Having thus reached Morley House in safety, Manners's first inquiry

was for Mr. Arden; but the old butler, with a look of solemn

importance, informed him that the magistrate had been gone about half

an hour, leaving a message, however, for Colonel Manners, to the

effect that, having some other business of much importance awaiting

his return, he could not have the honour of staying till Colonel

Manners arrived, but would come back early the following morning.

"That will do quite as well," answered Manners; and seeing that the

cloud of self-importance upon the old man's brow had not as yet quite

disgorged itself of its contents, he paused in order to hear what

next, and the butler proceeded: "Please, sir, Miss Marian--that is to

say, Miss De Vaux, but we always call her Miss Marian, to distinguish

from Miss Isadore--but Miss Marian sent her maid down just now to say,

that when you come back she wishes very much to see you herself, for

she desires to speak with you."

The man spoke in as mysterious a tone as if he were communicating a

state secret, but Manners who hated nothing on earth so much as

mystery, answered rather sharply, "Well, as you see I have returned,

you had better call Miss De Vaux's maid to take me to her mistress."

"Oh, Miss Marian, sir, is in the little drawing-room," replied the

butler: "she has been there these ten minutes, though Mrs. Falkland

does not know it, because she is with Miss Isadore, who fell into the

water, and wet her clothes, and had nearly been drowned, they do say;

but--"

Manners waited for no further information on subjects with which he

was already acquainted; but, walking up stairs, proceeded to what was

called the little drawing-room, and opened the door. Marian de Vaux

was sitting on a sofa, with her fair rounded cheek, grown many a shade

paler since Manners last saw it, leaning on her hand, and her arm

again resting on the table. Her head was slightly bent, and the hand

on which it leaned curved round at the wrist, with the fingers

dropping languidly under her cheek, and with weary hopeless anxiety in

every line. Her eyes, when Manners entered, were cast down, with a

drop like a diamond struggling through the long dark lashes; and the

light, falling from above, threw the greater part of her beautiful

face into shadow; but it fell clear and soft on her fair open

forehead, and on her brown hair, which, to save the trouble of much

dressing, was braided back behind her ears, but which still, by many a

wavy line and struggling bend across her brow, showed its natural

tendency to fall into ringlets round her face. An open book was on the

table before her; but it looked not as if she had been reading, for it

was turned in such a way that her eye could not possibly have

deciphered its contents.

She did not hear the door open; but Manners's first step in the room

caught her attention, and she raised her eyes. "Oh, Colonel Manners,"

she said, as soon as she saw him, "I am very glad you have come, for I

very much wished to speak with you; but I am afraid you are fatigued,

and perhaps may not have time to spare."

"Not at all," answered Manners, with a smile, which he intended to

prepare the way for better tidings. "Indeed, I think, Miss De Vaux,

that if you had not sent me an invitation, I should have sent to

petition one."

"The fact is, Colonel Manners," said Marian, "I wish to know the

truth. My dear aunt and my cousin, with the very kindest intentions,

keep the truth from me--at least, so I am led to believe by what my

maid has told me. Now, indeed, it would do me less harm, though they

do not think so, to tell me the whole at once; and I am sure, Colonel

Manners, that you will be kind enough to do so, when I assure you that

I am far better able to bear even the worst tidings than this

terrible, awful state of suspense."

Manners took her hand, and gazed in her face with a smile full of

kindness and hope, for he feared to make the change from grief to joy

too sudden, by speaking the happier news he now had to bear; but even

that was too much, and Marian's heart, as she read his smile aright,

beat with fearful violence; and, pale as ashes with emotion, she sunk

down again on the sofa, from which she had partially risen to speak to

him.

"I see that your fortitude is not half real," said Manners, seating

himself near her; "but let me entreat you to hear me calmly, my dear

Miss De Vaux."

"Oh, I will! I will, indeed!" cried Marian. "But, for Heaven's sake,

speak, Colonel Manners: you smile; and I know you would not smile on

one so wretched, if you had not some hope to give! Is it not so?"

"It is," answered Manners; "and delighted I am that now, for the very

first time, I can give it. But, indeed, you must be calm; for the

intelligence I have obtained is not so entirely good as to warrant our

indulging in any very great joy, though it may do away our worst

apprehensions."

"That is enough! that is enough!" cried Marian. "If they have not

murdered him, I can bear almost anything else with fortitude: but now,

for Heaven's sake, tell me all, for you see I can bear it with

calmness and composure."

"First, let me defend Mrs. Falkland and your cousin," replied Manners,

wishing, by a little delay, to give his fair hearer's mind time to

habituate itself to a change of feeling; for neither her look nor her

manner served at all to confirm the assurances of calmness and

composure which she gave him. "Let me defend Mrs. Falkland and your

cousin: they really could give you no precise information, for till

within the last half-hour none has been obtained."

"Oh, but they knew more than they let me know," cried Marian; "at

least, if my maid has told me true: but I trust it is not true; for I

cannot believe that Edward can be safe, if she spoke correctly; she

said you had found his footsteps, and blood, Colonel Manners, and the

place where he must have fallen." As she spoke, her countenance filled

with horror at the ideas she recalled, and she clasped her hands over

her eyes, as if to shut out some fearful sight.

Colonel Manners thought that the sooner such a lady's-maid was

discharged the better; but as he could not contradict the story the

woman had so imprudently told, he left it as it was, and replied, "Do

not, my dear young lady, call up such painful images, when I assure

you that there is no foundation for the supposition that your cousin

has suffered in the way our fears led us to imagine. My information,

as yet, is scanty; and, till tomorrow, you must not ask me even how I

have obtained it; but I have the most positive assurances that De Vaux

is safe, though ill."

"Thank God! thank God, for his safety, at least!" cried Marian; "but

are you sure, Colonel Manners--are you quite sure? I do not wish to

put any questions that you may not like to answer; but only tell me if

you yourself are quite sure of Edward's safety?"

"I am perfectly and thoroughly convinced," answered Manners, "that,

whatever may have been the accident which may have prevented his

return home, he is both in security, and attended with care and

kindness. Indeed, my very telling you the fact should make you feel

quite sure that my own conviction is firm; for, indeed, Miss De Vaux,

no inducement would make me hold out a hope to you, were I not sure of

that hope having a good foundation."

"Thank you! thank you!" replied Marian; and, with one of those sudden

bursts of tenderness which--springing from some secret action, either

of memory or imagination, without one spoken word or external

circumstance to call them forth--sometimes overpower us, when least we

expect it, she gave way to a gushing flood of tears, and, for a moment

or two, let the bright drops flow unrestrained. "You have not seen

him, then, Colonel Manners?" she said at length, wiping her eyes, and

looking up with a glance in which apprehension still contended a

little against joy.

"Not yet," Manners answered; "but I have received a solemn promise

that I shall be conducted to the place where he is this very night."

"Oh, let me go with you!" cried Marian, starting up.

"Nay, nay, I am afraid that would not do," answered Manners, smiling.

"Think what the world would say, my dear Miss De Vaux, if you were to

go wandering about, no one knows whither, through a long autumn night,

with no other escort than a colonel of dragoons."

Marian was won even to a smile; and, while it was yet playing round

her lips, and sparkling in her eyes, Mrs. Falkland entered the room,

not knowing by whom it was tenanted. "Marian! Colonel Manners!" she

exclaimed; "and both laughing, too! then some very happy change must

have come over our affairs."

"Oh, most happy, my dear aunt!" cried Marian: "Colonel Manners--and I

know not how to thank him--has discovered where Edward is, and that he

is safe."

"God be praised!" cried Mrs. Falkland; "but let me hear all about it,

for this is news indeed."

"In the first place," said Manners, willing, if possible, to escape

any very close cross-examination till he could speak with more

security on the many points of De Vaux's situation, which were still

doubtful--"in the first place, I have to apologize, my dear madam, for

some want of courtesy to-night when last we met; but you must remember

that I am but a rude soldier, and accustomed to think far more of what

I consider my duty than of what is polite; and I am sure that my good

news will gain me your forgiveness."

"If your perseverance have gained tidings of my poor nephew," answered

Mrs. Falkland, "my forgiveness for much graver offences--could Colonel

Manners commit them--would be but a poor recompense."

"I hope Miss Falkland has not suffered at all," continued Manners. But

Mrs. Falkland exclaimed, with a smile, "Not at all, I trust! but,

Colonel Manners, I will not be put off without an answer. You shall

not keep all your good news for Marian, and refuse to let me share.

What have you discovered?"

"Why, my dear madam," answered Manners, "I will tell you the candid

truth. I have discovered very little beyond the bare fact, that De

Vaux is in safety, though not well; and you must ask me no more

questions till I can give you satisfactory answers. I am to be

conducted to him, however, this very night, and within an hour of this

time. Miss De Vaux wished to go with me, and we were smiling to think

what sort of story the world would make of her taking a midnight walk

over the moors, and through the woods, with the ugliest colonel of

dragoons in his majesty's service."

"But are you obliged to go alone?" asked Mrs. Falkland.

"I rather think that is part of my compact," answered Manners; "and I

believe it must be on foot, too."

"And you were fatigued an hour ago," replied Mrs. Falkland; "and

though I, selfishly, cannot make up my mind to ask you to put off your

expedition till to-morrow, yet I must prevail on you to take some

refreshment." So saying, she rang the bell, and then went on: "I need

not ask who was your informant; and I feel equally certain that the

tidings are true, because you give them credit, and because you

derived them from him."

"Now, I am in the dark," said Marian, "both in regard to this person

you speak of and to Isadore. What made you believe she had suffered

from any accident, Colonel Manners, as you inquired of my aunt just

now?"

"I am afraid that the whole story would be too long to tell you at

this moment," answered Manners, while a footman appeared, and Mrs.

Falkland ordered some refreshments to be brought immediately,

"especially as you see I have to sup before I go; nor will I deny that

I need my supper, for, to tell the truth, I have not dined. But Mrs.

Falkland will relate our whole story of this evening when I am gone;

will tell you how your cousin escaped drowning by a miracle; and how

Colonel Manners behaved in a very rude and uncivil manner; and how at

length a compromise was entered into, which reflected more honour upon

his obstinacy than upon his politeness."

"No, no, Colonel Manners, I will not tell her such stories," answered

Mrs. Falkland. "I will tell her, perhaps, that Colonel Manners's duty

as an officer, and his feelings as a man, clashed with her aunt's duty

as a person of her word, and her feelings as a woman; that her aunt

did what she seldom does,--lost her temper; and that Colonel Manners

ended the matter wisely and well, and by his perseverance obtained

joyful tidings without a breach of faith."

"You are both speaking in mysteries to me," said Marian, rising; "so I

will go and make Isadore tell me the whole in less enigmatical

language. Where is she, my dear aunt?"

"She is in bed," answered Mrs. Falkland, "but not likely to go to

sleep."

"In bed!" exclaimed Marian; "then, indeed, it is time that I should go

and see her, for I do not ever remember Isadore having been in bed at

nine o'clock before, and something must be the matter."

Thus saying, she quitted the room; and left Colonel Manners to take

some refreshment, and to relate, the while, to Mrs. Falkland, as much

as he had time and inclination to tell of his adventure with the

gipsy.

"I fear no danger," he concluded, when he had ascertained by his watch

that the time appointed for his return was approaching--"I fear no

danger, and have every confidence in the extraordinary man who is to

be my guide; but, at the same time, it is always well to be prepared;

and, therefore, I shall not only exchange these heavy riding-boots for

something more fit for walking, but I will take the liberty of adding

a brace of pistols to back my sword in case of need." He then took

leave of Mrs. Falkland; and, after making the alteration he proposed,

once more sallied out, like the knight of La Mancha, with a heart

scarcely less chivalrous, though guided by a mind which happily had

power to restrain and direct the operation of his feelings. Here,

however, the thread of his adventures must be broken off for a while,

in order that we may leave no longer unfilled that void in his history

which now exists between the moment at which we last left him in

conversation with Lord Dewry, and that of his sudden reappearance at

Morley House.

