although it might appear so; but, in truth,

Isadore's eagerness to send back the boy for aid, and remain upon the

watch, had originated in a little stroke of strategy which was not

ill-conceived, considering that it sprang from the brain of a young

lady.

That there was some one in the wood above them Miss Falkland was quite

convinced; and to ascertain who it was she knew was a great object at

the time being. It had instantly struck her, therefore, that, by

dividing their forces, her mother taking up a position on the little

mound, whence she could see along the whole of the high-road, and down

a considerable portion of the little lane under the wall, while she,

Isadore, placed herself on the point which commanded a view of two

other sides of the promontory, no one could well escape from the wood

without coming under the eyes of one or the other of the fair

watchers. She did forget, it is true, that, supposing the fugitive to

be a man, and that man not her cousin Edward de Vaux, neither herself

nor her mother were the least capable of making him stay, and that

their hunt might very likely end, while the boy was absent, like a

famous hunt of yore, in the catching a Tartar. A vague sort of

consciousness, it is true, that such might be the case, impressed

itself upon her mind as she climbed to the little point above the

river; but still her first question was directed to ascertain whether

their line of watch was, as she hoped, secure and complete.

She repeated her inquiry then, in a louder tone, and Mrs. Falkland

replied, "Oh, yes, I can see to the river on the other side. But,

indeed, Isadore, it is growing very dark. I can scarcely distinguish

the house."

Isadore still lingered, however; for the spot where she stood, looking

eastward, caught more light than the rest of the scene. She thought

she heard a slight rustling sound, too, above her, as of some one

creeping through the bushes; and it must be confessed that her heart

beat violently. Although, in truth, she now began to think her scheme

a little rash, yet curiosity and anxiety for her cousin's fate still

kept her where she stood. The next moment, however, she saw some one,

indistinctly, pass through the bushes on the edge of the higher part

of the bank, and imagination did much to persuade her that she

recognised the figure.

"Oh, mamma," she exclaimed, "I see him, I see him!" but the figure was

instantly lost behind some more trees. It was evidently still passing

on to the eastward, as if to escape in that direction, for the

branches rustled as it forced its way through; and Isadore took two

steps back to catch another sight of it as it passed before a bare

facing of rock at the extreme point. At that moment there was a sudden

rush through the brushwood; and ere Isadore could see that it was

nothing more than a fragment of rock given way under the foot of the

person above, she started back, thinking that it was he himself

springing down upon her, lost her footing on the edge of the bank,

and, with a shrill scream, fell over into the river.

Mrs. Falkland shrieked also, and rushed forward to the stream; but the

height from which Isadore had fallen had caused her instantly to sink,

and nothing was to be seen by the mother's eye but the clear

glistening expanse of the water, with the reflection of the cliffs,

and trees, and banks, and of the fading purple of the sky, broken by a

thousand rippling circles, where her child had disappeared. With the

loud, piercing, thrilling cry of maternal agony, she shrieked again

and again; and, as she did so, springing from rock to rock, with the

swiftness and certainty of a wild goat, appeared the figure which

Isadore had seen above her. He stood for a single moment on the spot

whence she had fallen, and then exclaimed to Mrs. Falkland, below,

"Where is she, woman? where is she?"

"There, there!" cried Mrs. Falkland, pointing to the spot; but as she

spoke a bit of white drapery floated up to the top of the water, a

little farther down the stream. Pharold paused no longer, but leaped

from the bank--sank--rose again--and in the next moment, with his

left arm round the slender waist of Isadore Falkland, and her head

thrown back upon his shoulder, he struck with his right towards the

margin, where the soft, meadowy sloping of the park afforded an easy

landing-place. There, springing on shore, he laid his fair burden on

the grass, but she was pale, and moved not; and Mrs. Falkland gazing

with agony on the colourless countenance of her daughter, wrung her

hands, exclaiming, "Isadore! Isadore! she is dead! oh, she is dead!"

"No, lady," said Pharold, kneeling down, and looking intently upon the

fair face before him--"no, lady! she is not dead, nor has the water

had any effect on her. That is not the face of a drowned person. She

must have fainted through fear, and will soon recover."

"For God's sake, then, help me, sir, to bear her to the house," cried

Mrs. Falkland; "do not, do not hesitate. You who have rendered us such

infinite service, do not pause there, but make it complete by bringing

her to a place where she may be recalled to life."

"What!" cried the gipsy, "to be taken and thrust into a prison! Do you

not know that they are pursuing me on a charge of murder--pursuing me

as if I were a wolf? Have you not, yourself, been sending out men to

take the murderer Pharold?"

Mrs. Falkland had forgot all other fears in her fears for her

daughter; but as Pharold suddenly recalled them, she involuntarily

drew a step back, and gazed on him with terror; but it required

scarcely the thought of an instant to make her remember that he had

saved the life--at least she trusted so--of her only child; that he

had risked his own existence to rescue a perfect stranger, and she

exclaimed, boldly, "No, no! I will never believe it! You are not--you

cannot be guilty. But we waste time--we waste the moments that may

save my child. For pity's sake, for God's sake, aid me to carry her

home. I have sent, but I see no one coming--they may be long--she may

be lost ere they arrive. If you will come," she added, seeing the

gipsy still hesitate, "I promise you that you shall go free, and well

rewarded,--you shall be as safe as if you were in your own house."

"House!" exclaimed the gipsy; "I have no house! but I will believe

you, lady--I will trust you;" and taking Isadore once more in his

arms, he strode rapidly and powerfully forward, followed at the same

quick pace by Mrs. Falkland.

He took not the way across the green, however, believing that he might

there be met by the servants, and his retreat cut off; but passing

through the low shrubberies, which were almost as near, he walked on

towards the house in silence. Every moment the light was becoming less

and less, but he threaded the walks as if he had known them from

boyhood, and took all the shortest cuts to abridge the way. At length,

however, he paused for an instant, and turning to Mrs. Falkland, he

said, in a low voice, "She revives! I feel her breath upon my face!"

"Thank God! thank God!" replied her mother, in the same low tone; and

the gipsy then abruptly added, as he resumed his way, "You believe me

innocent, then."

"I do, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "I cannot believe a person

guilty of a cool, deliberate murder, who could so boldly and

generously risk his own life to save that of a fellow-creature,--it is

not in human nature."

"It is not, indeed," replied Pharold, still striding on; "but why then

did you send out men to hunt me as you would a wolf?"

"I sent them not out," she answered; "but when they went, I, too,

thought that you might be guilty."

"The memory of your brother," said Pharold, "the memory of him who

loved me, and whom I loved as I have never loved any other man, should

have made you think differently. Was he a man to love one whose nature

led him to deeds of blood?"

"He was not, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "but they charge you

with his death, too."

"Ha!" cried Pharold, in a tone of unfeigned astonishment--"ha! that,

then, is the well prepared, long-digested lie, is it? That they should

accuse me of the gamekeeper's death I thought natural--though I would

have given a limb to save him. That they suspected me of Edward de

Vaux's, I heard without surprise; for men are always the fools of

circumstances, and there were circumstances against me: but that,

after twenty years, they should accuse me of the death of him that I

loved more than any other thing but liberty, I did not think that

villany and impudence could bring about,--and did you believe that,

too?"

"No," replied Mrs. Falkland, very willing, by speaking the exact

truth, to sooth the irritated mind of a man who had just rendered her

so inestimable a service--"no, I did not believe it; and as soon as

the charge was made in my hearing, I expressed my disbelief of it

entirely."

"So, so!" said the gipsy, "there is some justice left! Lady, when you

were four years old, I have carried you in these arms, as I now carry

your daughter; and I thank you, at this late hour, for doing justice

to one who was loved by those who loved you. No, no; I am not a

murderer; and never believe it, whatever they may say."

