"Why, I do not very well know how to explain it," said the other,

musing, "without entering into unnecessary particulars. However, the

fact is this: he went out at night, it seems, to see my friend

Pharold, who, I need not tell you, is no ordinary person. However,

your friend did not know his character or his worth, and he placed a

brace of horse-pistols in his bosom. He must certainly have had one of

them cocked, too, though he will not acknowledge it: but the end of

the matter was, that he heard some very bad news; and being, like all

his race, subject to violent fits of passion, he cast himself down

like a madman, the pistol went off, and the shot was within a few

inches of his heart. Pharold, who was present and alone, did not very

well know what to do with him; but carrying him in his arms as far as

he could, he called some of his own people, bound up the poor boy's

wounds as well as circumstances admitted, and brought him here,

knowing that in other years I was upon terms of intimacy with his

father, and loved him still, notwithstanding one or two little causes

of misunderstanding between us."

Manners listened in silence, and he certainly did not forget the terms

in which Lord Dewry had spoken of the very person who now alluded so

mildy to him; but as he was by no means fond of making mischief upon

any pretence, and knew that Sir William Ryder was not a man in whom

personal fear would act as any check upon resentment, he felt no

inclination to mention one word of the peer's vituperation of his

former friend. At the same time, the kindly tone in which Sir William

Ryder spoke did not at all lead Manners to believe that he was the

person in fault. The thoughts which crossed the gallant officer's

mind, however, must have had some visible representatives in his

countenance; for his companion looked at him with a smile, adding, "I

know well what you are thinking--that probably Lord Dewry does not

speak so gently of Sir William Ryder as Sir William Ryder does of him.

I have heard so before. Nevertheless, Manners, I shall not call him

out, and amuse the world with two men of sixty fighting a duel. Nor is

Colonel Manners one to think the worse of me for acting as I do, nor

to doubt my motives, though my conduct be a little eccentric. Is it

not so, my friend?"

"It is, indeed," answered Manners; "and be you quite sure, my dear

sir, that so firm is my confidence in your honour and integrity,

from personal knowledge--which is better than all the gossip in the

world--that I would never hear the name of Sir William Ryder mentioned

with disrespect without taking the liberty of resenting it."

"I believe you, I believe you, Manners, from my soul," answered his

companion: "but to return to our poor friend De Vaux--as soon as he

was brought here, I of course sent for the best advice that was to be

procured, the ball was extracted, and, as I have said, he is better.

He is at present, I am happy to say, in a sound and comfortable sleep;

but if you will take up your abode with me till to-morrow, you shall

see him, and judge of his condition for yourself. A room shall be

prepared for you immediately."

"I will willingly lie down to take a little rest," answered Manners.

"But let me beg you, my dear sir, to have me called as soon as De Vaux

wakes, and is willing to see me; for I left a poor young lady, his

cousin--and there are ties of affection stronger than those of mere

relationship between them--waiting anxiously to hear some tidings of

him; for until this very night we have all imagined him murdered."

"Ah, poor girl, poor girl!" said Sir William Ryder, in a tone of deep

sympathy. "She must have suffered dreadfully, I am afraid; but I can

assure you that her having been kept even an hour in suspense is

neither to be attributed to me nor to her cousin. His first thought

was of her, his first words, after he saw me, were to beg that I would

instantly write to her, in order to tell her what had occurred, and to

sooth her mind as far as possible. Nay, more, though suffering much

pain till the ball was extracted, he insisted upon writing a few words

with his own hand, to comfort her as far as possible. Though I would

fain have prevented an exertion which might injure him, I loved him

for his obstinacy, Manners. The note was sent to Pharold, with

directions to forward it to her; but neither note nor directions, it

seems, ever reached the gipsy."

Manners could not refrain from saying, "It would have been better to

have sent it direct to herself, Sir William. You must remember, my

excellent friend, that you are no longer among your children, as you

call them, the Indians, and that you will meet with another class of

vices and virtues also here. What you would trust to a Mohawk, if he

promised to perform it, and feel convinced that nothing but death

would prevent its execution, is not at all to be confided to a common

messenger in England, and--"

"I know all that, my friend, I know all that," interrupted his

companion; "but I had no choice. At that time I was not at all certain

whether I should let any one know that I was in England or not; and

had I sent the note direct to Morley House, such a communication must

have been opened as would instantly have put an end to my incognito.