CHAPTER VI.

At the end of the first chapter of this volume, it may be remembered,

that we left Lord Dewry sitting in the saloon of Dewry Hall with

Colonel Manners. Night had become morning before the messengers for

whom he waited arrived from Dimden; and when they did so, they brought

the tidings that his lordship's well-laid scheme had failed; that no

one had been taken by the keepers but a gipsy boy; and that Sir Roger

Millington, as well as one of the keepers, had been wounded--the first

seriously, the second but slightly. Manners had expected and believed

that the peer would both be disappointed and shocked; but a variety of

emotions naturally sprang from such tidings, in the situation in which

Lord Dewry had placed himself, which could not be understood or

calculated by any one unacquainted with all the dreary secrets of his

heart. He was disappointed, it is true, that Pharold had not been

taken; but he trusted that, with all the means employed against him,

the gipsy would not be able to escape.

Far from either shocked or sorry was he, however, that blood had been

spilt in the affray between the keepers and the gipsies, or that death

might ensue; for he saw that his grasp upon Pharold would thereby be

strengthened, though he could have wished, certainly, that the shot

which had been fired had found any other bosom than that of Sir Roger

Millington, from whom much good service remained still to be derived.

Such feelings, of course, produced some effect upon his behaviour,

especially as Colonel Manners's cordial co-operation in his plans,

without making him entirely forget the different principles upon which

they acted, had, in some degree, thrown him off his guard in regard to

the minor points of demeanour. The effect, indeed, was not so striking

as to lead Manners to suspect anything like the truth; but it was

sufficiently marked to call his attention--to appear strange and

unpleasant--and to make him think, "This is one of those pampered sons

of luxury, who only feel where their own immediate comforts are

concerned. He seems to care no more for the people who have been

wounded in his service than if they were things of wood."

After a few short comments on the means to be next employed, Manners

retired to the chamber prepared for him, and lay down to rest. He

rose betimes, however: but it was long ere the peer made his

appearance; for, exhausted with activity, and watching, and contending

passions--the most wearing of all the many assailants of life and

strength--he fell into a deeper slumber than he had known for many

years. At length he came, and at a late hour set out with Colonel

Manners for Dimden; but since the preceding night a change had come

over his feelings towards his companion. Then, in agitation, and

horror, and anxiety, he had clung to any one for the sake of society;

and more especially to one whose character and reputation gave him

confidence, and whose warm co-operation afforded support. Now,

however, he was going to hear from his agents the progress of dark and

subtle plans of which Colonel Manners knew nothing--to examine and

speak with persons whom he had engaged in proceedings equally cunning

and unjustifiable; and he could very well have dispensed with the

presence of one whose bold good sense was likely to search and see

further than might be at all convenient.

These feelings influenced his demeanour also; and although he could

not be absolutely rude to a person he had so lately courted, and who

was so perfectly independent of him in every respect, yet his manners

were throughout the journey sufficiently cold and repulsive to make

Manners determine to bring their companionship to a close as speedily

as possible. On their arrival at Dimden, the gipsy lad was sent for,

and a few casual questions asked him by the peer, which he repelled by

either obdurate silence or sullen monosyllables. This, however, was

what Lord Dewry for the present desired; but Colonel Manners was

resolved, if possible, to hear more, and he plied the prisoner with

every question which he judged likely to elicit some information

concerning his poor friend De Vaux. Little satisfactory news did he,

indeed, obtain; and, in fact, received no reply to the greater part of

his interrogations. Still the impression upon his mind, from one or

two occasional words which the lad was induced to speak, was strong,

that he at least was ignorant that De Vaux had been murdered, and

thence arose in Manners's mind the first reasonable hope that his

friend might still be living.

After the space of nearly an hour thus spent, the youth was removed.

The peer made no comment; but after looking out of the window, called

some of the servants, and inquired after Sir Roger Millington. The

reply was, that the knight suffered considerable agony, and that the

surgeon was with him still.

"Colonel Manners, you must excuse me for half an hour, while I visit

my unfortunate friend," said Lord Dewry, with a frigid bow. "My poor

son's death," he added, while his quivering lip, at the very mention

of his son's name, betrayed that on that subject, at least, his heart

was painfully sensible--"my poor son's death, of course, weighs

heavily upon me; but I must not forget my wounded friend. I do not

contemplate being detained longer than half an hour, and then I will

have the honour of setting you down at Morley House as I drive home."

"Do not hurry yourself, my lord," answered Manners, calmly: "I have

some inquiries to make concerning my poor friend, and the means that

have been taken to discover anything of his fate; and therefore, as I

sent my horse over to Morley House this morning, I will walk thither.

I wish you good-day."

As it was not the peer's wish or intention to deprive himself

altogether of Colonel Manners's influence and support in his further

measures against the gipsy--although he heartily desired his absence

for the time--he changed his tone in some degree, and pressed Manners

to stay; but took care, at the same time, to add such inducements as

he knew were not very likely to have any weight with him, assuring him

that the distance was full five miles, and the road fatiguing and

hilly.

Manners, however, as the peer expected, persisted in his design; and,

taking leave, he walked out into the park, while Lord Dewry left the

room, as if to proceed to the apartment of Sir Roger Millington.

Before following him, however, it may be as well to say, that Manners

did not direct his steps, in the first instance, to Morley House; but

thinking, "His lordship, in his concern for this Sir Roger Millington,

seems entirely to have forgotten the poor keeper they talked of," he

stopped at the gate, and inquired whither the wounded man had been

carried. The old woman at the lodge gave him the necessary direction;

and proceeding to the cottage which she described, Manners entered

with that sort of frank good feeling that stands on no ceremonies

where the object is humane.

He found the wounded keeper still suffering considerably; and he found

also, as he had been inclined to suspect, that the attention of the

surgeon having been hitherto occupied by the patient of higher rank,

the keeper had been entirely neglected. He was consequently more ill

and feverish than the nature of his wound would otherwise have

accounted for; and Manners, knowing, from much experience in such

occurrences, that if proper care were not taken, a slight injury might

have a fatal termination, instantly despatched a messenger for the

surgeon who was attending Miss De Vaux, and kindly waited his arrival.

In conversation with the keeper, he learned that Pharold had not been

present when the guns were fired, and from him, also, he heard the

particulars of the affray in Dimden Park, the wound the man had

received not having been sufficiently severe to deprive him of the

power of observing everything that occurred around him afterward. By

the whole of his narrative the character of Pharold rose in Manners's

opinion, and his hopes of De Vaux's safety were strengthened: but

still he determined to act as if such hopes did not exist; and

accompanying the surgeon on his late return to the village near Morley

House, he prepared to pursue the search for the gipsy as ardently as

ever. What followed his arrival we have already seen.

In the mean while Lord Dewry proceeded through the long and somewhat

dreary galleries of Dimden House to a distant apartment, but not to

the chamber in which the participator in his dark schemes lay on a bed

of agony and distress. The room he sought was solitary; and, ringing

the bell, he ordered Harvey, the head keeper, to be sent to him. The

man was already in the house, waiting his orders, and somewhat

apprehensive of his lord's displeasure at the failure of his plans.

But as long as Pharold was alive and free, there was a demon of fear

in the bosom of Lord Dewry that cowed the more violent passions of his

nature in the presence of those whom he used as his tools. The

consciousness of the designs in which he employed them made him treat

them gently, from vague but anxious surmises that, notwithstanding all

his care, they might suspect the motives of the plans they mingled

with.

Although, then, in his heart, he could have felled the keeper to the

earth for letting Pharold escape him. In addressed him mildly when he

presented himself. "Why, how is this, Harvey?" he said: "you have let

the game escape us. There must have been a fault somewhere."

"The fault was in the cursed cowardice of the fellows that were with

me, my lord," replied the keeper; "if they would but have followed me,

we should have taken the blackfaced villain any how. Two or three of

us might have got wounded, but no matter for that; we should have had

him safe here, if they would but have come on. But one fell back, and

another fell back; so that when I had got them up against the wall

there were but two with me, and two could do nothing against a good

dozen."

"Let me hear how the whole business took place," said the peer:

"remember that I have no full account of it from any one; and we must

try to remedy what has gone wrong."

The park-keeper was, of course, glad enough to tell his story in the

way that best suited him; and he related the events which we already

know according to his own particular version. The first error, he

declared, was, that several of the men whom he had hired for the

purpose of capturing the gipsies were too late at the rendezvous, and

several did not come at all. These disappointments, and the delay they

occasioned, had prevented his taking advantage of the moment when the

gipsies' guns were discharged after the slaughter of the deer, and, as

time lost is never regained, had caused the ultimate failure of his

whole plan. He assured the peer, however, that Pharold had been one of

the party engaged in the destruction of the game; and that he had been

active in the affray wherein Sir Roger Millington and the keeper had

been wounded. Some of the other men, he said, were not very clear

about these facts, but he was ready to swear to it. He then related

how the boy William had been seized by two of his party, who had been

detached for that purpose; and he added a long account of the measures

which he had taken in order to trace the gipsies in their flight.

"Is the keeper badly wounded?" demanded the peer, thoughtfully.

"He did not seem bad at first, my lord," replied the man; "but they

say he is much worse this afternoon, and his wife is afraid he will

die."

The peer muttered something between his teeth, which might be, "So

much the better;" but this sound reached Harvey's ears but

imperfectly, and Lord Dewry went on in a louder tone, "Poor fellow!

have you seen him, Harvey?"

"Not myself, my lord," answered the keeper; "but his wife came up to

see if the doctor could go down, and I spoke with her for a minute."

"Poor fellow!" said the peer; "but we must take care that his murderer

does not escape, Harvey. Have you thought of no way by which we can

catch him?"

"Why, he is a keen hand, that Pharold, my lord," replied the keeper;

"but I do think we can manage it, if your lordship likes to try."

"Try!" said Lord Dewry: "I will make him a rich and happy man, Harvey,

who brings that villain to justice. But how do you think it can be

managed?"

"Why, I scarcely know as yet, my lord," answered the keeper; "I have

had sure eyes upon some of the gipsy folks, and think I can make out

whereabouts they have gone to; but Pharold knows better than to go

with them. Besides, he was in the park there, not many hours ago, in

the broad daylight."

"Impudent villain!" cried the peer; "but what in the name of Heaven

could bring him there? Are you sure it was he?"

"I saw him with my own eyes, my lord," replied the keeper; "and had

nearly caught him with my own hands; for we had him pinned in between

seven and eight of us and the river: but without minding us more than

if we had been rabbits, he took to the water like a hard-run fox, and

swam the river outright."

Lord Dewry paused; for there was something in the daring hardihood of

the gipsy congenial to the bold and fearless spirit which had animated

himself in early years; and he felt a sort of stern admiration which

even hatred could not quell. At length, however, he repeated, "But

what could bring him here? He could not be fool enough to come for the

sole purpose of daring his pursuers."

"No, no, my lord," answered Harvey. "He came after this boy that we

caught, I dare say. The boy may be a bit of a relation, or, at all

events, a friend; and they did not know what had become of him, for

he was taken apart. Now, my lord, I was thinking--if, might be so

bold--that one might, perhaps, turn this boy to some account, and get

him--do you see, my lord?"