They were now coming near the house; and Mrs. Falkland, with fears for

Isadore somewhat relieved, would fain have asked the fate of her

nephew; but at that moment the gipsy spoke again; and though, from the

shadow cast by the trees of the shrubbery, she could not see in which

way his eyes were directed, the tone of his voice, as well as the

words themselves, showed her that he was addressing her daughter. "Be

not afraid, lady, be not afraid," he said: "you are quite safe, though

in hands that you know not; your mother is behind: lean your head on

my shoulder, and keep quite still."

"Are you there, mamma?" said a faint voice, that went thrilling

through all the innermost windings of Mrs. Falkland's heart. "Yes, my

beloved Isadore; yes, my dearest child," replied the mother, "I am

here, close beside you; and, thank God, you are quite safe!"

"Hush!" said the gipsy, "hush! If I am seen, I am lost, remember; and

keep silence, if you feel that I have served you."

"Inestimably," replied Mrs. Falkland, in a low tone; and the gipsy,

now emerging from the shrubbery, crossed a part of the lawn that lay

between the angle of the wood and the house.

In the gray of the evening, a party of two or three persons might now

be seen, though indistinctly, following the open path, about half-way

across the park towards the cliff. But though he turned his eyes in

that direction, the gipsy took no further notice of them; and,

approaching the house, directed his course towards a glass door which

led out from a small breakfast-parlour upon the lawn. Mrs. Falkland

took a step or two forward, and opened the door; and Pharold carried

Isadore up the steps into the room, and placed her in safety upon a

sofa.

Her first action was to hold out her arms to her mother, with all that

flood of gratitude, and tenderness, and joy flowing from her heart,

which we feel on being restored to "this pleasing, anxious being,"

after having thought that we were quitting for ever the warm precincts

of the cheerful day. Mrs. Falkland caught her to her bosom, and,

locked in each other's arms, they wept as if they had lost a friend.

Well may philosophers say, that man never knows what joy is till he

has tasted sorrow. Isadore and her mother had loved each other through

life, without one of those petty rivalries, either for authority or

admiration, without one of those jarrings of different purposes and

opposing wishes which sometimes sap the affection of child and parent.

They had loved each other through life dearly, and they knew it; but

they did not know how dearly, till fate had nearly placed the barrier

of the grave between them, and Isadore, safe and rescued, held her

mother, weeping, in her arms. Who can explain such tears? Who can tell

why the same drops which flow from pain or sorrow should be companions

of the brightest joy? For who can trace the workings of the fine

immortal essence within us, in its operations on the frail, weak

tabernacle of earth in which it is enshrined?

However, they wept, and wept in silence; for both felt the bosom too

full for speech, and both, from the still oratory of the heart,

offered up thanks to God for the joy and relief of that moment. Nor

was their happiness unfelt by him to whom, under the Almighty, it was

owing. The gipsy stood and gazed upon them, with his arms crossed upon

his chest, and the light of internal satisfaction glistening in his

eye. There was something in the scene before him, and in those who

were the actors therein, which connected itself with the long, long

past; which woke up the memories of many a year, and which called up a

thousand thrilling sensations that long had slept. But he had neither

time nor inclination to let his mind rest upon all that chaos of

pleasures, and regrets, and wishes, and hopes, and sorrows, and

disappointments, which, when memory, awakened from her sleep, draws

back the veil from the past, is presented to the eyes of every one who

has lived an energetic and stirring existence. While one might count a

hundred, perhaps, he paused, and gazed upon Mrs. Falkland and her

daughter, giving way to the purest feelings of human affection, and

suffered his thoughts to wander wildly over the years gone by; but

then, starting from his revery, he remembered that he must depart.

"Lady, I go," he said. "May God bless you and yours, and send you

ever, at your moment of need, one as willing and as able to help you

as the gipsy has shown himself."

"Stay, stay one moment," said Mrs. Falkland. "You must not, indeed,

leave my house unrewarded for the infinite service you have rendered

me."

"I am rewarded already, lady," he said; "I am rewarded by what I have

seen, I am rewarded by what I have felt, I am rewarded by knowing that

there is one at least that can do justice, in her own heart, even to a

gipsy. Lady, I must go: my stay is dangerous. Fare you well."

At that moment, however, there was a powerful hand laid upon his

shoulder, and as he turned quickly round, he found himself faced by

Colonel Manners, who still kept his hold of the gipsy's collar and

shoulder, notwithstanding the sudden jerk he gave himself.

"You are my prisoner," said Manners, sternly. "Surrender at once, for

resistance is in vain."

"Doubtless, doubtless," answered the gipsy, bitterly. "I have fallen

into the trap, and it is useless to writhe. Oh, God of heaven! how

often have I sworn never again to do a service to any of these human

worms; for, if not punished by their own base ingratitude, some other

evil is sure to follow, as if thou hadst sworn vengeance on every one

that did an act of kindness to their outcast race!"

"You shall not suffer, however, for your service to me," said Mrs.

Falkland, advancing. "I have pledged you my word, and I will redeem

it.--Colonel Manners," she continued, "listen to me for one moment:

this man has, within this quarter of an hour, saved my daughter's

life, at the risk of his own."

"Indeed!" cried Colonel Manners. "May I ask how? I trust Miss Falkland

is not hurt."

"No, not at all, I believe," replied Mrs. Falkland. "She fell from the

bank into the stream--sunk before my eyes, Colonel Manners; and had it

not been for his instant aid, she would have been now no more."

"I am most delighted, indeed, to hear of her escape," replied Manners;

"and would to God it had been my fate to render her the assistance,

instead of this person, for I should then have avoided a most painful

duty. But, indeed, my dear madam, as it is--"

"Nay, say not a word more, Colonel Manners," interrupted Mrs.

Falkland, "but hear my story out. He saved my daughter from the

stream; he swam with her to land; but she was without sense or motion.

I had nobody with me to help me, and I besought him, for the sake of

Heaven, to do what my strength was, of course, not sufficient to

perform, and to bear her home. He then told me his name; informed me

that people were hunting him like a wolf among the woods; and asked if

I could expect him to venture into the very midst of his enemies. I

plighted my word for his safety--I promised him by every thing sacred

that he should meet no impediment in quitting my dwelling; and upon

that promise alone he came."

"I am sorry, my dear madam," answered Manners, calmly, but gravely,

"that such a promise can only be binding upon yourself. Did it involve

merely an act of politeness, of friendship, or of personal sacrifice,

I would do anything in my power to oblige you: but there is a higher

duty calls upon me than either courtesy or friendship, and I must obey

its voice. I have a duty to perform towards the laws of my country--I

have a duty to my dead friend; and, at any risk and all risks, I must

and will obey it. I wish, with all my heart, that I had met this man

anywhere but here; but wherever I meet him, I am not only empowered,

but bound, by every principle of law and justice, to arrest him."

"Is there either law or justice, then, in arresting an innocent man?"

demanded the stern voice of the gipsy.

"Of your innocence or guilt the law has still to decide," replied

Manners. "An accusation of the gravest kind has been made against you,

circumstances of strong suspicion have already been discovered to

justify the charge. If you be guilty, it is but fit you should be

punished; and if you be innocent, doubt not that you shall have equal

justice."

"I did not expect this from you, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland,

bitterly. "Have you no regard, sir, to my plighted word? Have you no

consideration for my honour? I have used entreaties, sir; but I now

insist that he shall go; and, if necessary, I will call my servants

and make them set him free. He has saved my daughter's life, Colonel

Manners; he has come hither in my service, at my prayer, and upon my

promise of safety; and if he had killed my brother, he shall go hence

unimpeded."

"Madam, I believe you risk that supposition without a suspicion that

it may be true," answered Manners. "But I must now inform you, that

one of the principal charges against this man is the very fact of

having murdered your late brother."

"And the charge is false, Colonel Manners," answered Mrs. Falkland,

vehemently. "Whatever he may be now,--whatever he may have become

since,--he was not then a man to shed blood, much less the blood of

his friend and benefactor. He could have no motive but lucre, and that

motive was wanting; for from my brother he might have had whatever

sums he required. Nay, more, I have often heard my brother declare,

that he would not take what he offered. But, as I have said, Colonel

Manners, all other considerations apart, my word is pledged, and he

_shall_ go free."