One messenger might have failed me as well as another, and it was

owing to an accident which no one could foresee that the note was not

delivered. So much for your rebuke, Manners," he continued, smiling;

"but now tell me how the poor girl is; for the first question of my

patient, when he hears that you are here, will be, How is Marian de

Vaux?"

"Alarm and agitation had rendered her seriously ill," answered

Manners; "so much so, indeed, that the medical man found it necessary,

during the whole of yesterday and this morning, to keep her feelings

deadened, as it were, by laudanum--to the great risk of her health, as

he acknowledged--but it was the lesser of two evils."

"Sad, sad, indeed!" cried Sir William Ryder, rising from his seat, and

walking backwards and forwards in some agitation--"sad, sad, indeed!

and I am afraid that I have had something to do with the whole

business; but I trust she is better now--poor girl! I am grieved,

deeply grieved. But say, Manners, how was she when you left her?"

"Infinitely better, I am happy to say," answered Manners; "for your

friend Pharold permitted me to inform her that De Vaux was safe at

least, though he tied me down to strict conditions. That piece of

news, of course, relieved her greatly; but not so much so as to set

her mind at ease, till she hears tidings from me of her cousin's exact

situation, which I trust to be able to give her early to-morrow."

"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly," answered Sir William Ryder. "Nay, if you

think it would be any great comfort to her, we will send off a man on

horseback this very night, to calm her with further assurances."

"Unless," answered Manners, "I may be permitted to say that you will

give herself and Mrs. Falkland a welcome to visit De Vaux in person, I

think that I had better not send, but wait till I can communicate some

further information myself."

Sir William Ryder hesitated. "I am afraid," he said--"I am afraid that

will be impossible, just at present. But she will believe your

assurance, of course; and I think that you may venture to tell her

that her cousin is under kind and careful hands, by which nothing will

be neglected to promote his speedy recovery."

"I will certainly give the fullest assurances of that fact," answered

Manners. "But what reason am I to assign for her being debarred from

seeing and attending her cousin, when I have been admitted? She will

certainly think it mysterious."

"As you do, Manners," said Sir William, with a smile. "But listen to

me, and I will tell you several of the many reasons which have brought

me back to a land which I have abandoned for long years; and out of

those reasons you shall see whether you can find a motive to assign to

Miss De Vaux for my mysterious conduct. In the first place, I, like

most men, have some friends and relations; and I was seized with a

longing to see them, to assure myself with my own eyes of their fate

and their happiness, ere I laid my head down upon its last pillow in

another land. The same longing seized me about twelve years since, but

then I resisted; for long ago I had met with a sad and severe blow in

my private happiness, which led me to forswear, in the bitterness of

my heart, any of those ties and affections which are but so many cords

to bind us to sorrow and disappointment. In various matters, about

that time, I had acted wrong; and I felt that a voluntary expatriation

was a good atonement. When I went, therefore, I resolved never to

return; and when, as I have said, twelve years ago, the longing to see

friends and relations, and scenes that I once loved, seized me, I

resisted, strengthened, in so doing, by a feeling that my return to

England might be painful to some whom I did not desire to pain, and

would only re-awaken, in my own bosom, feelings that had better sleep.

Now, however, many other motives have been added to this longing,

which returned upon me this spring with more force than ever. I wished

eagerly to raise such a sum as would purchase a large tract of land on

which to settle for ever, without danger of molestation, the remnant

of a nearly-destroyed tribe of Indians, who, after having been

massacred and ill-treated by every other white man they met with, at

length attached themselves to me, and were living round me like my

children, as you saw."

"I did, indeed," answered Manners; "and I trust that you will let me

aid in your noble design."

"I do not know that it will be necessary now, for I am likely to take

other measures," answered Sir William. "My own private income was not

sufficient, though I had saved out of a thousand a year, which was all

that I possessed, sufficient to lay a good foundation; but I also

wished the British government to interfere for the more general and

powerful protection of the Indians, and this was one reason of my

coming. I longed too, as I have said, to see many of my relations and

friends; but I wished to do so privately. There were two persons,

especially, of whom I was desirous of bearing more than I could in

America. One--over whom I hold some power, from various transactions

in the past--I wished to watch closely for a short time, and treat him

according to his merits. The other--who, though more independent of

me, I could raise up or cast down as I pleased--I desired to sift

thoroughly, to examine every trait in his character, to probe every

feeling in his heart, with the resolution of leaving him, ultimately,

to happiness, if I found him noble and true; but at the same time to

give him a severe lesson, which might crush early some failings; some

peculiar evils in his disposition, that would, if suffered to remain,

lead hereafter to misery, to himself and others. Various occurrences

have taken place since to alter or derange these plans; and, as we are

from day to day the creatures of circumstances over which we have no

control, I am now waiting for some decisive event to determine for me

a line of conduct which I find some difficulty in determining for

myself."