The mind of the peer had been so long habituated to revolve dark and

tortuous schemes, that it was apt and ready to comprehend the

significant word, or half-spoken hint, which often forms the language

of those who are afraid to give their purposes full utterance. Thus he

gained an instant insight into the nature of the plan which the keeper

had conceived, although he saw not the details; and he answered, "I do

see, Harvey, I do see! That is to say, I see what you mean; but I do

not see how it is to be managed. If the boy had any means of

communicating with his own gang, he might, perhaps, lure the chief

villain of the whole into our net; but we know not where they are, and

he, in all probability, is still more ignorant."

"I know well enough where a part of them are," answered the keeper.

"Some went down towards the water, and I cannot trace them: but some,

for a certainty, went across the common to the Dingley wood, where

they are still, I am sure; and I should not wonder if the others soon

joined them, for it is uncommon what a fancy those gipsies have for

sticking to each other, especially in misfortune; and I should not

wonder if they were to hang about here till they hear what becomes of

this lad. He may be Pharold's son, for any thing I know."

"Would that he were! would that he were!" cried the peer, vehemently,

the memory of his own son crossing the confused crowd of other

thoughts that pressed upon his brain. "Would that he were! I would

find the means to wring his heart. But still," he added, after pausing

for some moments on the pleasant thoughts of revenge--"but still the

boy is cut off from all communication with them."

"But we can let him have some, if your lordship pleases," said the

keeper. "If your lordship remembers, I told you of a man named Harry

Saxon, who always has a good deal to do with poachers and such like,

and who put these gipsies up to the deer-stealing. Now we could let

him get speech of the boy; and if any one heard of it, we would say it

was only to see whether he could swear to the youth, and he would soon

take any message to his people for him."

"But will he undertake the task? and can we depend upon him?" asked

the peer.

"Why, ye--s, my lord, I think we may," answered Harvey, thoughtfully.

"He's a good sort of a man enough; and besides, I rather think I could

send him across the water to Botany, if I liked, for something I saw

him do one day, and he knows it too; and so he is always very civil

and obliging to me."

"Well may he be so," replied the peer, with a curling lip. "But can

you get at him soon? There's no time to be lost in such a business."

"I can get at him in a minute," answered the keeper; "for he came up

to my house about an hour ago; and he is in a bit of a fright about

all this bad business of the shooting. So I told him to stay there

till I had seen your lordship, and I would tell him how things went

when I came back."

"Go and bring him then," said the peer quickly--"go and bring him--yet

stay a moment, Harvey. Let me consider what is to be done when he does

come. He is to be admitted to speech of this gipsy lad; and what

then?"

"Why, my lord, I dare say the boy can be frightened into sending a

message to Pharold to come down and help him out."

"No, no, no," said the peer, "it must be better arranged than that.

Let me see. The windows of the strong room look out into the close

wood, and any one from the outside could saw away the iron bars. Yes,

that will do. But the lad himself must be tutored in the first place.

Quick, then, Harvey, go and bring your friend; and in the meantime I

will see the boy alone. Do not come in till you hear that I have sent

for you."

The keeper retired, and the peer again rang the bell, to direct that

the young gipsy should be brought before him once more. His orders

were promptly obeyed, and two stout fellows appeared, with the

prisoner between them.

"Leave him with me," said the peer, as soon as they had brought him

two or three steps forward in the room. The men, who had calculated on

enjoying all the pleasures of a cross-examination, and who had even in

their hearts formed the aspiration that they hoped his lordship would

pump him well, stared with some mortification at being excluded from

witnessing the mental torture of their fellow-creature; but Lord

Dewry, who read something of the kind in their countenances, not only

repeated his command, but bade them wait at the end of the adjoining

passage till they were joined by Harvey, the head keeper. There was no

resource; and therefore they obeyed, shutting the door, and leaving

the peer face to face with the captive.

The gipsy youth might be eighteen or nineteen years of age; that

season of life when enjoyment is in its first freshness; when all the

world is as bright, and as sweet, and as sparkling as a summer

morning; when imagination and passion are setting out hand in hand

upon the ardent race that soon wearies them, and when memory follows

them quick, gathering up the flowers that they pluck and cast away as

they go, but not as yet burdened with any of the cares, or sorrows, or

disappointments which they are destined to encounter in the end: he

was, in fact, at that age when life is the sweetest. His form was full

of nascent vigour, and his face was fine; but his whole countenance,

though speaking, by its variety and play of feature, active

imagination, and perhaps a degree of enterprise, betrayed a sort of

uncertain, undecided expression, which is never to be seen in the face

of the firm and the determined. The peer gazed on him for a moment,

seeing all, and calculating all, in order to work upon his prisoner's

mind by both his circumstances and his weaknesses.

"You are very young," he said at length, in a tone of stern

gravity--"you are very young to be engaged in crimes like these. What

is your age?"

That sort of dogged sullenness, half shyness, half hatred, which a

contemned and separate race are from their infancy taught by nature to

display towards their oppressors, was the only source of resistance in

the character of the young gipsy, whose powers of resolution were

naturally small, and whose mind was unfortified by firm and vigorous

principles of any kind. It was sufficient in the present instance,

however, to keep him silent; and he stood, with his dark eyes fixed

upon the ground, and his arms hanging by his side, apparently as

unmoved as if the peer had addressed him in a language that he did not

comprehend.

"You are very young," repeated Lord Dewry, after waiting some time in

vain for an answer--"you are very young to be engaged in crimes like

these. Life must be sweet to you: there must be a thousand pleasures

that you are just beginning to enjoy, a thousand hopes of greater

pleasures hereafter; there must be many friends that you grieve to

part with--and some," he added, seeing the youth's lip quiver--"and

some that, doubtless, you love beyond anything on earth."

A tear rolled over the rich brown cheek of the gipsy boy, and betrayed

that he not only understood what was said to him, but felt every word

at his heart's core, as the peer, with barbarous skill, sought out

every fresh wound in his bosom, and tearing them open one by one,

poured in the rankling poison of insincere commiseration. "Ah!"

continued Lord Dewry, "it is sad and terrible, indeed, to think of

being--at the very moment when one is the happiest--at the very moment

when one loves one's friends the best--at the very moment, perhaps,

when all our hopes are about to be fulfilled--to think of being cut

off from them all, and to die a horrid and painful death! and yet such

must be your fate, my poor boy; such must be inevitably your fate, as

a punishment for the murder committed in my park last night."

"I murdered no one," cried the youth, with a convulsive sob, that

nearly rendered what he said unintelligible. "I murdered no one."

"But your companions did," answered the peer, glad to have forced him

into breaking silence. "You were not present, it is true; but you

trespassed on my park for evil purposes with those who did commit

murder, and are therefore an accessary to the deed. Banish all hope,

poor boy; for to-morrow I must certainly commit you to the county

jail, from which you will only go to trial and to execution. I am

sorry for you, I grieve for you, to think that you must never see

again those you love; that you must be cut off in the prime of youth

and happiness--I grieve for you, indeed."

"Then why do you not let me out?" cried the lad. "If you grieve for

me, let me run away."

"That is impossible," answered the peer; "but perhaps I may do

something to make your fate less bitter. Death you must undergo; but

in the mean time I may soften the strictness of your imprisonment. Is

there any one whom you would wish to see--any of your friends and

companions who might comfort you by coming to visit you?"

"What is the use, if I must die?" said the gipsy, sullenly, dropping

his tearful eyes to the ground, and clenching tighter his clasped

hands together; but Lord Dewry saw that there was something more

working in his mind, and warily held his peace. "There is none I

should like to see but Lena," said the gipsy at length, with a deep

sigh; "and Pharold would not let her come, even if I were to ask."

"And why not?" demanded the peer, affecting as much unconcern as it

was possible for him to assume when coming near the very subject of

his wishes. "Why would any one prevent her from coming, if it would

comfort you? He must be very cruel to deny you, when you have so short

a time to live."

"No, he is not cruel," said the youth; "he is hard, but not cruel; but

he would not let her come, do you see, because a year ago I was to

have had Lena for my wife--at least so Mother Gray always told me: but

then Pharold loved her; and though her own love did not lie that way,

her mother, when she was dying, herself gave Lena to him, because he

was better able to take care of her than any one else. And he does not

love to see Lena speak to me, I know."

"So he took your bride from you," said the peer, not a little

delighted to hear tidings which promised so fairly for success; "he

took your bride from you, and now he is jealous of you. Well, then,

listen to me, and mark well what I am about to say. Your fate is in

your own hands. You are left to choose between life and death!"

The youth gazed dully in his face for a moment, as if he did not

comprehend his words at first; but the next instant he burst forth,

"Life, life, life, then!" cried he, clasping his hands together, and

raising his eyes beaming with new hope: "life, oh, I choose life!"

"There is but one way, however," replied the peer, "by which you can

obtain it. This Pharold, this very man who took away your bride, I

have every reason to believe killed my brother and murdered my son."

"Then that is the way he gets money, no one knows how," cried the

youth.

"Most probably it is," answered Lord Dewry; "but mark me, if you can

contrive a means to get him into my power, you shall not only go free,

but have a large reward. This is your only chance for life."

The lad's countenance fell in a moment. He was young, and the better

spirit was the first to act. "No, no," he cried; "I hate Pharold, but

I will not betray him."

"Then you must die," said the peer, sternly.

The better spirit was still predominant: no image presented itself to

the youth's mind but that of betraying the chief of his tribe. He

thought not for the moment of the loveliness of life, he thought not

of the horrors of death, he remembered not either love or hate, in the

strong impression of a duty which had been fixed in his heart from

childhood; and he answered in a low sad tone, "Then die I will."

"But think," said the peer, who had anticipated the first effect of

his proposal, and reserved every stronger inducement, every palliating

argument, to tempt and to excuse the unhappy youth, when the immediate

impression was over--"think what it is you choose--imprisonment in a

close room by yourself for several days; then trial and condemnation,

and then death upon a gibbet, with nobody to comfort you, nobody to

speak to you; but you must go through the horror, and the agony, and

the shame all alone and unsupported." The boy shuddered, and the peer

proceeded, changing the picture, however:--"This is what you choose.

Now what is it you cast away?--life, and happiness, and more wealth

than ever you knew, and most probably the possession of the girl you

love best upon the earth."

The peer was experienced in temptations; for he had undergone and

yielded to them himself, and he knew, by the dark histories of his own

heart, all the wiles and artifices by which the fiend lures on

successfully even the firm and the determined to acts at which they

have shuddered in their days of innocence.

The young gipsy listened, and hesitated, and felt all his resolutions

give way; but so fearful was the struggle in his bosom, that his limbs

trembled and his teeth chattered as if he had been shaken by an ague.

The keen eye that was upon him, however, did not fail to mark and

understand his emotion; and Lord Dewry proceeded, "Well may Lena think

you love her but little, when you scruple, by a few words, to break

the hateful bonds that tie her to this murderer Pharold, and when you

have the power to make her your own, yet refuse to use it."

"But I tell you," cried the boy, vehemently, "that Lena would never

consent; that even if she were to know that I had done such a thing

she would hate me and curse me; that I should be driven forth from my

people, and never see her more."

"But neither she nor any one else," replied the peer, "need ever know

one circumstance about it. If you will undertake to do what I wish, I

will tell you a plan by which it may be accomplished, without any

being on the earth knowing it but you and I."

"But if Pharold should be innocent," said the youth, "the guiltless

blood would be upon my hand, and it would curse me."

"But if Pharold be innocent, his blood shall not be shed," replied the

peer: "let him prove his innocence, and he shall go as free as you;

but he cannot prove his innocence, for he is guilty; and you, in

delivering him up, do but what is right and good; you do but avenge

the innocent blood he has shed, though at the same time you gain for

yourself life, and liberty, and happiness, and the girl that you

love."

"Well, well, well!" cried the boy, "tell me what it is I am to do."

"Will you undertake it?" demanded the peer, eagerly.