"Noble heart! noble heart!" cried the gipsy. "On my hand rests not one

drop of innocent blood, as there is a God above the stars! Neither do

I fear death nor dread inquiry; but my liberty is more than my life,

and what should I do, for months, a prisoner among stone walls and the

vermin of the earth! He talks boldly of arresting me now, when he has

got me here with dozens at his back; but let him take me five hundred

yards hence, where I was ere I carried your daughter hither,--let him

take me to the wood, or the bare hill side, where there are no odds

against me,--and then, strong as he thinks himself, let him arrest me

if he can."

Mrs. Falkland was going to speak again; and might, perhaps, have

spoken angrily, for she was less calm than usual: but at that moment

Isadore's voice made itself heard, though but faintly. "Colonel

Manners," she said, "Colonel Manners, speak with me for a moment."

Manners looked towards her as she lay on the sofa at the other side of

the room; and he felt that to hear what she had to say distinctly he

must, by going nearer, release the gipsy from the grasp which he still

continued to maintain upon his collar. He felt also, what perhaps

Isadore had at her heart felt too, that her voice was likely to have

more effect with him than that of any one else; and as Manners had a

strong inclination to do his duty rigidly, he somewhat feared her

persuasions. However, he could not, of course, refuse to comply;

but to guard against his prisoner's escape, he instantly locked both

the doors of the little breakfast-room ere he approached her. He

then--seeing the gipsy stand calmly with his folded arms, as if

prepared to wait his decision--drew near, and bending down his head,

"I am most happy, indeed," he said, "that you have not suffered any

injury."

"And yet you would ruin the person who saved me," said Isadore; "but

do not reason with me, Colonel Manners, for I have neither strength

nor wit to contend with you. I want to persuade, not to convince you."

"That is what I am most afraid of," answered Manners with a smile.

"Do not be afraid," said Isadore, "but listen. Do you think, Colonel

Manners, that a man who could murder Edward de Vaux would risk his own

life to save Edward's cousin?"

"It is strange, certainly," answered Manners, "but--"

"Do you think, then," continued Isadore, interrupting him, "that a man

who felt himself guilty of murder would go voluntarily to the midst of

the friends and relations of the person he had killed, solely for the

purpose of carrying home a poor girl that he had just saved from

drowning? Your murderers, Colonel Manners, must be curious

characters."

Could Isadore have beheld the face of her hearer distinctly, she would

have seen that his cheek glowed a little with something like shame;

but he answered, "I did not say, my dear Miss Falkland, that I thought

him guilty. I only said, that the law required me to keep him a

prisoner till he had proved his innocence."

"Well, then, Colonel Manners," rejoined Isadore, "since you do not

think him guilty--and I know you do not--since there is every reason

to think him innocent--since mamma has plighted her word--since he has

saved my life--since he came hither solely to aid me--you must let him

go, indeed you must--"

Manners hesitated, and looked doubtfully at the gipsy, as he stood,

dark and shadowy, with his arms still crossed upon his bosom, and his

eyes bent upon the ground. Isadore saw that a word more would conquer;

and though her heart fluttered and her voice trembled to think how

important that word might, perhaps, become at some future time, she

made up her mind and spoke it, though in so low a tone that it fell on

no other ear but his for whom it was intended. "Colonel Manners," she

said, "you must let him go, indeed you must--" the words she added

were, "for my sake!"

Manners was embarrassed in every way. Who shall say what he would, or

what he would not have done "for the sake" of Isadore Falkland? but

that was not all--had he really believed the gipsy guilty, he would

have had no hesitation; but he did not believe him guilty. The manner

in which Mrs. Falkland repelled the idea of his being the murderer of

her brother was enough to make Colonel Manners entertain many doubts

on a subject where his convictions had never been very strong; and the

fact of the gipsy having saved Isadore's life at the risk of his own,

and carried her home at the risk of arrest, were so irreconcilable

with his guilt, that Manners began to doubt too in regard to the

murder of De Vaux. He knew, undoubtedly, that he himself was not the

person called upon to judge; but still, of course, his conviction of

Pharold's guilt or innocence made a great difference in the degree of

eagerness with which he sought to apprehend him.

But there were still several other motives for hesitation, when once

he began to doubt. He felt that Mrs. Falkland was perfectly right in

asserting, in every way, the inviolability of the promise she had made

to the gipsy--he felt that the gipsy had a right to expect that it

would be kept. He knew, also, that if Mrs. Falkland chose to call her

servants, and order the liberation of the gipsy, in all probability

any attempt to detain him would be in vain; and he was conscious, too,

that in making the attempt, he was acting, at least, a very ungracious

part. Still none of these motives, singly, would have restrained him,

had he not felt the strongest doubts of the gipsy's guilt; but when a

great many different motives enter into a conspiracy together to

change a man's opinion, they are like smiths engaged in forging a

piece of red-hot iron,--one gives it a stroke with his sledge-hammer,

and another gives it a stroke, till, hard as it may be, it is moulded

to their will. Manners, however,--although he might be led by many

considerations to temper the stern rigidity of duty,--was not a man to

abandon it altogether; and, therefore, he sought a mean which, as it

was only at his personal risk, he thought himself justified in

following, in order that Mrs. Falkland's promise might be held

inviolate, and, perhaps, that Isadore might be obeyed.

"Well!" he said, after a moment's consideration. "All this business

has happened most unfortunately, that I should meet a man here whom I

am bound to apprehend, and who yet is guarded by a promise of safety.

However, Mrs. Falkland, although I cannot abandon my own duty, yet I

must do what I can to reconcile it with the engagement under which

this person came here. I think you said," he added, turning to

Pharold, "that if I would take you to the wood, or the bare hill-side,

with no odds against you, I might arrest you if I could--did you not?"

"I did," said Pharold, "and I repeat it."

"Then we are agreed," said Colonel Manners. "I will do so, although I

am fatigued and exhausted."

"Who has a right to be the most fatigued?"' cried the gipsy. "Have I

not been hunted since the morning from wood to wood? Have I not had to

double and to turn like a hare before the hounds? Have I not twice

swam that quick stream? Have I had repose of mind or body, that you

should talk of fatigue?"

"Well, well," said Manners, "all this matters little. I accept the

proposal which you have yourself made; and I thus specify the terms.

Though accompanied by me, you shall go free from this place in any

direction that you please for one quarter of an hour; a space of time

fully sufficient to put you out of all danger of being overpowered by

numbers. At the end of that time you are my prisoner."

"If you can make me so," cried the gipsy: "if you can make me so."

"Agreed," replied Manners: "that is what I mean, of course; otherwise

our agreement would be of no use."

"Colonel Manners," exclaimed Isadore, calling him back to her, for, in

speaking, he had advanced a little towards the gipsy and Mrs.

Falkland, "for God's sake, do not go. You do not know what may happen.

Indeed, indeed, it is risking a valuable life most rashly. Let me

persuade you not to go."

She made Colonel Manners's heart beat more rapidly than ever it had

done in his life; for to a man who felt as he did, and who had

nourished the fancies that he had, to hear the voice of beauty, and

worth, and gentleness pleading to him for his own safety, was

something much more agitating than the roar of artillery, or the rush

of charging squadrons. Isadore spoke, too, in a voice low, from an

effort not to appear too much interested, and a little faint, too,

perhaps, from late agitation and exhaustion; so that there was, in

fact, a great deal more of tenderness in her tone than she at all

wished or intended.

"Nay, nay, Miss Falkland," answered Manners, who, in this instance,

though gratified, could resist--"nay, nay, I have yielded as much as I

can, indeed. I must either arrest this man here, or, out of respect to

your mother's promise and to your entreaties, must let him depart to a

spot where we may stand man to man, and then do my best to apprehend

him there."