"I am afraid, Sir William," answered Manners, "that even if I were to

explain all this in your own words to Miss De Vaux, she would still be

as much perplexed as ever; and I have often remarked, that in the

minds of the timid--especially where there is real cause for

uneasiness--everything that is doubtful and mysterious is interpreted

into afresh cause of apprehension and alarm. Besides, according to my

contract with your acquaintance Pharold, and the stipulations which

you have yourself implied, with regard to your name, so far from

explaining all these motives, I am not even to disclose that I have

seen you."

Sir William Ryder paused for a moment or two in deep thought; and

Manners, seeing that he was embarrassed, added, "Perhaps, Sir William,

the best way for me to act will be, to give Miss De Vaux a true

account of the state of her cousin's health; to tell that I have seen

him, but to add that, from particular causes, which I must explain

hereafter, I can neither inform her where he is, nor enable her to see

him. I have always found it best, wherever I have been embarrassed

with any mystery of my own--which, thank God, has been seldom the

case--to meet the matter at once, and say, _I will not tell_, without

entangling myself in half explanations, which do me no good, and only

serve those, whose curiosity or feelings are interested, as materials

for imagination to build up visionary castles withal."

"Perhaps you are right," said Sir William: "but stay yet a moment!

A word or two more with our friend in the next room--I mean the

gipsy--may decide my conduct."

Manners smiled at the sort of counsellors by whom he had found his

friend surrounded in both hemispheres. When first he met Sir William

Ryder, he had seen him every day in deep consultation with Indian

chiefs; and now his principal reliance seemed to be upon gipsies: but,

at present, that somewhat eccentric personage was disappointed in his

purpose of calling Pharold to his councils; for when he opened the

door--which led into a small neat study, with a table covered with

papers, money, and lights, in the midst thereof--he found the room

untenanted by any living thing.

"I had forgot," he said, turning back with a smile--"I had forgot that

one half-hour in the air of a close room is too much for Pharold's

endurance. He is gone, and I must send for him when I want him."

"You seem to place more reliance on him," said Manners, pointing to

the heaps of gold and papers on the table, "than most Englishmen would

upon one of his race."

"I would trust him, I may well say, with untold gold," answered Sir

William Ryder; "as you would, Manners, if you knew him as I do. He has

corresponded with me in America for twenty years; and one might be

glad if, in the highest ranks, one could find so exact, so true, and

so punctual a correspondent." The reader, who has already received

much information concerning things of which Manners was ignorant, may

easily understand some of the motives of a correspondence between two

persons so different in station. Manners also had by this time

discovered that his friend's acquaintance with the gipsy was certainly

not of yesterday; yet there was still sufficient matter, both new and

strange, in what he heard, to make him, not only feel surprised, but

look it also. Sir William Ryder, however, who probably did not wish to

give any further explanation, instantly led the conversation away,

saying, "But to return to what we were speaking of, Manners. I must

soon come to some determination; and, perhaps, I have been weak in not

forming one already: but there are spots of weakness in every one's

heart, as there are spots of madness in every one's brain; and I have

my share, of course, of both. However, I will limit myself to a time;

and when you return to Morley House, you may tell the poor girl, that

though it is judged expedient that she should not see her cousin

to-morrow, yet on the next morning the old gentleman with whom he

is--Mr. Harley, remember--will be very happy to receive her here,

together with her aunt, as I suppose she will be afraid to venture on

such an expedition alone. If," he added,--"if I should find reason to

change my present purpose, I can but affect the barbarian, and be

absent when the ladies come."

"Such tidings will, indeed, give joy and peace," answered Manners:

"but before I go to-morrow, I must take care to ascertain where your

dwelling stands; for, coming hither at night, and across the country,

I am totally ignorant of everything concerning the spot where I now

am, except that it is more than a hundred miles from London, which I

found out by a mile-stone on the road."

"We are in the environs of the little town of ----," replied his

companion; "and by the road about seven miles from Morley House. I saw

that this little place was to be let, as I passed by one day,

immediately after my return, and took it at once, on various accounts,

although I did not know how much it might prove of use to poor De

Vaux. And now, Manners, to your rest; for, although I am a late

watcher, you look fatigued, and are in need of repose."