"If," answered the gipsy--for probably there was never yet a crime

committed, in regard to which the criminal did not propose some

palliating motive, in order to deceive his own heart at the time, and

to calm the anticipated reproaches of his conscience thereafter--"if

you will promise, by God and the heavens, that, if Pharold is

innocent, you will let him go free."

Lord Dewry paused for an instant. It is strange, but no less true than

strange, that the mind not only habituates itself to evil, but

habituates itself to a particular course of evil, and the same person

who will boldly reiterate a crime to which he is accustomed, will

start at a much less heinous offence, if it be new to his habits.

Thus, Lord Dewry paused for an instant ere he swore to a promise which

he intended to evade; but he soon remembered that, in the course which

he was pursuing, there was no halting at so airy a thing as an oath;

and he replied, "By all that is sacred, he shall go free, if he proves

himself innocent."

"Well, then," said the youth, "I will do what you wish; but, oh, if

you deceive me!"

"Deceive you in what?" demanded the peer. "I have promised that, if he

prove himself innocent, he shall of course go free: it is but just."

"But it was not of that I spoke," said the gipsy: "I thought if you

were to deceive me into trapping Pharold, and then not to let me go

myself!"

"On my honour! on my soul!" cried the peer, with a ready vehemence,

which convinced the youth more easily than would have been possible,

if he had known how often men pledge their honour and their soul when

the real jewels are no longer theirs--when their true honour has been

lost for years, and their soul pawned deeply to an eternal foe.

"Well, well," he answered, "I will do it. Tell me how it is to be

done."

"Tell me first," said the peer: "this Pharold--he is jealous of you,

it seems?" The boy smiled faintly. "Will he, then, take sufficient

interest in your fate to attempt to rescue you, if he thinks there is

a probability of success?"

"That he will!" answered the youth; "besides, if I could get at Lena,

she would persuade him. But how can I get at her? She will not come

here, and I cannot go to her."

"But do you think that if you were to send a message to her," demanded

Lord Dewry, "that she would try to persuade him to attempt your

rescue, and that she has influence enough to work him to her purpose?"

"That she has, that she has," answered the gipsy: "Pharold often gives

her a cross word; but when she likes to try, she can always get her

own way, for all that. But how can I send a message to her? I know not

where she is, nor where Pharold is; though once, as I looked out

through the bars of the window this morning, I thought I saw him

through the gray mist, standing under the distant trees, and watching

the house. But they may have gone far before this time; yet, if you

were to let me out for a few hours, I would soon find them."

"We will seek a better way," answered the peer, without taking any

further notice of the simple cunning with which the youth spoke. "I

hear from my gamekeepers that a man from one of the neighbouring

villages has been inquiring for you, and most likely he knows where

your friends and companions are. Now, as you promise to do what I ask,

he shall be admitted to see you, and you must send to Lena whatever

message you think will induce her to persuade Pharold to come to your

rescue."

"Yes," said the boy; "but I must first know how he can rescue me, for

Pharold will never come unless he thinks it likely. Ay, and the story

must be a clever one, too; for he is as cunning as a sentinel-crow,

and smells powder at a mile's distance."

"I must leave you to frame the story as you think best," replied the

peer; "but you can tell your fair Lena that if Pharold will come to

your prison-window with a sharp file or a sledge-hammer, he can easily

set you free by breaking the bars of iron that cross the opening. You

may add, that there is never any one on that side of the house all

night, and so that he will be perfectly safe."

The lad hung down his head; and the hot blood of shame, as he thought

of what he was undertaking, rushed from his heart to his cheeks. There

was again a momentary struggle, but the good had been conquered once

already; and the thought of life, and Lena, and happiness, and freedom

from the oppressive terror that weighed down his heart in his prison,

got the better of everything besides; and he replied, "But what shall

I do if they thrust the file and the sledge-hammer through the bars to

me, and bid me work for myself?"

Lord Dewry instantly saw the validity of the youth's objection, and

the probability that Pharold, instead of coming himself, would send

some woman or some child with the implements which might be necessary

for setting the prisoner at liberty. "You must tell them," he said,

after some minutes' thought, "that you are so tied that you cannot cut

through the bars for yourself."

"But the man who gives them the message will see that I am not tied,"

replied the youth; and, after pausing for a few moments, he added,

"No, no; I have thought of a better way. I will not trust him with any

particulars: I will bid him ask Lena and Mother Gray to work Pharold

to get me out; but, at all events, for some one of them to come down,

and speak with me through the bars to-night, and then I can make them

do what I want. But you must let them go, remember!" he exclaimed.

"You must not stop the women if they come."

"I shall certainly stop none but Pharold," answered the peer: "the

rest may come and go as they like. But only do not you trifle with me;

for be you sure that you shall not only not have your liberty, but

that, if Pharold be not in my power before to-morrow night is over,

you shall be sent to the county-jail for instant trial."

"And how," said the youth, whose shyness was fast wearing away--"and

how am I to get my liberty when Pharold is in your power?"

"The door shall be set open," answered the peer, "and you shall go out

freely."

"But how can I be sure of that?" he demanded again.

"You may keep us both, for aught I know. Will you write it down? for I

have heard that you Englishmen are more bound by what is written than

by what is said."

Lord Dewry again paused for a moment, somewhat embarrassed; but after

revolving the probable consequences in his mind for some time, he

replied, "I will write it down, if you require it."

"Do--do, then," said the youth; and the peer, ringing the bell,

ordered writing-materials to be brought. As soon as they arrived, he

sat down, and drew up a promise, artfully couched in such terms as he

felt sure could not, in the slightest degree, implicate his character

or betray his real views, if ever it should be produced against him.

"As the prisoner," so the writing ran, "now in custody at Dimden,

is apparently only an accessary, and not a principal, in the crime

lately committed at this place, I hereby promise him, on condition of

his placing in the hands of justice the notorious felon Pharold,

against whom various warrants have issued, at present unsuccessfully,

that he shall be immediately set at liberty, as soon as he has

accomplished the same. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my

hand, this---- day of ----," &c. &c.

The youth's eyes sparkled as he read; and the prospect of liberty and

safety which opened before him blotted out at once from memory the

dark and villanous step which he must take to reach them. "I will do

it! I will do it!" he cried; "but you must let me do it my own way,

for I must not let anyone in the whole world know that it is my doing.

It must seem that he is taken by accident, while helping me, and that

I have made my escape in the meantime; and then I shall be free, and

Lena will be mine!" And the youth clapped his hands in the vehemence

of reawakened hope.

"Well, well," said the peer, his anxiety for his ultimate object

coming eagerly upon him as soon as his immediate purpose was

accomplished--"well, well, the man I spoke of shall have admittance to

you immediately. But, remember, you must lose no time; for the longest

space I can afford you is this night and to-morrow night."

"Some of the women will come to me to-night," answered the youth; "and

to-morrow night, fear not, Pharold shall stand under the window of the

prison-room, some time between the rising of the moon and the sun. So

watch well, and if you take him not it is your own fault."

"So be it, then," said the peer; "and now you must return to speak

with the person I mentioned, who shall soon be sent to you." Thus

saying, Lord Dewry called back the two men who had brought the young

gipsy thither; and, after bidding them take him back to the strong

room, told them, in his hearing, as an earnest of his good-will, to

let him have everything that could render him comfortable in strict

imprisonment. As soon as the men appeared, the boy resumed his look of

sullen shyness; and, hanging his head, followed them in silence from

the room.

The moment he had departed, the peer sent to inquire for the keeper,

who had not yet returned, however; and Lord Dewry was kept for a short

time under the irritation of his own impatient spirit. At length

Harvey appeared, followed by his confederate, Harry Saxon; and it

would have given sincere pleasure to a disciple of Lavater to see how

well this worthy's countenance corresponded with his actions.

He was a man of about five-and-forty, and what many people would call

a good-looking man; that is to say, he had a fresh country complexion,

a high large nose, with small nostrils, a capacious mouth, furnished

with white and regular teeth, a small keen black eye, under a very

overhanging and observing brow, a forehead low, but broad, and

surmounted with a layer of fine jet-black hair, smoothed down, and

polished with the most careful and scrupulous precision. His dress,

without being exactly that of a gamekeeper, had a sufficient portion

of the style usually attributed to that class to show his hankering

after the beasts of the field. His coat was green, and on the buttons

thereof appeared, not alone the fox, that most sagacious animal, but a

variety of birds and beasts, so comprehensive in their number, and so

limited in their kind, that his garment formed a very excellent

hieroglyphical abstract of the game act. Leathern gaiters, with small

round leathern buttons, cased a pair of sturdy legs, and defended them

from the brambles of those paths he most frequented; and a pair of

hedger's gloves upon his hands seemed well calculated to grope for

springes and gins amid the thorny ways of life.

The peer surveyed him, as he entered, with the keen eye of worldly

experience, and saw that he was a man to be depended on by those who

could pay him well. After a brief question or two, to which the other

replied with sly significance, the peer explained to him the

ostensible object he had in view; namely, that of securing the

apprehension of a gipsy felon called Pharold, by the instrumentality

of the boy they had taken on the preceding night, and asked him if he

were willing to undertake the part he was to play, and to perform it

carefully.

"You are, I hear," he added, with some degree of irony, "in some way

acquainted with these gipsies, and may, therefore, not like to bring

one of them to justice. If it be so, speak, and we will find some

other person."

"No, no, my lord," answered the man. "A gipsy! why, I hate a gipsy!

they come in and spoil every thing like the regular trade. No, no,

hang 'em all for me."

Lord Dewry did not pause to inquire what Harry Saxon called the

regular trade; but replied, "Well, if such be your opinion, go in and

speak to this lad. Do not let him know that you have had any

conversation with me upon the subject; but offer to do anything for

him that you can; and when you have heard what he has to say, come

back and let me know the result."

The peer added an injunction to be quick; and Harry Saxon was

conducted, by his worthy associate Harvey, to the strong room in which

the gipsy lad had been confined.

The chamber would have been in every respect a comfortable one, had

not the doors and windows been furnished on the outside with those

appurtenances, obnoxious to all comfort, called bolts and bars. The

house had been constructed when population was much thinner than at

present, and when it was necessary that the dwelling of a magistrate,

if situated far from any great town, should be provided with some

place in which a prisoner might be confined for a few hours; for this

purpose the room we speak of had been selected and fitted up, both on

account of the distance at which it lay from the more frequented parts

of the building, and of its proximity to a large old hall, which

formed the extreme wing of the house, and topped the bank overhanging

the river. This hall had often served, in cases of necessity, as a

justice-room in the olden times; and though many years had elapsed

since it had been employed on any very important occasion, yet even of

later days it had been used for the meeting of magistrates and county

functionaries, when anything caused them to assemble in that part of

the country.

The strong room, however, had never been intended for anything but

temporary purposes, and was not at all calculated for securing a

strong and determined prisoner for any length of time, as the windows,

which opened into the park, were only closed by iron bars, which, as

the peer had hinted, might easily be filed away from within, or forced

off from without. These bars the boy took care to examine minutely as

soon as he was taken back to the place of his confinement; and he then

turned his eyes to the park beyond, to ascertain how far the plan he

had to propose to Pharold would be recommended by the probability of

its success.