"Oh, let him go altogether, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland; "the

one charge made against him is false, depend upon it; and in regard to

Edward de Vaux, surely his conduct in saving Isadore may be taken as a

proof that he is innocent there also. Why should you risk your life in

a struggle where you know not how many may come against you?"

"Lady, you do me justice and injustice in the same breath," said the

gipsy; "not one hand should be added to mine against his, if the whole

world were inclined to assist the gipsy, instead of to oppress him.

But at the same time, I tell him, as I have told you, that not a drop

of innocent blood is upon this hand; that it is as pure as his own,

and that I am more truly guiltless than those who boast their

innocence and sit in high places."

"I think," said Manners, turning to Mrs. Falkland, "that we must here

end all discussion, my dear madam. My mind is perfectly made up as to

what it is my duty to do. The risk, in this instance, is merely

personal; and from such I will never shrink; and I feel very sure,

also, that there is no chance of failure."

"Be not too sure," said the gipsy.

"But, Colonel Manners," urged Isadore, "if this person will give us

what information he possesses--if he will tell us what has become of

Edward--if he will explain all, in short, will it not be better to

gain those tidings, and let him go quietly, than to hazard so much on

a chance which may be productive of no results?"

"But will he make such a confession?" said Manners; "will he give

such information?"

The gipsy was silent; but Mrs. Falkland anticipated his answer.

"Doubtless he will," she said, "if you will undertake to let him go

free when he has done."

"Solely, if he can prove that Edward de Vaux is alive," answered

Manners. "Words, my dear lady, can be of no use--I must have proof

before I let him depart. He must not alone tell me what has become of

my poor friend, but he must convince me that what he has told is true;

otherwise I part not from him."

"I know not well," replied the gipsy, "whether I have even a right to

tell what I know; and how can I prove it, without remaining in your

hands, and under the curse of a roof where I can scarcely breathe,

till those come who would thrust me into a prison, one month of which

were worse than a thousand deaths? No, no! I neither will speak to be

disbelieved, nor stay to be tortured, if I can win liberty by facing,

singly, a thing of clay like myself. If you will keep your word with

me, keep it now. If you would not play me false, throw open your door,

and go out with me to a place where you shall see whether, with God's

free air blowing on my cheek, and God's pure sky above my head, any

single arm on earth can stay me, if I will to go." As he spoke,

however, two or three dim indistinct forms passed across the windows,

which still admitted the faint lingering twilight of an autumn

evening, and the gipsy, dropping his arms by his side, listened for a

moment attentively. "It is too late," he exclaimed, at length--"it is

too late. You have kept me till the bloodhounds have come back; and

you shall have the joy of seeing them worry their quarry before you."

"What is it you mean?" cried Manners. "Of what bloodhounds do you

speak?"

"He means what, I am afraid, is too true, Colonel Manners," said Mrs.

Falkland, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "that Mr. Arden and the

people sent to search the wood have just returned; and that,

therefore, notwithstanding my word and your proposal, his apprehension

in my house is the recompense he will receive for saving my daughter's

life."

"Do not be afraid, my dear madam," said Manners, "I will find means to

keep my word with him; but let us be sure that it is as you suppose,

before we risk going out into the park. I think I hear sounds in the

hall also."

Every one was silent; and the noise of distant footsteps and voices

speaking was heard from the hall and vestibule; and in a moment after,

some persons approached the very room in which Manners and the rest

were standing.

The steps passed on, however, to the library; and at the door thereof

paused immediately after, while the voice of the old butler said, "She

is not there, sir," and the feet returned. They then heard the door of

the music-room, which lay on the opposite side, open; and the butler

again said, "Nor there." The next moment a hand was laid upon the lock

of the very door near which they were standing, and Manners held his

finger to his lips in sign of silence. The old man made one or two

ineffectual attempts to turn the lock, and then repeated, "Nor there

either; for the door is locked for the night--though it is very odd

the housemaid should take upon herself to lock up the rooms when I am

out. I am sure I cannot tell where my mistress is, sir, nor Miss

Falkland either, unless they have both been spirited away, like poor

Mr. Edward; for they certainly are not up-stairs in either of the

drawing-rooms, nor at the place where the boy told me he left them.

But now I think of it, I should not wonder if they were in poor Miss

Marian's room; and if you will walk up into the drawing-room, sir, I

will send to see."

"Do, do," said the voice of Mr. Arden; "but it is very strange that

they should have left the spot so suddenly, when they sent for you to

come to them. Why did you not search the wood directly? It is not

bigger than my hand."

"Oh, sir, I set the boy and the two others we had called to help us to

search," replied the butler; "but I came back again, because it was

not my place to search woods, sir; and, besides, I had a presentiment

that your honour would be here."

"The devil you had," said Mr. Arden; but what the worthy magistrate

further replied was lost as he followed the butler up the stairs

towards the drawing-room.

"Now, my dear madam," said Manners, in a low voice, "let me advise you

instantly to join Mr. Arden, and to keep him engaged till I can effect

my retreat with our friend here; and you, my dear Miss Falkland, for

God's sake do not forget yourself any longer; we have treated you very

ill already, to keep you here so long in wet clothes. I am not very

much accustomed to act as physician to ladies; but if I might advise,

going to bed and warm negus would be my prescription."

"Which I shall instantly follow, Colonel Manners," said Isadore; "but,

for Heaven's sake, take care of yourself too. Let us see you gone

before we open the door."

"No, no," answered Manners; "yours must be the first party to march

off: I cannot move till I have reconnoitred the ground." Thus saying,

he turned the key and opened the door as silently as possible, and

Mrs. Falkland and her daughter passed out into the corridor. Isadore

paused for a single instant, as if she would have spoken either to

Manners or the gipsy; but the former held up his finger, and gently

closed the door that led from the breakfast-room into the interior of

the house.

"Now, then," he said in a whisper to the gipsy, "let me see that

all is safe;" and opening the glass door, he gazed forth over the

lawns. The twilight lay heavy over the whole scene, and the dim

indistinctness of the day's old age rendered it impossible to see any

distant object. There was no one, however, in the immediate

neighbourhood of the house; and Manners, looking back into the room,

beckoned the gipsy forward, saying, "Now, come with me."

Pharold instantly complied; and Manners whispered, "While we are in

the park, you remain under my guidance and protection. As soon as we

are safe out of it, you take the lead which way you will."

The gipsy nodded, and Manners took his way by the shortest cut to the

trees. Then taking a walk which led up by some steps and a small

rustic door into the garden, he crossed over, till they were both

between the fruit-wall and a high holly hedge. Along this path he now

walked rapidly, till they reached a spot half way between the house

and the gate through which, with Isadore and Marian, and Edward de

Vaux, he had once walked out into the woods. Here the gipsy halted for

a moment, but then followed on without remark. The next instant,

however, Manners heard in the bushes a noise of rustling, which the

gipsy had before distinguished; and ere he had taken two steps

farther, a man stood before him in the walk.

"Are you the gardener?" said Manners, still advancing.

"Yes," said the man. "What if I be?"

"Why, then, go to the house," said Manners, "and if you find Mr.

Arden, the magistrate, there, give him Colonel Manners's compliments,

and tell him that if he will wait half an hour, I will be back with

him, as I have matters of importance to speak to him about, but am

obliged to go a little way with this good man ere I can attend to

anything else."

"I beg your honour's pardon," said the gardener; "I did not know you

in this dark walk. That made me speak so rough; but if your honour be

going out by that ere door, it's locked. I have just been locking it."

"Well, open it again, then, gardener," said Manners, "and then make

haste and give my message."

"That I will, your honour," answered the gardener, walking on towards

the door. "But did your honour say that this here man was along with

you? He looks--"

"Never mind what he looks," answered Manners, somewhat sternly. "He

has matters of importance to arrange with me, or he would not be here;

so make haste and open the door."

The man obeyed, and only demanded further, whether he should leave the

key. "No," said Manners; "I will return by the other gate.--Now go

out, my good friend, and lead the way to the place you spoke of."

Pharold proceeded through the open door; and Manners, bidding the

gardener not forget his message, followed out into the road.