"I am somewhat fatigued," answered Manners, "although I have not had

any very great cause; but the fact is, the mind is sometimes like a

hard rider, and knocks up the body before it is aware. I have been all

this morning either with Lord Dewry, examining a gipsy boy--taken last

night in a sad deer-stealing affray at Dimden--in order to ascertain

whether I could discover poor De Vaux, or pursuing somewhat fiercely

your friend Pharold, against whom, by-the-way, warrants have been

issued on three different charges."

"On three charges, did you say?" demanded Sir William Ryder: "on

three! He only mentioned directly one charge against himself, that of

having murdered this poor lad, which must now, of course, fall to the

ground."

"The other charges were," answered Manners, "first, that he had been

engaged in the deer-stealing, wherein, I am sorry to say, blood was

spilt--but in regard to that I pointed out to him a means of proving

his innocence; and, secondly, that many years ago he was either a

principal or an accessary in the murder of the late Lord Dewry, who

was killed by some unknown person at a spot not far from Morley

House."

It would be difficult to describe the effect that these few words

produced upon the countenance of Sir William Ryder. His eye flashed,

his brows contracted, and he bit his lip hard, till at length some

feeling of contempt seemed to master the rest, and his emotion ended

in a bitter and a meaning laugh. "And pray," he asked, "who is it that

has brought this last charge against him?"

"None other than the brother of the murdered man, Lord Dewry,"

answered Manners: "he says he has proofs of the gipsy's guilt."

"They have been long in manufacturing!" answered Sir William Ryder,

sternly: "I will tell you more, Manners,--as there is a God of heaven,

the gipsy is innocent, and he shall be proved so, let the bolt light

where it may. Proofs! Out upon him! Falsehoods and villany! But he

shall learn better; for I will not stand by and see the innocent

oppressed, for any remembrances that memory can call up."

"You speak more harshly than ever I heard you, my dear Sir William,"

answered Manners; "but perhaps you have cause which I do not know of,

and into which I certainly shall not pry. However, this nobleman is,

as you know, De Vaux's father, and, ere we part for the night, you

must tell me how I am to act towards him; for the gipsy stipulated

that I was to tell him nothing concerning his son's situation, without

your consent. May I tell him where De Vaux is, and under whose care?"

Sir William Ryder paused, and he thought for several moments, with the

same bitter smile which Manners's information had called up still

hanging upon his lip. "Yes," he said at length--"yes, you may tell him

where his son is; and you may tell him to come and see him and me as

speedily as he thinks fit: but call me still Mr. Harley, for there

might be something unpleasant to his ears in the name of William

Ryder, which might prevent his coming. Say that Mr. Harley, the old

gentleman to whose house De Vaux was conveyed after the accident he

met with, will be happy to see him at any time he may name."

"I am most delighted to have your permission so to do," answered

Manners; "for, to tell the truth, it would have placed me in rather an

awkward position in regard to Lord Dewry, had you refused to let me

give him full tidings of his son."

"He will not much thank you," said Sir William Ryder--"he will not

much thank you! But, nevertheless, let him come, let him come!

Perhaps, after all, this is the best way we could have devised of

bringing an unpleasant affair to an end."

"I trust it may prove so," answered Manners; "and that the time may

speedily come when you will find it not unpleasant to unravel all the

mysteries which have been crowding lately so thick upon me, that I

begin to feel confused among them, and hardly know who are friends and

who are enemies."

"Though I have the clew in my hands," answered Sir William, pursuing

more the direction of his own thoughts than that of Manners's last

observation--"though I have the clew in my own hands, there is one

thing puzzles me as much as the rest seems to do you: it is that a

youth so full of high and noble feelings as Edward de Vaux should be

the son of such a man as his father; yet, thank God, he has many a

goodly fault too, or I should begin to doubt that he were his son."

"It not unfrequently happens," rejoined Manners, "that where the heart

is originally good, the errors of the fathers serve as examples or as

landmarks to the children; as the masts of some wrecked vessel often

serve to warn mariners of the shoal on which she perished."

"And _his_ heart was originally good too, I do believe," answered Sir

William Ryder: "I mean the father's," he added, thoughtfully. "Well,

indeed, may his example serve to show to what, step by step, we may

reduce ourselves, as one vice lashes on to another."