A grove of old oaks and chestnuts came up nearly to the windows, so

that there was plenty of shade to conceal any one who approached,

except in the full light of day. But as he gazed, the boy's thoughts

were soon drawn away from the dark scheme which the peer had suggested

to him by the sight of the world beyond his prison. Through the wide

spaces between the trees the lawns and savannas of the park were to be

distinguished, with other woods and groves beyond. The soft evening

sunshine was sleeping upon the slopes and glistening on the river; and

the deer were seen walking calm and free through the long dry autumn

grass, while the call of the partridge sounded from some distant

fields, and everything spoke of liberty, and happiness, and peace. The

influence of the scene sank deep into his heart, as he stood separated

from his people, barred in from the free and beautiful world, and, for

the first time in his existence, confined to the close atmosphere of

one small solitary room. It sank deep into his bosom; but, like the

fabled amreeta cup of one of our truest poets, many of the sweetest

things on earth are productive of good or evil according to the lip

that tastes them. While he gazed, the passionate love of wild

unrestrained liberty, and of nature, in which his heart had been

nurtured from infancy, grew overpowering. To be free--to bound away

over those sunny fields--to cast bars and bolts behind him--became a

passion and burning thirst: better principles were wanting to teach

him to endure; and had the price of liberty, at that moment, been a

parricide, he would have dipped his hands in parental blood. Nerved by

the passionate desire, he seized the bars of iron in his hands, and

strove to tear them open; but their strength resisted all his efforts,

and he burst into tears to think that he must remain another day in

bondage.

His eyes were still wet when the door opened, and the insidious

prompter of the enterprise which had deprived him of his liberty

entered the room. The youth, however, was, like the rest of the

gipsies, ignorant that they had been betrayed; and although he had

only seen the man once, he now received him gladly as an acquaintance

and a friend.

Their conversation lasted about ten minutes, and at the end of that

time the emissary returned to the peer to report what had just passed.

"Well, well," demanded Lord Dewry, "with what message has he charged

you?"

"A very short one, my lord," answered the man: "he bade me seek out

old Mother Gray, or some of the women, and tell them to come down to

speak with him at the window to-night; so, I take it, that won't suit

your lordship's purpose."

"Yes, it will," answered the peer. "He will, probably, employ the

women to work upon the men."

"Ay, ay, plough with the heifer," answered the other; "but I may as

well, if your lordship has no objection, set them on the right track

myself; and I will answer for it, I get them to persuade old Pharold

to come down himself."

"There is a very large reward offered," answered the peer, dryly, "to

any one who will contribute to place him in the hands of justice; and

if you are successful in the attempt you shall not lose the reward.

But do you think you can find these gipsies?"

"Why, from what Dick Harvey says, my lord," he replied, "I think there

can be no doubt that I can find the women part of them, though, most

likely, the men are hiding away--and no bad job either; for they might

fancy I had some hand in the last night's job--but, howsomever, if I

can find the women, they'll make the men do what they like easy

enough. So, if your lordship will keep a good watch round the strong

room, without letting the folks show themselves till they are sure of

their man, I think we may calculate upon Master Pharold pretty

certain."

"In which case your reward is certain, too," answered the peer; "but

now make haste upon your errand, my good man, for the sun will soon be

going down, and you have but little time."

"Oh, I don't dislike a walk in the twilight," replied the fellow; and,

bowing low, but with a somewhat too familiar grin, he took his leave

and retired.

Lord Dewry immediately proceeded to give orders for a strict watch to

be kept upon the windows of the strong room during the two following

nights; and took measures that an ambush should be laid in the

immediate vicinity, in such a manner that any person approaching could

not escape; but, at the same time, he carefully directed that if none

but women appeared, they should be permitted to go as they came, not

only without molestation, but with every precaution to prevent the

least appearance of unusual watch.

This being done, he turned his steps towards the chamber of Sir Roger

Millington, for whose life the unfavourable opinion of the surgeon

gave him no slight apprehension.

CHAPTER VII.

The person against whom so many subtle contrivances were directed, on

leaving Colonel Manners, as we have described in a foregoing chapter,

turned his steps towards the wood in which his own companions had

sought refuge after the unfortunate events of the preceding night. If

the reader will cast his eye upon the county map, he will see that,

avoiding Morley Down, he skirted along the hill, the summit of which

it crowned; and then, after following for a little way that part of

the high-road which traversed the little isthmus, in the neighbourhood

of which he had saved the life of Isadore Falkland, he struck soon

after into the forest on the right. As he came not from the same side

on which his comrades had entered the wood, his search for them was

not without difficulty; but it is wonderful with what keen tact

persons accustomed to such scenes and circumstances take advantage of

slight and apparently insignificant indications to guide them on their

way. A branch brushed aside, a trodden-down flower, the sight, or even

the smell of smoke, the least sound of the human voice, will each aid

them in their search; and by means of this kind Pharold, ere long,

discovered the little glen in which his whole party had found an

asylum.

At the moment he approached, had his keen mind not been engaged with

many another thought, he might have remarked that there was some

degree of bustle and consultation among the gipsies, which ceased as

he came up. All, however, appeared glad to see him safe; and all

crowded round to express the anxiety they had felt during his absence,

and to question him as to the events which had befallen him. Lena hung

upon his arm with evident pleasure at his return; but the fondness she

displayed was more like that of a child towards a parent than that of

a wife for a husband.

In answer to the inquiries of the whole party, Pharold--after having

seated himself in the midst, and demanded some refreshment, which was

speedily procured--related, briefly, all that had occurred as far as

his own perils went. Of Colonel Manners he spoke as of a stranger, and

neither noticed their encounter nor his promise of again meeting him,

though he told the group around that ere an hour was over he must

again set forth on matters of import not to be delayed.

"Well, I hope, at all events, that you are going to get poor Will

out," said the old woman we have so often mentioned. "Poor boy! he has

a hard fate."

"I hope," said Lena, seeing that Pharold made no answer--"I hope--" but

then she stopped, as if afraid of offending him.

"And what do you hope, Lena?" said Pharold, gravely, but not so

sternly as was often his wont.

"I hope," she said, more boldly, but with the colour coming up in her

brown cheek--"I hope that some means will be found to set the poor boy

free, for I am sure he was not the guilty person."

As she spoke Pharold gazed on her with such grave earnestness that her

latter words faltered; and even after she had concluded he still kept

his eyes fixed upon her in silence, till one of the men, who had

accompanied Dickon on the deer-stealing expedition, joined into

corroborate her words.

"No, no," said the man, "he was not so guilty as any of us. Dickon

persuaded the rest of us, and we persuaded him; but it was a hard

matter to do so; and then, after all, he never fired a gun."

"Well," said Pharold, "I have done my utmost to free him: but he is in

the hands of our enemies, who are keen, and vigilant, and many; and I

see no way of delivering him from them but by force, which I will not

employ, first, because it would fail; and next, because it would be

sacrificing many of the innocent to deliver one who, though less

guilty than others, is still culpable. I see no other way."

"Ay, but there is another way, Pharold," said the old woman: "they say

that he is confined in what they call the strong room."

"They say!" exclaimed Pharold, hastily--"they say! Some one has been

with you: speak, who has been here? or has any one gone forth when I

forbade it?"

The old woman only grinned at having betrayed herself, as Pharold

looked sternly round upon the circle; but Lena cast herself upon his

bosom, saying, "Tell him the truth! Oh, tell him the truth! It is

always better to tell him the truth! Well, if no one else will, I

will. Some one has been here, Pharold--some one who has seen the poor

boy in prison; and he told us all how wretched he is, and also he said

that William himself had sent him to us to say, that if any one would

come down to-night or to-morrow night to the window of the room where

he is lying, they could easily wrench off the iron bars that kept him

in, and set him free at once."

"And who was the person that he sent?" demanded Pharold, sternly.

"Why, it was just Harry Saxon, the game-sneaker," answered the old

woman; "who else should it be?"

"A dastardly villain!" said Pharold, hastily; "fit to betray us all:

speak no more of it. I know that man of old, and would not trust him

with the life of a child, if he could gain by its destruction."

"He seemed honest enough in this business," said the man called Brown;

"for he told us all how he had got in to see the lad, and how he had

traced us hither. He took some blame to himself, too, in the business

of the deer-stealing, for he was to have bought the venison from

Dickon; and that was the reason why he went to see poor Will in

prison, and was willing to do what he could to get him out. Now I

would not promise to go till I knew what you thought of it, Pharold;

but if you like, I will go down to-night, for, as to the man betraying

us, you see I have no fear, because, if he had liked, he could have

brought people to nab us all here. So I will go and try what I can

do."

"But did not Will say particularly," cried the shrill tones of the old

woman, "that it must be some one who knew the place well, or they

would get into a mess? If you go, Brown, you'll only get caught

yourself, and spoil a hopeful plan for setting poor William free.

There is no one that knows the place well but Pharold and I, because

we know it of old; and as Pharold is afraid to go any more, I would go

with all my heart, if I were strong enough to get the bars off: I

could have done it once, as well as the best man among you; but I am

an old woman now. As for that, Pharold knows the place better than I

do a great deal, for he lived in that very house for many a month,

and--"

"Hold your peace, hold your peace, woman," interrupted Pharold. "The

boy said to-night or to-morrow, did he not?"

"Yes, to-night or to-morrow," answered Brown; "but to-night were best,

for who knows what may happen before to-morrow?"

"To-night I cannot go," answered Pharold, "for I have pledged my word

to be elsewhere, and I do not break my word: but to-morrow I will go;

and I think that, perhaps, after all, I may be able to set him free.

In the meantime, however, you, Mother Gray, shall go down this very

night, to reward you for all the share you have had in the matter.

You know the strong room window, just in the angle, by the great hall.

Get ye down thither at midnight; and tell the boy that I will come

to-morrow night: bid him keep a good watch; and if he sees any one

lurking about, as if watching, let him sing some of the songs that he

sings so well, to warn me. You look out well, too, and mark everything

about you, to tell me when I come back. You were never the wisest or

the best, but I do not think you such a devil as to betray one

wilfully."

He looked sternly and keenly at her, but the beldam only answered in a

jeering tone, "No, no, Pharold, though I love you as much as a young

sparrow loves a cuckoo poult, I'll not betray you, man."

"Go, then," said Pharold, "as soon as it is midnight: examine

everything well; and tell the boy, through the bars of the window,

that, although he deserves to suffer the consequences of his fault,

yet we will do our best to rescue him for his youth's sake."

It is always some consolation to those who lie under the command of a

superior mind to be permitted to sneer at what they dare not disobey;

and the old woman, while she listened, gave way to all those grins,

and winks, and nods, the boldness of which she fancied might

counterbalance, in the opinion of those around, her degradation in

submitting quietly to the orders of one who treated her with such

unceremonious censure. She was secured, however, by Pharold's scorn,

against any notice of her malice, as far as he himself was concerned;

and without seeming to observe the affectation of contempt with which

she heard him, he turned to the rest, and gave directions for

immediately removing their encampment to another spot.

"Quarter of a mile farther," he said, "you will come to a clear

stream, broad but not deep, flowing from the heart of the wood, over a

bed of sand and small clear stones. You can drive the carts up through

the water till you reach a place where the banks are flat; and there,

under the oaks and among the hazel-bushes, you will find plenty of

room and shelter. You, Brown, take every precaution you can to prevent

the slightest trace being left of the course you have followed; make

the people wade along the water--it is not deep enough to cover their

ankles; send them, too, by different parties and in different ways;

for remember that, because one of our number has killed two deer, the

whole world, that hated us before, will now think themselves justified

to hunt us down like foxes.--I can stay with you no longer, for the

hour I named is near at hand--I am wearied and sad, and I feel as if

the end were coming; but still I must keep my word, and do as I have

done to the last."

Some tears, from mixed emotions that would have defied analysis, had

filled the eyes of the beautiful girl that reclined by his side; and

as Pharold rose to depart, he saw them still glistening there. Taking

her hand, he beckoned her with him, saying, "Come with me for a

moment, Lena: I would speak with you."