CHAPTER V.

"This is a strange business!" thought Manners, as he followed the

gipsy into the road. "This is a strange business; and, on my part, not

a very wise one, I believe. However, there seemed no other way to

settle it; and having acted for the best, I must make the best of it;

though, perhaps, I should have persisted in apprehending the fellow,

where I had the means of doing so, at once."

Such were the thoughts of the decided, energetic, acting Colonel

Manners, who was known to the world at large as one of the most

skilful and fortunate officers in his majesty's service; but the other

Colonel Manners--the feeling, generous-hearted, somewhat imaginative

Colonel Manners, who was only known to himself and a few very intimate

friends, as a man both of the most gentlemanly mind and spirit, and of

the most liberal and kindly disposition--had other thoughts. I have

tried to explain this union of separate characters in the same bosom

already; and I think it may be understood, for it is certain that it

existed.

The latter Colonel Manners--whose great principle was to keep out of

sight, and who spoke so low that, though he generally, sooner or

later, made himself obeyed, he was not always very distinctly heard at

first, even by his fellow-denizen of the same noble bosom--now

revolved the whole business in which he was engaged in a different

manner; and although he could not help acknowledging that it was very

strange and very silly to yield to doubtful inferences, in opposition

to positive facts, yet he felt a strong conviction that the gipsy whom

he followed was not guilty of the crimes laid to his charge.

He wished much also that, by any other means than those of violence,

he could obtain such evidence of Pharold's innocence, or at least such

powerful motives for believing him innocent, as might justify in the

severer eyes of understanding that course which was prompted by

feeling and kindness. He saw no means of doing so, however, unless

from the man's own lips he could draw some explanation of the many

suspicious circumstances which existed against him. Yet how to begin

such a conversation as might lead to that result, or how to shape his

inquiries so as to draw the gipsy on to the point in question, without

alarming him at an interrogation of which he did not see the end? It

required some thought, and yet there was little time for reflection.

Manners followed, therefore, in silence for some way, while the gipsy,

with a quick step, took the path towards the hill. At the turn of the

lane both Manners and Pharold looked back towards the gate of the

garden, to see whether curiosity might not have tempted the gardener

to follow; but though the light of day had now almost entirely left

the sky, yet the distance was so short that the garden wall and the

closed door were plainly to be seen, without any other object. A

little farther on stood a cottage, with the warm fire and the single

candle within flashing faintly through the dim small window, on the

little bit of white railing before the door. Manners paused, and

looked at his watch by the light; and then following the gipsy, he

said, in a low and unconcerned tone, "There is an air of comfort even

in an English cottage."

His purpose was to begin a conversation by any means, trusting to

chance for the rest; but the gipsy did not seem disposed to render it

a long one. "Holes for rats, and for mice, and for snakes, and for

foxes!" he said; "God's nobler sky for God's nobler creatures! that is

the best covering."

He spoke harshly, but still he did speak, which was all that Manners

wanted; and he replied, "Do you think, then, that God gave men

talents, and skill, and power in many arts, without intending him to

make use of them?"

"Not to build up molehills out of dust and ashes!" said the gipsy.

"But how is he to defend himself, then, against the storm and the

tempest?" demanded Manners; "against the midday heat of summer or the

chill wintry wind?"

"He needs no defence!" answered the gipsy. "Were he not the creature

of luxury rather than of God, the changing seasons would be as

beneficial to his body as they are to those of the beasts of the

field, and to the earth of which he and they are made. And as to storm

and tempest, the searching blade of the blue lightning will strike him

in the palace as surely as on the bare hill or the barren moor; and

the hurricane that passes by the wanderer on the plain will cast down

their painted rubbish on the heads of the dwellers in cities."

Manners saw that, as the lines of their ideas set out from the same

point in directions diametrically opposite, they might be projected to

all eternity without meeting; and therefore he at once brought the

conversation nearer to the real subject of his thoughts. "We differ,"

he said, "and of course must differ, on every subject connected with

the manners and habits of mankind; but there is one point on which, I

trust, we shall not differ."

"I know none," said the gipsy, abruptly. "What is it?"

"It is, that the creatures of the same God," Manners exclaimed, "are

bound to assist and comfort each other!"

"If such be your thoughts," answered the gipsy, turning round upon

him--"if such be your opinions, then, why do you seek to torture me?

Or is it that you think a gipsy not a creature of the same God as

yourself?"

"I seek not to torture you," answered Manners. "Were I to see any

one torture you, my hand would be the first raised to defend you.

Nothing that you see of me now--nothing that you saw of me when last

we met--should make you suppose that I would torture you, even if I

had the power."

"I tell you," answered the gipsy, sternly, "that to live one day in

the brightest saloon that the hands of folly ever decked for the abode

of vice, would be torture to me! What, then, would be a prison?"

"Whatever your own feelings might make it," answered Manners. "My

purpose in seeking to place you in one, could only be to fulfil the

laws of my country, and to bring the guilty to justice; but not to

torture you. Nor, in this, can you accuse me of looking upon you not

as a fellow-creature; for, of whatever race the offender had been, you

know I would have done the same under any circumstances; though your

peculiar feeling respecting liberty might, indeed, make me more

scrupulous in arresting you than I should be in regard to a person of

another race."

"And have you been so scrupulous, then?" demanded the gipsy, bitterly.

"Have you examined so carefully whether you have any real right to

suspect me of the charges brought against me? Have you inquired

whether those appearances on which the charges were grounded might not

be all false and futile? Have you asked and searched out diligently

whether some of those men who witness against me have not hatred and

fear of me at their hearts? Have you done all this, before you sought

to give me up to the hands of those whose enmity and whose prejudices

would all forbid justice to be done me?"

"I am not the judge," answered Manners; "and a judge alone can make

such inquiries."

"Are you, then, a tipstaff, or a bailiff, or a turnkey?" demanded the

gipsy, "that you should pursue me, as if the warrant were placed in

your hands for execution!"

"I am neither of those persons you mention," Manners replied; "but

every subject of this land is empowered and called upon to apprehend a

person against whom a warrant on a charge of murder is known to have

issued. But to return to what I was saying: in construing the power

thus placed in my hands, I should always be more scrupulous to a

person of your class--or nation, if you like the word better--because

I know how galling the loss of liberty must be to one who spurns even

the common restraints of cities; and could I have any positive proof

that the warrant had issued against you on a false charge, I certainly

should not attempt to execute it."

"On what charge did it issue?" demanded the gipsy, turning for a

moment to ask the question, ere he again strode on.

"You are aware that there are many charges against you," replied

Manners; "but the precise one to which you allude is, I believe, the

having murdered my poor friend Edward de Vaux."

The gipsy laughed aloud. "Were that all," he said, "it were soon

disproved. His blood is not upon my hand."

"Disprove it, then!" exclaimed Manners, who, from the whole tenour of

the gipsy's conversation, felt more and more convinced of his

companion's innocence at every step they took. "Disprove it, then!

Other charges have been brought since; but I know nothing of them,

except that one of them, as far as I can judge, is certainly false.

Therefore, if you can but show me that the blood of my poor friend De

Vaux does not stain your hand, I will leave you directly to follow

what course you please; but if you cannot do so, we are now upon the

bare hill-side, where there is none to aid either you or me; and you

shall go no further, if I can stop you."

A man may be a very clever man, and not able to calculate all the

curious turns of another's character; and it so unfortunately happened

that Manners, after having led the gipsy very nearly to the point he

wished, overthrew at once everything he had accomplished by the threat

with which he concluded. He was sorry for it as soon as it had passed

his lips, as he instantly felt it might do harm; but he did not at all

calculate upon its producing so great effect as it did.