Manners smiled. "Nay, nay, Sir William," he said, "you are doing the

worthy lord somewhat less than justice, I think. I never heard of his

being troubled with any of what the world calls vices: pride, indeed,

and wrath, and irascibility, he is not without: but, setting aside

these gentlemanly peccadilloes, I never heard of any vices; and from

what I have seen of him, I should say that, whatever he may have been

in the days past, he has now sunk down into a very disagreeable old

gentleman--that is all."

"That is all!" cried Sir William Ryder, starting up, and laying

his hand upon Manners's arm, while he fixed his eyes intently upon

him--"that is all!" but suddenly breaking off, he resumed a calmer

look and tone, and added, "But we have not time, to-night, to discuss

characters. I am but keeping you from your rest."

Manners did not endeavour to carry on the conversation; for, in all

such matters, it was his rule to let people go on just as far as they

liked, but to press them no further; and although he certainly was not

without some feeling of curiosity in regard to the connection between

Sir William Ryder and the father of his friend De Vaux, yet he well

knew that the only way to come honestly at a secret is to be totally

careless about it. The bell was now rung, and Manners was conducted to

a room which the servant who had given him admission, and who was an

old acquaintance, had with laudable foresight prepared for his use,

looking upon it as certain that a visiter who arrived at twelve

o'clock at night was not likely to depart before the next morning.

Everything had been carefully provided that he could want or desire;

and Colonel Manners, who enjoyed, perhaps more than most men, that

inestimable blessing of a heart at ease in itself, lay down to rest,

and was soon in a deep slumber.

His repose was not disturbed till the gray of the next morning, when

he was roused with the intelligence that Captain De Vaux was awake,

and would be very glad to see him. He was not long in obeying the

summons; and, after a soldier's toilet hastily made, he rang for the

servant, and was conducted to the apartment where his wounded friend

lay.

There is something always melancholy in entering a sick-room in the

early morning, even when it is to see returning health coming back

into a cheek we love. The cheerful light of the young day, finding its

way through the chinks of the shutters, and mingling with the faint

but inextinguishable glare of the night-lamp, the pale and sleepy

guardian of the sick, the book with which she has striven to while

away the hours of watching, and scare off sleep, half-open on a table

loaded with drugs and fever-cooling drinks, the warm, close

atmosphere, and the drawn curtains, all bring home to our own hearts

that painful conviction of our weak and fragile tenure upon health and

comfort, and all that makes life pleasant, which we forget in the

bright and hopeful light of day.

In the small dressing-room, through which Manners ducted to the

chamber of his friend, he found a surgeon who had been brought from

London, and who had passed the preceding night in close attendance

upon the patient. He was luckily one of those men who can form an

opinion, and will venture to speak it; and in answer to Colonel

Manners's inquiries respecting De Vaux's real situation he replied at

once, "There is no danger, sir. He will do perfectly well. I should

advise, however, as little conversation as possible, and that of as

cheerful a kind as may be, for it may retard recovery, if it do not

produce more serious evil."

Manners promised to observe his caution, and entered the room. De Vaux

smiled faintly when he saw him, and held out his hand, though he moved

with evident pain.

"This is a sad accident, indeed, De Vaux," said Manners, sitting down

by his bedside; "but I am delighted to hear from the surgeon that it

is likely to have no bad consequences, and to be speedily remedied."

"I should be ungrateful to say that I am sorry he thinks so," answered

De Vaux, in a melancholy tone; "and yet I can hardly make up my mind

to rejoice."

"Nay, nay," said Manners, "I will not hear you say so, my friend. You

can have heard no tidings, you can be placed in no situation, De Vaux,

which should make you forget that you are surrounded by people who

love you for yourself, and are worthy of your love--who would love you

still, under all or any circumstances--that you have friends,

relations, ties of every dear and intimate character that can make

health and life a blessing, if you are willing to receive it as such.

Nor should you forget that there are others who may well be dear to

your heart, and whose whole happiness for life is staked upon yours."

"Oh yes, poor Marian," said De Vaux: "I am, indeed, ungrateful; for

such a treasure as that should compensate for everything. But tell me

how she is. Tell me all about her, Manners. When did she hear of this

accident? and how has she borne it?"