She followed, and for about a hundred yards he led her on in silence;

and then, turning round, he pressed a kiss upon her lips:--"Remember

me, Lena," he said, "when I am dead. Ever, at this hour, whatever may

happen to you, whatever changes may befall, think of Pharold for a

few short minutes; and mark what I tell you, each time you think of

him--whatever you may feel now;--you shall regret him more, till, on

your dying day, you shall love Pharold as Pharold now loves you.

Remember, Lena, remember, remember!" and, turning away, he left her

with her bright eyes dropping fast unwonted tears.

Alas, alas! the constancy and resolution of youth, what frail things

they are! and how fast the ephemeral feelings and purposes of the hour

give place to others as frail and vain! When Lena turned away from

Pharold, she had believed that for no boon on earth would she do aught

that could offend him; but ere many minutes were over, she was

listening to the persuasions of the old woman, that had led all those

wrong who had confided in her, and was combating faintly and more

faintly the arguments which age and cunning used to induce her to

visit that night the place where her unhappy lover was confined. Lena

listened and resisted, till she listened and yielded; and midnight

found her standing with the old woman under the window of the strong

room in Dimden Park.

In the mean while Pharold pursued his way to rejoin Colonel Manners;

but there seemed to be some bitter feeling sitting heavy at his heart.

The light and agile step had become slow; the quick, keen eyes were

bent thoughtfully upon the ground; more than one sad sigh burst from

his bosom; and the spirit and the heart seemed to mourn. It might be

that Pharold perceived that he was not loved; it might be that he felt

he had set the whole fortunes of his being upon a hazardous chance;

but as we have not paused to trace his love, we shall not dwell long

upon his disappointment. Other feelings, too, such as, more or less

modified by circumstances, will cross the mind of every imaginative

and sensitive man, now rushed upon him, rendered tenfold more strong

in his case than in that of others, by the prejudices of his people,

and the wild and varying habits of his race. Feelings of superstition,

and vague, rambling, fanciful speculations upon all those indications

of human destiny, gathered from external objects, in which his tribe

believe, now mingled themselves with jealous doubts and apprehensions,

and appealed to his own heart for belief or rejection in his own

individual instance.

"I am coming to the crosses," he murmured, as he walked along--"I am

coming to the crosses of life; and the end is not far off! I have seen

those who obeyed me once, rise up against my will. I have been

persecuted and hunted for faults not my own: I have been overcome by a

creature like myself, with no odds against me; and I have learned to

doubt those I love. Ah! and that she, too, should think of another!

Woman, woman! Care, instruction, and kind reproof but offend thee!

love and tenderness but spoil thee! Affection, and worth, and honour

are to thee but as nothing! In danger thou clingest to us! In peace

and security thou leavest us! The things which attract thee are the

lightest of qualities and the vainest of transitory things; and with

what cords shall we bind thee, even when once thou art caught? Vain,

vain, empty butterfly! indifference and reckless carelessness are the

things which win thee the most surely, and which most truly thou

meritest."

Such were the first outpourings of a heart jealous of affection; but

as Pharold walked on, the belief that Lena's love might be given to

another was softened by reflection, and he began to think he had done

her wrong. He remembered the tears he had seen in her eyes; he thought

of many a testimony of girlish regard which she had displayed towards

him: he called to mind many of the finer traits of her heart and mind

which had first attracted him, and which he had striven to cultivate;

and he again began to trust that she would not suffer one thought to

stray from him who had become her husband. The feeling of that vast

disparity of age which existed between them did, indeed, ever mingle

with such hopes, and, as it had often done before, disturbed his peace

of mind by apprehension and doubt. "She will be the sooner free," he

thought bitterly: "she will be the sooner free! God only knows how

soon! for I feel a weight upon me, and a gloom, as if fate were coming

near to me, and its shadow rested dark upon my thoughts. She will be

free, and wed another, and be happy, and forget me, till pain, and

sorrow, and anxiety come, till she wants the hand that used to protect

her, till she requires the mind that used to guide her, and then she

may think of Pharold, and grieve to think that he is lying beneath the

cold and crumbling mould of earth, whence neither prayers nor wishes

shall bring him back to her side again. Then she may remember, and

perhaps weep for him who is lost to her for ever."

With such sad and gloomy reflections Pharold amused the way, as,

retreading the steps he had lately taken, he proceeded to fulfil his

appointment with Colonel Manners. He was a man who gave, perhaps, as

few thoughts to self and selfish considerations as most men. He was

one of those who, in other circumstances and in other ages, would have

as willingly devoted himself a sacrifice for his friend, or for his

country, as any Greek or Roman that ever lived. But he was a gipsy,

and born in an age when patriotism and friendship were equally

considered as mercantile commodities; when men, having cast behind

them the heroism of ancient Greece and Rome, and the chivalry of

ancient France and England, were just beginning to dip themselves in a

spirit of cold and selfish calculation, which, like the waters of the

Carian fountain, emasculates all that is noble and energetic in human

nature; and it is not possible to live among such times without

feeling their chilling influence. Their influence, however, upon him

was different from that which it had upon others; for his race, and

state, and habits, all placed him without the circle of ordinary

thoughts and sensations common to the rest of men. That he was moving

among cold and selfish beings, he felt; that he was acting upon

principles different from theirs, he could not but know; and he

despised them because he did know it, hating them the more because he

was one of a scorned and injured race, to which he clung with the

greater tenacity because it was scorned and injured. But when he met

with a spirit congenial to his own, when he found that he could love

and could trust, all the deep, the noble, the generous feelings of his

original nature burst through every band of times, and circumstances,

and nation, and habit; and he was no longer the gipsy, the sullen

hater of every race except his own, but a creature endowed with noble

powers of mind, and gifted above all with that gem from heaven, an

upright and enthusiastic heart, which would have honoured any land, or

age, or people. The direction which it took might sometimes be wrong,

the reasonings that guided it might wander upon wild, and prejudiced,

and eccentric theories; but the principle was always good, and the

purpose was always generous.

Thus, although he thought for some part of the way upon himself, and

upon the cares and griefs that thronged around him, his mind soon

turned to other objects; and the desire of serving and of soothing

others was strong enough even to withdraw his thoughts from the

powerful grasp of individual sorrows, always far more potent in their

selfishness than joys.

As he approached the spot where his unsuccessful struggle had taken

place with Colonel Manners, he felt, it is true, some sort of

bitterness of heart, to think that he had been overcome. Vanity will

have her share in all; and happy it is--ay, even more than we can

expect--when she changes not the pain of her wound into hatred of

those who have inflicted it. Manners was already on the spot, and the

first words of the gipsy were those of human kindness. "How is she?"

he asked, abruptly. "How is the young lady? You have seen--you have

told her all is well, of course?"

"I have," answered Manners, "and her heart is greatly lighter, though

she will remain still anxious and unsatisfied till I have with my own

eyes seen her cousin, and can report to her the state of his health."

"Fear not, fear not," answered the gipsy; "I have promised to take you

to him, and there is not that power under the heavens which should

ever induce me to break my word, while I am capable of performing it."

"I do not fear, in the least," answered Manners: "I knew perfectly

that you would keep your promise, and confidently assured the family

at Morley House that you would lead me to De Vaux this night. I need

hardly tell you how much joy that assurance gave them, and how much

gratitude they felt to him who made the promise."

"Speak not of gratitude!" answered the gipsy--"speak not of gratitude!

I only regret that from the first I had not foreseen what pain might

fall on some of the good and kind, and that I did not assure myself of

how I ought to act. But if you knew, gentleman, what a life I have led

for the last three days, you would easily make excuse for some

forgetfulness of others--a life so different from that to which we are

accustomed. We come in sunshine, and pitch our dwelling in the warm

bosom of nature, with beauty all round us, and neither care nor strife

among ourselves; but now we have been hunted, and sought, and had to

change our dwellings from place to place; and in order to provide that

we left no traces of our way, we have been forced to double like a

poor hare before the accursed hounds, to think every footstep the

signal of an enemy, and every rustle of the leaves to look upon as the

indication of an ambush. I fear me, too, I fear me that their

persecutions are not yet over. But let us on: here lies our road."

"I trust," said Manners, following him--"I trust that as you are able

to clear yourself in this business of my friend De Vaux, all the other

suspicions against you will be found equally groundless; and then you

may follow your way of life once more in peace."

"No, no," answered the gipsy, "he would persecute me still. Once he

has made a false accusation against me, and he will never abandon it

as long as he and I are on the face of the same earth--never, never! I

know him too well."

"I do not clearly understand of whom you speak," answered Manners,

keeping by the side of the gipsy, although the pace at which he had

set off seemed accelerated at every step by the angry feelings that he

was stirring up in his own bosom. "You do not name the person. Whom do

you mean?"

"Whom should I mean?" answered the gipsy, sharply. "Whom but him who,

born with violent passions and a haughty nature, was bred a lawyer, in

order that dark cunning should be added to a bold spirit and a shrewd

mind. I speak of Lord Dewry; and I tell you that he will never cease

to persecute me. Does he not now hold in fast confinement a boy of our

people whom he well knows to be innocent?"

"There is, certainly," answered Manners, "a gipsy-boy confined at

Dimden, for I saw him there this morning; but Lord Dewry, as well as

all the people of the neighbourhood, informed me that he had been

taken in an attempt to steal the deer in the park."

"He was not present," said the gipsy: "he saw not the beast

slaughtered by the mad-headed fools that did it, any more than I did.

But he keeps him because he is a gipsy-boy, not that he thinks him

guilty. And so, you saw him, did you?" continued Pharold, striving,

with a slight mingling of the artful cunning of his people, to

discover what Manners knew of the situation of the young gipsy--"so,

you saw him? and, doubtless, he is to be sent soon to the county-jail,

to die of imprisonment and despair at losing his blessed freedom."

"I did not hear any mention of such an intention," answered Manners.

"Every one present joined in accusing the youth of direct

participation in the deer-stealing; and he himself kept so obstinate a

silence, that there was no possibility of drawing from him even a word

that might exculpate himself."

"And do you call it obstinate silence to refuse to answer either the

subtle or the idle questions of his enemies?" demanded the gipsy.

"There is the mistake into which your people fall too often, and with

too fatal an effect," answered Manners. "You consider us, on all

occasions, as your enemies, and act towards us as if we were such,

instead of endeavouring to make us your friends, which might often be

accomplished--always, I might say, with good men, were your actions to

tend to that purpose. In the instance you speak of, the principal

questions were addressed to your young companion by myself. Their

object was solely to elicit some news of my friend De Vaux; and, had

he answered them frankly, he would have made a friend who might have

rendered him service."

"And he refused to answer?" demanded the gipsy.

"Not exactly refused," replied Manners; "but answered only by an

unmeaning monosyllable, or kept a profound silence."

"He did right!" cried the gipsy; "he did right! The boy is more

deserving than I thought him; he merits an effort."

"We judge very differently," answered Manners: "I thought he did very

wrong; and had he given me the information I sought, it is more than

probable that I should have met you with very different feelings from

those with which I at first saw you this night."

"He did right, he did right!" cried the gipsy. "Would you have had him

betray secrets intrusted to him? or was he to judge what I might think

fit to be revealed? No, no: silence was his best security against

discovering, through fear or through folly, those things, the value of

which he knew not. He has shown both more prudence and more resolution

than I thought he possessed. However, he could have told you nothing,

for he knew nothing--not even the path we are now treading."

"Well, then, his candour would only have served to give a favourable

opinion of himself," Manners rejoined, "without injuring you, or

betraying your confidence."

"How can you tell that?" cried the gipsy--"how can you tell that? how

could he tell it either? Might you not have led him on to other

things? Might you not have wrung from him, if he had spoken candidly,

as you call it, one admission after another, till you had discovered

all that he could tell. Oh, we know your artful ways, your

examinations and cross-examinations, which would make an angel of

truth and wisdom seem like a liar and a fool. We know your skill in

making men reveal what they would not, and speak two apparently

opposite truths, without allowing them to give the explanation; so

that they seem to contradict themselves at every word. We know you;

and we have one way, and only one, to disappoint you, which is

silence. You can make naught of that."