The gipsy took two steps forward, and then turning round, stood with

Manners face to face. "Colonel Manners," he said, "not one drop of

your friend's blood stains my hand!--I swear it by yon heaven, and by

the God who made it! I could prove it, too; but I will not prove it

for any man's threats. You say I shall not go, if you can stop me! I

am not bound yet, thank God! with cords or chains. I am not laid in

one of your dungeons. I am not shut in with bolts and bars. I will not

tell you what I know! I will not give you proof of any kind; and I bid

you take me, if you can." As he thus defied him, and announced his

determination, Manners expected every moment to see Pharold turn to

use the speed for which his limbs seemed formed; and although the

gipsy was, as we have said, two paces in advance of him, he did not

doubt that he should be able to seize him before he could effect his

escape. The ground on which they were standing was a small flat space

on the side of the hill, with the road, taking a steep ascent four or

five paces beyond, and having a deep descent on one side, and a rapid

acclivity on the other. Thus, if the gipsy attempted to fly along the

road, Manners saw that he must necessarily turn to do so, and thus

delay his flight; while, if he took any other way, he must come within

reach. To Colonel Manners's surprise, however, the gipsy did not move

from his place; but remained with his arms folded, in an attitude of

determination, which very plainly spoke the resolution of bringing the

affair to a personal struggle. Manners smiled as he perceived his

intention, very confident that his superior muscular strength would at

any time enable him to overpower two such antagonists.

"My good fellow," he said, "this is really very foolish; for even if

you suppose yourself stronger than I am, I could disable you in a

moment, if I thought fit, with my sword. As you seem determined to

resist, however, I will make myself even with you in point of arms,

and lay aside my sword, which I cannot draw upon an unarmed man; but

it must be remembered--"

"Keep your sword, Colonel Manners," said the gipsy--"keep your sword,

and draw it! I am not so much unarmed as I look:" and, as he spoke, he

drew from beneath his long loose coat the weapon with which, as we

have seen, he had provided himself in the morning.

Now there was not exactly at that moment what Sir Lucius O'Trigger

calls very good small-sword light. The sun was down completely; and

though the last gray gleam of parting daylight that lingered still in

the western extremity of the valley, and was reflected from the

windings of the glassy stream, fell, with all the force it had left,

upon the spot where Manners and his antagonist were standing--though

two or three stars were early looking through the mottled clouds, and

the coming moon threw some light before her--still, his powers of

vision must have been strong who could see, as clearly as is

desirable, the playing of an adversary's point round his sword-blade.

Manners, however, did not hesitate. He was becoming a little irritated

at the tone of bitter and, in some degree, scornful defiance which the

gipsy assumed; and although it was not in his nature to be very much

moved by any thing of the kind, yet he went so far as to think, "Well

he shall soon find that a gipsy is not quite so all-accomplished a

genius as he imagines! I have had a droll fate here, certainly;

to be called out by my friend's father, and to fight a duel with a

gipsy!--The consequences be upon your own head, my good friend!" he

added, aloud, bringing round the hilt of his sword, and drawing it

from the scabbard. "I do not wish to hurt you, but you force me to do

so."

"Be it on my head!" said Pharold; and their blades crossed.

There are two sorts of brave men--one which gets warm and impetuous in

action and danger, and one which gets calm and cool. Manners was of

the latter sort. Perhaps there never was upon the face of the earth a

man whose heart applied to itself the idea of danger less than his;

and, consequently, he acted as if he were a spectator, even where

peril to himself was most imminent. In the present instance, he soon

found that he had much underrated the skill of his opponent; for, if

he had not a very _theoretical_, Pharold had at least a very

_practical_, knowledge of the use of his weapon; and his singular

agility and pliancy of muscle added many an advantage. Manners was

sincerely sorry to find that such was the case: not that he imagined

for a moment that all the gipsy's skill or activity would suffice to

injure him, but he wished and designed to master his opponent without

hurting him; and this he felt would be very difficult, if not

impossible. He strove for it pertinaciously, however, for some time;

and hazarded something himself in order to obtain that object. At

length, however, he became weary of the contest, and saw that he must

soon bring it to a termination somehow, although he still felt an

invincible disinclination to risking such a lunge as might deprive his

adversary of life. He determined, then, to play a game hazardous to

himself, though merciful to his opponent; and, aided by his superior

strength and height, he pressed the gipsy back against the hill as

vehemently as he could. In his haste, he barely parried a lunge, and

the gipsy's sword went through the lappels of his coat: but the

advantage was gained; and at once disarming his adversary, he closed

with him, cast him to the ground, and set his knee upon his chest.

The contest, in all, had continued for some time; but the last

struggle was over in a moment; and ere Pharold well knew what had

occurred, he found himself on the ground, with the sword of the

British officer at his throat. He lay there, however, calm, still,

stern, without making even one of those instinctive efforts to shield

his bosom from the weapon, from which a less determined spirit could

not have refrained.

"Now!" cried Manners--"now, will you give me the explanation I seek?"

"Never!" answered the gipsy, in a low but firm voice--"never!"

Manners hesitated for a moment; but then, withdrawing his knee from

the gipsy's breast, he returned his sword into the scabbard. "I will

try other means!" he thought--"I will try other means!"

Through the whole of the events which had lately passed, Manners had

been gradually gaining a deeper insight into the character of the

gipsy, and had learned to appreciate him better than at first; but

still there was much to be considered, much to be calculated; and many

a conflicting opinion, and many an opposite feeling, crossed Manners's

bosom in the short space of time that was allowed for thought. He did

not forget the various circumstances which had led him to believe that

his friend had been murdered by the gipsy, and all of which remained

unexplained; but he remembered, also, how fallacious circumstantial

evidence often is; and he set against those circumstances of suspicion

the positive fact, that the gipsy had saved the life of Isadore

Falkland at the peril of his own, and had carried her to her mother's

house at the imminent risk of being arrested. The high character which

Mrs. Falkland said he had borne in the past, the regard which she had

hinted that her deceased brother had felt towards him, all tended to

show that he was a man of no ordinary qualities; and although, in the

absence of such knowledge of his character. Manners might have judged

his obstinate refusal of all explanation as a proof of his guilt, yet,

seeing that in every thing else his motives and his actions were

different from those of ordinary men, he judged that it might be the

same in this instance also. "I will try extraordinary means with him,

too," thought Manners; "and perhaps I may gain more by it than by

following the dictates of rigid duty to the letter."

"Why will you not explain?" he added, aloud. "It would save both you

and me from many a painful occurrence."

"Because I will not be compelled to any act under the sun!" answered

the gipsy, who had only taken advantage of the degree of freedom which

he now possessed to raise himself upon his arm.

"Then you shall not be compelled!" answered Manners, to whom his

answer had given the right key to his obduracy--"then you shall not

be compelled! but you shall be persuaded. Stand up, Pharold, and

listen to me, as to one who does not feel towards you as you would

make yourself believe that all our race do towards yours. You have

seen my conduct--you see it now; and you must judge of me better than

you lately did."

The gipsy hung his head. "You have kept your word with me," he

answered. "You have brought me to a place where no odds could be found

against me; and you have vanquished with your own weapons at your own

trade. What more?"

"I have spared you when I might have hurt you," replied Manners; "and

now I let you go free when I might make you a prisoner--"

"You let me go free!" cried the gipsy, in a tone of

astonishment--"you let me go free! and without conditions, too?"

"Without any conditions," answered Manners, "but such as your own

heart shall lay upon you, when you have heard all that I have to say

to you."

"Then you, too, are one of the few noble hearts," answered the gipsy,

rising; "and I have done you injustice."

"There are more noble hearts in the world," Manners rejoined, "than

you know of, my friend. But listen to me, and let me see if yours be a

noble heart too. Edward de Vaux is, or was, my friend and my companion

in arms. We have stood by each other in battle; we have attended each

other in sickness; we have delivered each other in danger; and, had he

been my brother, I could not have loved him better. I find that, the

night before last, he left his home when all the family were at rest;

that he went to visit one with whom he had no known acquaintance or

business; and that he never returned to those he most loved. Was it

not natural for me to search for him with all the rapidity in my

power?"

"It was! it was!" answered the gipsy; "and I have judged you harshly."