Manners, though it can scarcely be said that he was puzzled how to

answer, yet felt that, with a man of De Vaux's character, it was

somewhat a delicate task, especially as, from what the surgeon had

said, it might be expedient not to tell his friend the full extent of

what Marian had suffered. He was too well aware of De Vaux's

fastidiousness not to let him know that Marian had felt as deeply on

his account as he could possibly think she ought to have done; and yet

Manners did not wish to pain and alarm him by telling him how much she

really had undergone.

"You ask me to tell you a long story, De Vaux," he answered, after a

moment's thought, "longer, I am afraid, than your worthy surgeon will

consent to your hearing at present; but the truth is, in consequence

of some other accident or mistake, we never did hear of what had

occurred to you at all."

"Good God!" cried De Vaux, "when with my own hand I wrote to Marian as

much as I could write. I do think that servants and messengers were

made for the very purpose of breaking people's hearts, or teasing them

to death by carelessness."

"In this instance, however," said Manners, "it seems that there were

various causes which prevented the delivery of your note; and the

consequence was, that, from your unexplained absence, and several

other accidental facts which came to our knowledge, we were led to

conclude that you had been murdered. I, of course, instantly took arms

to avenge you, as in duty bound, and, backed by warrants and gentlemen

of the quorum, I have been galloping about the country ever since; so

that, in fact, I have seen scarcely any thing of the family at Morley

House, and less than all of your fair cousin Miss De Vaux, whose very

first apprehensions rendered her so unwell that she has kept her room

almost ever since."

"Good God!" cried De Vaux: "how she must have suffered! Poor dear

Marian! Would to God that I could go to her--but I am afraid that I

could not ride."

"Ride! Do not think of it for an instant," cried Manners, "and make

yourself easy about Miss De Vaux. Last night, I, for the first time,

obtained news of your safety, which did her more good than all that

the god of medicine himself could have done. Nay, I do believe that

she would have walked over here with me in the middle of last night,

if it had not been that her own ideas of propriety, or, perhaps, her

fears of your notions thereof, prevented her from undertaking such a

task under such an escort."

De Vaux smiled. "You are severe upon my fastidiousness, Manners," he

said; "but that is one bad quality which, I trust, I shall be able to

cast away with many others. I have had some hard lessons lately,

Manners, enough to bow down the pride of him of the morning star; and,

perhaps, I may have more yet to undergo: but, at all events, my vain

fastidiousness is gone for ever; so that one good is gained by

misfortune."

"As it often is, my friend," answered Manners: "nevertheless, I think

Miss De Vaux was very right to stay where she was; especially as she

herself was far from strong, and I did not know whither I was about to

go; for my friend the gipsy, who conducted me hither, is a man of

mysteries. However, you owe him thanks for one service that he has

rendered to another fair cousin of yours, Miss Falkland, whom he saved

from drowning, at the risk of his own life."

De Vaux had drawn his hand over his eyes when first Manners mentioned

the gipsy; but he removed it again, and looked up with pleasure at the

tidings of Isadore's escape, though he asked no account of the

accident. "Poor Isadore," he said, "and poor Marian, too, for God

knows what we may both be called upon to suffer. Manners, my brain is

in such a whirl, with various doubts, and fears, and anxieties, which

I can neither explain to others nor unravel myself, that I must,

indeed, endeavour to banish all thought of my own situation, and of my

future prospects, if I wish to recover."

"Well, then, by all means banish all thought," answered Manners. "It

is seldom that I can be accused of giving such advice; but for a man

in your situation I think it absolutely a duty to cast from him every

memory, and every reflection, which may tend to impede his recovery,

trusting and believing that, in those circumstances where we have no

power to deliver ourselves, the Almighty Disposer of all things will

act for us far better than we could act for ourselves."

"I must e'en think so," answered De Vaux, in whom corporal weakness

and exhaustion had deadened the first sense of misfortune. "Sir

William Ryder, indeed, bids me hope, and tells me that things must and

will go better than I anticipate: but we speak to each other in

enigmas; and till my mind and body are capable of clearer thought and

greater exertion, I must, I suppose, rest satisfied with assurances,

the foundation for which I can in no degree perceive."