Manners saw that, where both the principles and the course of the

reasoning were so different, discussion was of very little use; and he

consequently made no reply to the gipsy's tirade, feeling, however, at

the same time, that there was a portion of truth in what he said,

which it would be difficult to separate from the great mass of

prejudice with which it was combined. Pharold, however, wished the

conversation prolonged upon the same topic; for with all the frank

generosity of his individual nature, the habits and the character of

the gipsy still modified and influenced the other qualities of his

heart and his mind. His character, as a man, was open and candid; but

the gipsy often acted, to render it stubborn and sullen when

oppressed, or even wily and artful when some peculiar object was to be

gained.

He now greatly desired to obtain from Colonel Manners, as a sincere

and independent person, some information concerning the exact

situation of the boy William, both in order to guide more surely any

efforts made for his liberation, and to correct the report of the old

beldam, whom he had sent down to inquire, and of whose purposes and

views he entertained many a doubt. He did not choose, however, to let

his design become apparent, and therefore approached his object with a

careful art, which was not a part of his natural, but rather of his

acquired character.

"Poor boy!" he said, as soon as he perceived that Manners did not

reply--"poor boy! I am sorry for him. He has never known anything but

liberty, and the enjoyment of all the free, wide, beautiful world; he

has never known what it is to have fetters on his young limbs, or to

be shut from the air and light of heaven, in some dark and gloomy

dungeon."

"You must not let your imagination draw such a picture of his

situation," answered Manners, who, having nothing to conceal, was

easily led in the direction the gipsy wished. "The boy is not and

cannot be in such a state as you suppose. He has no fetters upon his

limbs, and, in all probability, is as well treated as a proper regard

for his safe custody will permit."

"It will be pain and grief enough," rejoined the gipsy, "for one who

has never in his life been debarred from turning his steps in

whatsoever direction he thought fit--who has never been cutoff from

the sight of nature, and the breath of the free air, since his eyes

were first opened upon God's heaven and earth, and the breath of life

was breathed into his nostrils--it will be pain and grief enough for

him to be thrust into some dark and gloomy dungeon, perhaps under

ground, or, at all events, looking into some dull stone-built court,

where he can see nothing on any side but the hateful walls that keep

him in, and the sly, dastard faces of those that watch him."

"Of course," answered Manners, "as I am nearly unacquainted with this

part of the country and with Dimden Hall, I cannot be aware of the

nature of the place in which the lad is confined. A dungeon it is not,

certainly; for such things are now, thank God, quite out of the

question. It appeared to me, too, that there was no such thing as a

court to the dwelling-house; and that, therefore, wherever he may be

placed, he will be able to see the face of nature, which you love so

much. But you yourself--at least, all I have heard would lead me to

suppose so--must know Dimden Hall far better than I do, and perhaps

may be aware of where the strong room is; for it was to it that I

heard Lord Dewry direct him to be taken, after we had in vain tried to

gain any information from him."

"If he be there, he may do well," answered the gipsy; "but probably

they will remove him to the county-jail, and there he will have sad

and bitter hours enough."

"I should certainly think that they will not do so," answered

Manners, "if what you tell me in regard to his innocence of all

participation in the actual slaughter of the deer be correct. The

magistrates will, of course, investigate the matter, and seek full

evidence of the facts, before they either commit the boy, or even send

him off to the jail, which, I understand, is many miles distant; so

that it is much more probable that he will remain where he is for the

present."

The gipsy saw well that Manners spoke without disguise, and that he

had, in fact, nothing more to tell in regard to the situation of the

prisoner. However, he had gained at least the certainty that the lad

was confined in the strong room, which he knew well; that he was not

likely to be speedily removed, and that he was not encumbered with

fetters to impede his escape. Lest he might have been so secured,

Pharold had entertained some fear, as he knew that blood had been shed

in the encounter between the deer-stealers and the keepers, and

thought it more than likely that the peer would strive to prove the

lad William to have been an actual participator in that part of the

unfortunate affair, and would treat him accordingly. His next anxiety

was to know what was the state of the men who had been wounded, and

what was the exact charge against himself, in regard to the affray in

Dimden Park, as well as what evidence had been given to inculpate him.

He had found so much frankness in the replies of Colonel Manners to

his former inquiries, however, that he now quitted the artful path

which he had taken, and spoke more boldly of his own situation. "I

would fain know," he said, after he had walked on about two hundred

paces farther in silence--"I would fain know how I stand in regard to

that false accusation which my enemy brought against me, respecting

the slaughter of his pitiful deer. As I passed through the country

this morning, after quitting his park, I gained some tidings; but when

I first met you, gentleman, to-night, you told me that though I might

be guilty of other things, you knew me to be innocent of that. If you

be, as you seem to be, a friend to justice and humanity, you will tell

me how you know that charge to be false, that I may prove it so, too,

by some proof that will be better received than the mere oath of my

own people."

"I can have no objection whatever," Manners answered, "to tell you at

once how I was led to the conclusion that you mention. There were two

persons wounded in that unfortunate affair--one a gentleman who is now

lying at Dimden, and another a keeper, who was removed from the park

to his own cottage. As I found that the surgeon had confined his

attention to the person at Dimden, whose wound is far the most

dangerous, I went down to the cottage of the keeper to inquire how he

was going on--"

"Good and kind, good and kind!" interrupted the gipsy, with one of

those bursts of vehement feeling to which he at times gave way. "Ah, I

see and understand it all! The mercenary manufacturer of diseases and

maker of men's ills remained with the gentleman, who could pay him for

his fancied skill, and left the poor man to do the best for himself;

and you went down to comfort him whom the other had neglected."

"Not exactly so," answered Manners: "the wound of the one was much

more severe than that of the other, and the surgeon staid where his

presence was most necessary. I went down, however, and sat with the

poor fellow some time; and he distinctly informed me, not only that

you had not been present when the deer were killed, but that you were

coming up and calling to the others not to fire at the moment that the

guns went off. He said, too, that if it had not been for your

interference, there would have been far more bloodshed; and I strongly

advise you, should there ever be any investigation of this business,

to call the keeper Jones as a witness to establish your innocence."

"While I can keep my liberty," said the gipsy, "they shall never hold

me in their gripe. Besides, he would find witnesses enough to swear

away my life, if he were to bribe them with half his fortune. But the

wounded men--are they likely to die, did you say?"

"I trust not," answered Manners; "and with care and attention, the

wound of the keeper will not prove even dangerous. The other gentleman

I did not see, but I hear he is much more severely hurt."

"What is his name?" demanded the gipsy.

"Sir Roger Millington, I think, was the name," answered Manners; "but

I did not pay it any particular attention."

"Sir Roger Millington!" repeated the gipsy, musing--"Sir Roger

Millington! I do not know him; and yet it sounds in my ears like a

word spoken in a dream. Oh yes, yes--I remember now: it was to him

that the money was owing."

"What money?" demanded Manners, in some surprise.

"Never mind," answered the gipsy; "but, be sure, if that man dies, my

enemy will find means to make me out his murderer. Mark that,

gentleman, and remember hereafter."

"It is impossible that he can do so," answered Manners, whose

confidence in British justice was much stronger than that of the

gipsy. "I understand that there were eight or nine people present. One

of them, who has suffered severely, has already borne witness to your

innocence; and, depend upon it, that among the rest, you would find

plenty more to do the same. But it strikes me as extraordinary, I do

confess, that you should seem to apprehend much more evil from an

affair in which you can easily exculpate yourself, than from a charge

which, referring to matters long gone, and to circumstances of which

there could be but few witnesses, must be much more difficult to be

met in a satisfactory manner--I mean the charge of having killed the

late Lord Dewry."

"I will tell you why, I will tell you why," answered the gipsy. "In

regard to this business, he can prove something against me: that I was

in his park without right--at a suspicious hour--when persons were

committing an unlawful act; and those people my own nation, and my own

comrades. He may make out a plausible tale, and a little false

swearing would easily do the rest. But in regard to the other, I

laugh him to scorn; for why? because, when I will, I can blow the

cloud away, like the west wind when it sweeps the mist from the

valleys--because I can dispel it all, and prove my own innocence

beyond a doubt, by proving who it was that did do the deed!"

"Do that," answered Manners, eagerly--"do that, and, beyond all doubt,

Lord Dewry will forbear every other proceeding against you."

"Would he, indeed!" cried the gipsy, with a contemptuous laugh--"would

he, indeed! Yet, perhaps, he might: but I will tell you, gentleman, if

I did do so, I should not stand in need of his forbearance. But I will

not do it; no, never! not if they were to cast a mountain upon me, it

should not crush that secret from my heart till the right hour be

come."

"Indeed!" said Manners; "that is a strange determination; but,

however, you act and reason upon principles so different from those

that influence ordinary men, that it is useless to inquire why you run

great risks yourself, with motives apparently very slight."

"I do it because it is written in the book of that which I am to do,"

answered the gipsy. "But you say right; we do act and we do think upon

different principles; and it is useless to inquire into mine, for you

would not understand them; and yet I hold you to be a good man--better

than most--braver--wiser than the great part of your fellows. Had you

not been both brave and wise, you would never have learned from me

what you are to know to-night--the fangs of tigers would not have torn

it from me by any other means."

"I hope," answered Manners, with a smile, "that the secret will not be

kept much longer unrevealed; for we have already walked several miles,

and our fair friend, the moon, is going down to rest, as if she were

as tired as I am."

"And who that sees her sink," said the gipsy, turning round as Manners

spoke, and gazing for a moment on the setting orb--"and who that sees

her sink shall dare to say that he will ever see that calm and

splendid sight again? She goes, we know not whither, travelling alone

upon her oft-trodden path--the path that she has walked in majesty

through many a long century, looking unmoved upon the strifes and joys

of nations who now have left us nothing but their ruins and their

tombs. She saw my people live and rule in other lands.[6] She has

seen them bow the necks of proud and haughty enemies beneath their

chariot-wheels. She has seen them fall day by day, till they are but a

scattered remnant, dashed like the foam of a broken wave over the

lands around, while their temples and their palaces, their homes and

their altars, are the dwellings of the wolf and the jackal, that howl

beneath her light. She has seen them--mighty and nothing; and,

perhaps, when our bones are whitening beneath her beams, in the long

wide vacancy of after times, she may also see the despised nation

reinstated in its glory, and forgetful of the rod of the oppressor;

but you mind not such things--you look upon us merely as wandering

outcasts of some unknown race."

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

[Footnote 6: All the various tribes of gipsies, scattered throughout

different parts of Europe, undoubtedly possess a tradition of the

former greatness of their people; and whenever they can be brought to

speak upon the subject, adhere strictly to the story told by the first

of their nation that appeared in Europe, and maintain that their

original country was Egypt; some calling it _Lower_ Egypt, some

_Upper_ Egypt--a distinction worthy of remark, as it seems to evince a

real knowledge of the land that they claim as their own. The learned

have endeavoured to trace them to the Indian caste of Parias; and Sir

William Jones, I think, has pronounced many of the words in their

language to be pure Sanscrit, which fact would afford the strongest

proof that they are not of Paria origin. Besides this, I have been

assured by a learned friend, who passed many years in India, that

gipsies are sometimes to be met with in Hindostan, and appear there as

much a race distinct and separate from any of the native tribes as

they do among the nations of Europe.]

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

"No, indeed," answered Manners; "you do me wrong. I have always looked

upon your people with much interest and curiosity. There is a sort of

mystery in their history and their fate that will not let any one, who

thinks and feels, regard them with indifference."