"I did search for him," continued Manners; "and I found, by footmarks

in the earth, that he had gone with the stranger whom he had visited

to a lonely quarry, and that from that spot his footsteps are not to

be traced. This afforded some cause for suspicion and apprehension;

but when the place where his steps disappeared was all stained and

dabbled with blood, what was I to think?--what was I to do?"

"To think that he was murdered, and to pursue the murderer," answered

Pharold, boldly; "and I have done you wrong: but the habit of

suffering injustice and indignity from your race irritates ours into

believing that you are always unjust; and, in this instance, the

consciousness of my own innocence, too, hid from my eyes one-half of

the appearances against me."

"You judge wisely, and you judge well," answered Manners. "There were

strong appearances against you; and there were also many minor facts

which swelled those appearances into proof so positive of my friend's

death and of your guilt, that I should have been unworthy of the name

of his friend--unworthy of the name of a man--if I had not pursued you

as I have done."

"You would!" answered the gipsy.

"And yet, notwithstanding all this," continued Manners, "I tell you,

honestly, that I believe you innocent. I may be foolish to do so--the

prepossession may be false--the motives for such belief may be slight;

but yet that belief is strong. With powerful evidence against you I

felt convinced of your innocence; and, with the power to take you, I

let you go free."

Manners paused for a moment, and the gipsy, with his hands clasped and

his eyes bent upon the ground, remained silent, buried, apparently, in

deep thought. "Now," continued Manners, after suffering him to revolve

what he had said for a few moments--"now, I have spoken to your

understanding, and I have shown you that my conduct in pursuing you

has been fully justifiable, and that I am not one of those unjust and

ignorant fools who entertain a base prejudice against the whole of

your race, which but serves to drive them on to acts of reckless evil.

I have treated you generously--I have not consulted even rigid duty;

and leaving you free to act, I now speak to your heart."

"Speak on! speak on!" said the gipsy. "You speak language that I love

to hear."

"I have told you," said Manners, "how I esteem Edward de Vaux; I have

told you how intimate have been the bonds that united us--how dear the

friendship that we felt; judge, then, of my feelings now, as I stand

before you, not knowing whether he be dead or alive, well or ill,

murdered or in safety. But hear me further.--There is every reason to

believe him lost for ever; and in that belief, not only I, his friend,

must remain, but all who loved him--all to whom he is bound by the

dearest ties; and I leave you to conceive the agony of suspense which

they now endure. Mrs. Falkland--her daughter, whose life you have so

lately saved--De Vaux's father, Lord Dewry--"

The gipsy started, clenched his white teeth, and shaking his hand

furiously towards the sky, exclaimed, "May the vengeance of God fall

like a thunderbolt on his head, and wither his heart to ashes!"

"Well, well!" said Manners, seeing that he had struck a wrong chord,

"pass him by; for there are others more interested than he, than I,

than any of us. There is a young lady, fair, and gentle, and delicate,

beloved by all who know her, blessed by the poor and the afflicted,

the ornament of her house, the delight of her friends; and to her own

immediate family, the cherished, the beloved relic of a noble, a

generous, a feeling parent early snatched away--of a parent whom I

have heard that you yourself esteemed and loved--of the late Lord

Dewry, I mean; for the lady I refer to is Miss De Vaux."

"What of her? what of her?" demanded the gipsy eagerly: "but I guess!

I guess!"

"It is easy for you to imagine what she must feel," said Manners. "She

has been, as probably you know, engaged to her cousin De Vaux for

several years, and they have loved each other through life. Their

affection has grown up with them from childhood, and has been

strengthened by every tie, till at length their marriage, which was

appointed to take place in a few weeks, was to have united them for

ever. Judge, then--judge what must be her feelings now; but I will not

attempt to tell you what those feelings are--I will only tell you in

what situation she now is, and leave you to judge for yourself. This

very evening, the medical man who is attending her, assured me that

the anxiety and apprehension which she has suffered on account of her

cousin, have already seriously impaired her health; and that great

fears, even for her life itself, are to be entertained, if this state

of mental agony is not soon put an end to by certainty of some kind."

"That alters the whole," cried the gipsy--"that alters the whole! But

let me think a moment--let me think!"

"Yes!" said Manners; "think of it,--and think well!--think what must

be the feelings of a young and affectionate heart, which, early

deprived of the sweet relationships of parent and child, had fixed

all its best and warmest affections upon one who well deserved its

love,--had concentrated upon him alone all those feelings of

tenderness and regard which are generally divided among a thousand

other objects; and which had so lately seen him return from scenes of

danger and strife to peace and quietness, and, as all fancied, to love

and domestic happiness;--think what must be the feelings of such a

heart, when the object of all her thoughts and hopes is suddenly and

strangely torn from her--when every trace of him is lost, but such as

naturally and strongly lead the mind to conclude that death of a

bloody and violent nature is the cause of his prolonged and

extraordinary absence.--Think--think well what must be the feelings of

Miss De Vaux, his promised bride--think what must be my feelings, as

his companion and friend; and, if your heart be other than of stone,

sure I am that you will instantly afford the means--if you possess

them--of removing all these cruel doubts and fears, and relieving our

anxiety, at least by certainty of our friend's fate."

"You need say no more!" said the gipsy--"you need say no more! I will

remove your fears upon easy conditions.--I had not foreseen all this.

Like a fool, I had not remembered that events, which seemed to me all

simple and clear, because I was an actor in them and saw them all,

would produce such anxiety and fear to those who saw no more than the

result; but I have been moved by many another feeling, and occupied by

many another event. I have seen men bring ruin on their own heads and

mine, by following their own wilful follies rather than my counsel and

command; and I have seen a thoughtless and innocent boy entrapped into

becoming the sacrifice for the guilty and the obstinate. I have been

called upon to punish the offenders, and to endeavour to rescue the

innocent; and I have been hunted through this livelong day like a wild

beast;--so that I may well have forgot that circumstances, very simple

in themselves, might fill others that knew not all, with strange fears

and suspicions; but besides that--besides that--I had other motives

for not telling what I knew.--Those motives are now shaken by stronger

ones; and for the sake of Marian de Vaux, I will say what I would not

have said for the sake of my own life; but it must be on certain

conditions."

"Name them," said Manners; "and if they be not very hard to fulfil,

doubt not that I will undertake them."

The gipsy paused, and thought for several minutes, and he then

replied, "I will, as I have said, put you in the way of finding your

friend, Edward de Vaux; and you will find him--if not well--at least

in kindly hands. But now mark me. The person with whom he is has

lately come over from America with private views and purposes of his

own, yet doubtful and unresolved whether he will proceed with them or

not. Were his residence in England known to any one, it might force

him either to execute the designs with which he came sooner than he

intended, or perhaps prevent him from changing those designs, though

other circumstances may render such a change necessary; or still

further--"

"In short," said Manners, "he is desirous of remaining concealed; and,

as far as I know, has every right to do so, without my inquiring at

all into his motives. But you forget, my good friend, that there is as

little chance of my knowing this person of whom you speak, as of my

betraying him if I did."

"You are wrong," said the gipsy; "there is every chance of your

knowing him; you have seen him I know, and esteem him I am sure; and,

what I have to require is this, if, by my means, you find Edward de

Vaux, and recognise the person now kindly tending him, you shall not,

upon any pretence, or to any person whatsoever, reveal his real name

and character. You shall recognise him merely as the person that he

chooses to call himself, and speak of him as none other."

"Of course! of course!" answered Manners; "he shall keep the

incognito, for anything that I may do to the contrary, as long and as

strictly as he likes."

"But, one thing more," said the gipsy, "one thing more,--you shall, on

no account whatever, lead--or give such information as may lead--the

father of Edward de Vaux to the place where his son is."

"That is somewhat extraordinary," said Manners; "but I suppose, of

course, that this person to whom you allude is Lord Dewry's enemy."

"He was once his friend," said the gipsy, "and, perhaps, now that lord

may speak of him as such, for there is no knowing by what terms his

deep and crafty spirit may designate the people whom he most hates.