"There is a mystery," answered the gipsy--"there is a mystery; but it

matters not. This is not the time to solve it;" and--as every person

who has ever conversed with one of the more intelligent and better

informed of the gipsies must have remarked as their invariable custom

when spoken to either upon their language or history--he suddenly

turned the conversation to other things, content with the vague hints

of brighter times and more extended power, which he had already given.

Manners endeavoured more than once to bring him back to the subject,

but the gipsy pertinaciously avoided any approach to it. Nor was his

companion more successful in an endeavour to lead him to the subject

of De Vaux, in regard to whom Pharold pointedly refused to answer any

questions. "You will know very soon all that you can know about the

matter," he replied; "and I do not choose to speak at all on subjects

where I might speak too much."

Manners pressed the question no further, and followed in silence. They

had some time before crossed the summit of the rise above Morley

House, skirting along the woods, and had descended into a valley on

the other side, which, though not so deep as that in which the

principal events we have related took place, sunk sufficiently below

the level of the neighbouring hills to render a considerable ascent on

the other side necessary ere the travellers could be said to have

passed the chain of high grounds which separated that county from the

next. This eminence, also, they had surmounted, when, as Manners had

observed, the moon might be seen sinking below the dark line of the

distant horizon. The aspect of the country was here very different

from that on the other side of the hills; and although the light of

the setting orb was not sufficient to display distinctly the various

objects in the landscape, yet the long lines of light and shade that

varied the wide extent below their feet gave Manners the idea of a

rich and softly-undulating country, spreading for many miles without

any considerable eminence. From the spot where they then stood the

road, which they had now gained, wound through some young plantations

down towards the plain; but ere they had finished the descent the moon

was lost below the horizon, and the eye could no longer trace any but

the objects in its immediate vicinity. Manners remarked, however, that

along the young plantings were neat trimmed hedges, and that clean

shining white gates gave entrance into the fields which they skirted.

A dry raised footpath, too, rendered walking easy; and ere long he

passed one of those friendly milestones wherewith most civilized

governments have condescended to solace the longings of the weary

traveller, as he plods on, anxious to know his distance from the

expected rest. Just at the same moment, too, a village clock, with its

kindly bell, tolled the hour, sounding clear and calm upon the still

night air; and Manners, though without any great object in doing so,

paused to make out the inscription of one hundred and some miles from

London, and to count twelve, struck distinctly on the bell of the

clock.

"Will not this be a very late hour," he asked, turning to the gipsy,

who had paused also--"will not this be a very late hour to visit my

poor friend, especially if he be ill as you say in body and in mind?"

"We will see that presently," answered the gipsy: "if he sleep, so

much the better. You can wait till tomorrow. My part of the errand

must be done to-night, or never; for something at my heart tells me

that I shall not long be able to walk whither I will throughout the

world."

Now, although Colonel Manners, with the firm determination of pursuing

the adventure to the end, whatever might come of it, had gone on with

the gipsy boldly, and had conversed with him as calmly as if they had

both been in a drawing-room, yet it is by no means to be supposed that

he refrained from speculating upon the place and circumstances into

which his enterprise might lead him; as in this instance he saw the

necessity of letting imagination range free, so long as she had reason

for her guide, in order that he might be prepared for all. While they

were on the hill, and near the woods, Manners imagined that he would

most likely find his sick friend under the care and attendance of some

separate party of gipsies; and, of course, fancy employed herself in

thinking what could be the train of events which had brought about so

strange a result. But as they descended into a more highly cultivated

and evidently well-peopled track, he began to doubt whether it was

such a spot as gipsies would choose for their habitation, and,

consequently, whether De Vaux would be found in the hands of any of

Pharold's tribe. Imagination had now, of course, a wider, field than

before; and his surprise--or whatever the feeling may be called which

is excited by circumstances we cannot account for--was still greater,

as they began to pass through the scattered houses and small neat

enclosures which mark the approach to an English country town.

At length the gipsy stopped at a gate, opened it, and bade his

companion pass in. Manners did as he was desired, and found himself

standing on a neat gravel walk, with a shrubbery on either hand,

plentifully provided with laurels, hollies, and many another

evergreen. The gipsy followed; and the walk, skirting for a couple of

hundred yards round a trim, smooth, shaven green, brought them in

front of a neat house, built of brick, and evidently modern in all its

parts. Plate-glass, a-well-a-day! did not in those times decorate even

the houses of the greatest in the land; and the dwelling before which

they now stood, although it was clearly the abode of affluence, had no

pretensions to be any thing more than a handsome house of the middle

rank. It might be the new-built rectory of some wealthy parish, or the

place of retirement of some merchant who had had wisdom enough to seek

repose at the point where competence stops short of riches; but it had

no one circumstance which could entitle it to affect the name of the

Mansion, or the Hall, or the Abbey, or the Castle; and in those days

the word cottage had never yet been applied to designate a palace. It

had its little freestone portico, however, and its two low wings, in

the windows of each of which there were lights. It was evident,

therefore, if this was the place where Manners was destined to find De

Vaux, that, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, there were other

persons awake in the house besides those who might be supposed to

watch in the chamber of an invalid.

As they came near the gipsy advanced a step before his companion, and

rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed without any one appearing to

answer the summons; but just as Pharold was about to repeat it, the

door was opened by a servant, carrying a light, which was almost

instantly extinguished by the gust of wind which rushed into the

unclosed door. There had been time enough, however, for the man to

recognise Pharold, and to bid him come in, as if his visit were a

thing of course; and in the moment that the light had remained

unextinguished, Colonel Manners could distinguish the countenance of

the servant, the features of which, he felt convinced, were not

unknown to him.

"Come in, sir," said the gipsy.--"Is there any one in the parlour,

John?" he added, turning to the man as Manners entered.

"No one, Mr. Pharold," answered the servant, intones that were still

more familiar to Manners's ear than his features had been to his eye.

"My master is in the little room beyond."

"Then walk in here, sir, and wait for me one moment," said the gipsy;

and Colonel Manners, without question, walked into the dark room, of

which Pharold had opened the door, and waited patiently to see how all

the strange affair in which he was engaged would end.

CHAPTER VIII.

The room was, as we have said, quite dark, with the exception of a

narrow line of light, which found its way under a door on the opposite

side of the chamber; and by the time that Manners had been there two

minutes he heard voices speaking in that direction. What was said by

the first speaker, whom he concluded to be Pharold, did not make

itself heard in the apartment where Manners stood; but the moment

after another voice was distinguished, saying, in a louder tone, "You

have done wrong, you have done wrong, Pharold. My mind was still

undecided; and this will force me to act whether I will or not."

Pharold's voice replied at considerable length, and was apparently

still going on, when the other exclaimed, hastily, "But, good God, did

you not let her know? Did you not send her the note I despatched to

you for that purpose?"

"What note? When did you send?" demanded Pharold, eagerly, "I had no

note."

"This is most unfortunate," replied the other. "I sent up a note to

you, intended to be conveyed to her for the purpose of putting her

mind at ease; and it should have reached you beyond all doubt; for I

gave it, with my own hand, to the youth Dickon, yesterday morning,

when he came with the message from you."

"Ay, that is it, that is it," answered the gipsy. "I chose him as my

messenger to keep him out of evil; but ere I could get back to my

people, I found that, on some pretence, strangers on horseback were

watching for us on the common, and I betook me to the wood again. But

they set a watch round the wood; and it was long ere I could slip

through unseen; and when I did so, and got to the tents under Dimden

wall, I found that this very Dickon had seduced several others to go

and shoot the deer in the park. Deer were killed, the keepers were

met, blood was shed, and I drove the offender out from among us, that

he might not lead others again into evil, and draw down the rage of

the powerful upon us. Thus I saw him but for a moment, and he went

without giving me your letter."

Now Manners, although he could not help hearing what was passing, had

a great objection to so doing; and he had therefore from the very

beginning contrived to make as much noise as possible, by every means

that suggested itself, in order both to render the sounds which

reached him indistinct, and to make the speakers aware that their

conversation might be overheard. Their first eagerness, however,

prevented them from taking warning; but at length their tone was

lowered, and for the next five minutes Manners heard nothing further

than a low indistinct murmur, which sufficiently showed that the

conference was continued, but did not betray the matter thereof.

At length, however, the second voice spoke louder, in the sort of

marked manner with which one ends a private conversation, by words

which have little meaning to any ear but that of the person to whom

they are addressed. "Well, well, it is time that such a state should

be put an end to! As to this other business, there is nothing to fear

from Colonel Manners: I know him well, as I told you before; and were

I to choose any man in whom to confide, it would be him. Now rest you,

Pharold; rest you while I go and speak with him. Would to God that you

would quit this wandering life, and now in your age wisely accept from

me what you foolishly rejected in your youth from one long dead; but

rest you, as I have said, and I will return in a few minutes to hear

out your account."

Pharold's reply was not distinct; but the next moment the door opened

between the two rooms, and Manners was joined by a gentleman whom we

have seen once, and only once, before in the course of this history.

It was, in short, the same hale, handsome old man whom we last heard

of conversing with the gipsy Pharold, in the beginning of the first

volume of this book, who now advanced with a light into the dark room

in which Manners had been left. He could not be less than sixty-three

or four years of age; but his frame appeared as vigorous as if twenty

of those years had been struck off the amount. His figure was tall and

upright, and his step had in it a peculiar bold and firm elasticity,

that spoke the undiminished energy of both mind and body. He was, in

short, a person whom, once seen, it would be difficult to forget; and

although the light he carried dazzled Manners's eyes a little, yet the

instant he entered the room his visiter advanced towards him, holding

out his hand, and exclaiming, "My dear Sir William Ryder, I am

delighted to meet you again, and to meet you in England."

"Not less delighted than I am to see you, Manners," answered the

other, "although we meet under somewhat strange circumstances, and

though I am obliged to bid you, for a short time, forget that I am Sir

William Ryder, without forgetting that I am a sincere friend. My name,

for the present, is Mr. Harley; and now, having introduced myself as

such, let us sit down, and talk over old stories."

"But, first, my dear sir," said Manners, "a word or two of new

stories, if you please. I am most anxious to inquire after my poor

friend De Vaux, though no longer anxious in regard to his situation,

now that I find he is in hands so kind and so skilful as yours.

Indeed, the first sight of your servant, though I caught but a glimpse

of him, set my mind at ease regarding my poor friend, as far as it can

be at ease till I hear how he is, and what is the matter with him."

"He is better, he is better," answered Sir William Ryder; "and so far

banish all anxiety, for he will do well. I know such affairs of old;

and as he has been neither scalped nor tomahawked by any of my

children of the Seven Nations, I will answer for his recovery. But I

dare say you wonder at his being here with me; and, indeed, it is

altogether an odd coincidence, for I can assure you that it is by no

plot or contrivance of mine that I have got you and him once more

under my roof together, when the last time we so met was in my wigwam

on the very farthest verge of the inhabited world."

"But first tell me what is the matter with him," said Manners; "and

then I will put all sorts of questions to you, which you shall answer

or not as you think fit."

"What is the matter with him!" cried Sir William Ryder; "did not my

friend Pharold tell you that he had got a pistol-shot in his side,

which had broken two of his ribs?"

"Good God! no," cried Manners: "I am excessively sorry to hear it; but

how did it occur--in a duel?"

"No," answered the other; "no: he did it himself; but understand

me--not intentionally--he is not such a fool. However, he will do

well: the ball has been extracted; he has very little fever: no organ

important to life has been touched, and all promises fairly."

"But, indeed, my dear Sir William, you must tell me more," said

Manners. "How did this happen? for though I have seen accidents enough

of different kinds, yet I cannot understand this affair at all."