Not a week ago he gave me gold, and would fain have made me think he

loved me; but I knew him to the heart, and I saw the serpent in his

eye."

Whatever Manners might think of the evident hatred, strong and

reciprocal, which existed between the peer and the singular person

with whom he now stood, he did not judge it expedient to risk the

advantages he had gained by defending Lord Dewry, especially as

circumstances placed the power of dictating the conditions in the

hands of the gipsy. "My acquaintance with De Vaux's father," he said,

"has been too short to acquire any knowledge of his real character."

"It would require years, long years," said the gipsy, "to know his

character as I know it--long, long years!--or one of those lightning

flashes of nature that sometimes, whether men will or not, burst from

the darkness in which they shroud themselves, and show at once the

deep secrets of their spirit."

"At all events," said Manners, "common humanity leads me to wish much

to inform the unhappy father of his son's safety, and doubtless your

conditions do not imply that I should refrain from such proceeding, as

soon as I have, with my own eyes, seen my poor friend's condition."

"In that respect, you shall be guided by him to whom I send you,"

answered Pharold. "It is sufficient for me to ensure, that the

confidence he has placed in me will be betrayed by no fault of

mine--that compassion for a gentle and innocent girl does not lead me

to risk defeating the plans of a man who trusts me. I know that when

you have pledged your word, you will hold it sacred. Your actions have

spoken for you! Will you accept the conditions?"

"I will!" answered Manners; "and only beg of you to conclude the

matter as fast as possible."

"Well, then!" said the gipsy, pointing through the valley towards the

line of the distant hills; "you see yon moon, just raising her golden

round behind the thin trees upon the upland. When she has risen ten

palms breadths upon the sky, you shall find me here again, and I will

lead you to him you seek."

"Nay, but," said Manners, "I thought you were about to conduct me

thither now."

"Doubt me not," said the gipsy, sternly, discovering at once that

suspicions, slight indeed, but newly awakened by the proposed delay,

were coming over the mind of his companion. "Doubt me not. By the God

that I worship, by the heavens his handiwork, by the life he gave me,

by the liberty I value more, I will not fail you. You have spared me

when you might have thrust me into a dungeon, and I would not deceive

you even by a thought."

"I believe you," answered Manners; "I believe you--only this, I am

very anxious, ere I return to Morley House, to be enabled to give some

account of him I seek; to be enabled, in short, to afford some comfort

to Edward de Vaux's family. Can we not proceed then at once?"

"No!" answered the gipsy. "I must think of my own race too. By the

unhappy occurrences of last night, my people have been scattered and

have fled for concealment, while I remained to see whether I could

find, or could deliver, the unfortunate prey, which those who laid the

trap for us had found in the snare. My companions know not yet where I

am; and I know not whether they are safe. Thus, ere I go farther, I

must see what have been the events of this day to those whom I am

bound to protect and guide."

"Be it so then," answered Manners; "but, at all events, you will allow

me to give De Vaux's family the assurance that he is living and is

safe."

"As far," said the gipsy, "as you dare to trust to my most solemn

assurance, he is living, and safe also, if you mean by that word that

he is free from restraint, and from any risk of injury; but that he is

well, you must not say; for he is ill in body and sick at heart; and

it may be long ere he is cured of either."

"That is bad enough, indeed," answered Manners; "but it is so much

better than the events, which we had reason to believe had occurred,

that the bare fact of his being in a state of security will be an

infinite relief to those who love him. I will trust to your word

entirely, and both give the consolation which you have afforded to

those who will feel it most deeply, and be here at the time you

name, though I am not very much accustomed to calculate hours by

hands-breadths of the sky; and you must remember that, from Morley

House, the moon is seen in a different position from that in which she

appears here." The gipsy smiled, with a slight touch of contempt at

Manners's inexpertness in a mode of calculating the time, which was to

him familiar. "Well, well," he said, "be here in just two hours, and

you shall find me waiting you. In the meantime, rest at ease regarding

your friend, and speak securely the words of hope and comfort to his

family; and God be with you in your errand of peace. You have acted a

noble part to-night, and there is one that blesses those who do so."

Thus saying, he sprang down the bank to the spot where the sword,

which Manners's superior skill and strength had wrenched from his

grasp, was lying under a low bush. Pharold snatched it up, and was

about to return it to the sheath; but some sudden thought seemed to

cross his mind, and holding it up, he gazed upon it for a moment or

two in silence. "Accursed be thou!" he cried at length, in a bitter

tone. "Accursed be thou, false friend and faithless servant! to leave

thy master's hand at the moment of need!" and breaking the blade

across his knee, he cast the fragments down the hill, and strode away,

scarcely appearing to notice that Colonel Manners still stood gazing

at his wild and vehement behaviour.

Manners smiled as he turned to retread his steps; and perhaps that

smile might be occasioned by seeing the gipsy wreak his indignation at

the failure he had met with in their struggle upon the senseless

object which his hand had not been able to retain. Perhaps, too, he

might remark how all uncultivated people resemble children; but, at

all events, the tidings that he had heard of his friend's safety, and

his conviction that those tidings were true, had certainly given him a

much greater inclination to smile than he had felt when he came to

that spot.

As he thought, however, over all the circumstances, while bending his

way back once more to Morley House, he did not certainly find that his

situation was, in every respect, a very pleasant one. He had to

remember that the gipsy, Pharold, was charged with two other crimes

besides the assumed death of Edward de Vaux. In regard to the first of

these two, that of having been an accessary, or principal, in the

murder of the late Lord Dewry, Manners had but Mrs. Falkland's opinion

upon the subject to support his own doubts of the man's guilt. In

regard to the second, that of having participated in the outrage at

Dimden Park, and having fired the gun by which Sir Roger Millington

was wounded, Manners, after leaving the peer at Dimden, as we shall

almost immediately have occasion to show more particularly, had

visited the keeper who had been wounded in the affray, and from him

had learned sufficient to satisfy his mind that Pharold was guiltless

of any share in that unfortunate transaction. On that point,

therefore, his mind was satisfied; but, in regard to the other charge,

he did not feel at all sure that he was not liable to severe

animadversion for the lenity he had shown towards the gipsy.

"I do not know the laws of the land," he thought, with a half smile,

"quite well enough to be sure whether they may not make me out an

accessary after the fact, if ever this Pharold should be found guilty

of slaying his benefactor; but, at all events, if the good gossiping

world were to get hold of my having taken two or three moonlight walks

with him, and having let him escape when I had the power to apprehend

him, it would make a pretty story of it." However. Colonel Manners was

a man who had too much confidence in his own motives, and too much

reliance on what he called his good fortune, though others named it

his good judgment, to care much what the world said; and this was

probably one of the reasons why that world was well satisfied to load

him with praise and honour. He took his way back to Morley House,

therefore, tolerably satisfied with what he had done, thinking, "I

must now, however, try to soften down Mrs. Falkland's wrath and

indignation at my persevering rudeness this evening; but, doubtless,

the tidings I bring will prove no small propitiation."

To these thoughts he endeavoured to limit himself, though imagination

strove hard to lead him into a thousand rambling fancies concerning

the causes of De Vaux's disappearance. Manners, however, had a habit

of keeping his thoughts under proper discipline, and always prepared

to repel whatever force might attack them. Thus, as he knew, or at

least trusted, that a few hours would give him a thorough insight into

the real situation of Edward de Vaux, he would not give way on that

point, and tried to think of something else. But the light brigades of

fancy are like a troop of Cossacks, and the moment they are beaten off

at one spot, they wheel and attack another. When imagination found,

then, that Manners would not be drawn from his intrenchments by the

thoughts of De Vaux, she tried what she could do with the image of

Isadore Falkland; but Manners was prepared there, too, and had

reproached himself so bitterly with some slight beatings of his heart,

which had occurred during his last meeting with that fair lady, that

he resisted all thought upon the subject with the heroism of Leonidas.