Manners, now anxious to lead his thoughts away from any more painful

subject, gave him a brief, light sketch of his own proceeding in

search of him, and all that had occurred since he had left Morley

House: but, warned by what had already passed concerning the gipsy, he

kept a watchful and a friendly eye upon the countenance of his friend,

skilfully turning to some other part of the same subject as soon as he

perceived that what he said was beginning to produce the slightest

uneasiness. He was surprised to find, however, on how many points De

Vaux was susceptible of pain. The mention of his own father affected

him as strongly as the mention of the gipsy; and many a casual word,

which seemed in itself to be innocent or kind, made him shrink as if

some one had laid a rough hand upon his wound. Beginning at length to

fear that his conversation was doing his friend more harm than good,

Manners rose, adding, "And now, my dear De Vaux, I think I have

remained as long with you as friendship can require, or gallantry

permit, considering that there is a fair lady, very dear to you,

watching anxiously till I shall return and tell her that I have seen

you with my own eyes, and that you are living, not dead; recovering,

not dying. The good people here, for various reasons, will not hear of

her coming to you to-day, but they assure me that to-morrow you will

be able to see her: so that I think I can then promise you a visit;

and hope to find that you have in the interval regained much of the

health and strength that you have lost."

"I will not ask you to stay longer, Manners," said De Vaux; "for I am

too confident of my dear Marian's affection not to feel sure that the

tidings of my probable recovery will be the best consolation she can

receive; and tell her, Manners, I beg, that the only happiness I

anticipate in life and health is that of seeing her again."

"I will tell her how happy it will make you," answered Manners; "but

without any of the melancholy adjuncts, if you please, De Vaux. I will

not spoil the best tidings I have had to tell for some time by such a

number of unpleasant negatives as you attach to them; and so, fare you

well for the present."

"Manners, Manners," said the voice of De Vaux, ere his friend reached

the door, "there is one thing which I had forgot. Do not on any

account let Marian think that this wound which I have received was the

consequence of any intentional act of my own hand. Bid her be sure

that, whatever may have occurred, I was not fool enough or cruel

enough to her to think of such a thing. Explain to her the accident as

I dare say you must have heard it, and tell her that though they say

the pistol must have been cocked when I put it in my bosom, I have not

the slightest remembrance of its having been so."

"I will tell her all," answered Manners; "but do not fancy that she

will ever dream that you did do it intentionally. If you were a

forlorn and solitary being like myself, destined to go through life in

single unblessedness, people might suspect you; but with so many ties

at present, and so much happiness to look forward to, you would be

worse than a madman to throw away, not only the crown of life, but all

the jewels with which fate has adorned it for you."

De Vaux gave him a melancholy look, but only added, "You do not know

all, Manners!" and suffered him to depart. As he was crossing the hall

in search of some one who could inform him whether Sir William Ryder

was yet awake, he met the object of his search, booted and spurred, as

if returned from riding. "You keep your old habits, I see, Sir

William," said Manners, as they met. "You must have been up and out

full early, indeed."

"Mr. Harley; remember, my dear colonel, Mr. Harley I am for the

present," replied the other. "I never sleep before one, nor after

five--a habit which was acquired in sorrow and in bitterness, but

which I would not now lose for half an empire. But have you seen our

poor friend?"

"Yes, I have," answered Manners; "and find him better in body, at

least, than I had even hoped. In mind, however, he is very much

depressed; and without inquiring, or wishing to inquire, my dear sir,

into the connection which may exist between your affairs and his,

allow me to say, as some connection does certainly exist, that I am

sure whatever will sooth and quiet his mind will tend more than

anything to restore him to health. Whatever, on the contrary,

depresses him, as he now is, will not only greatly retard his

recovery, but may, I am afraid, have, remotely, very bad results upon

his constitution. I hope that I do not take too great a liberty with

your friendship," he added, seeing a cloud come upon his auditor's

brow.

"Not in the least, Manners, not in the least," answered Sir William:

"I was only thinking what I could do to relieve the poor youth's mind.

I am afraid I somewhat mistook him, Manners, when I saw him with you

in America; I am afraid I did not half see the nobler and finer

qualities of his mind, concealed, as they were, under an exterior of

frivolous fastidiousness. But I can assure you, that anything on earth

I can do to set his mind at ease I will do; and I will go and assure

him thereof directly and solemnly."

Manners detained him for a single moment, to borrow a horse, and to

explain the motives of his early departure for Morley House; and then

suffering him to proceed, in order to sooth and calm the mind of his

wounded friend, he himself took his way to Mrs. Falkland's, glad to

bear tidings to those who stood so much in need of them.

Marian was watching at the window as he galloped up; and there was

something in the rapid pace at which he came, in the light and agile

motion with which he sprang to the ground, and flung the rein to

the servant, which spoke joyful tidings. Manners was soon in the

drawing-room; and the news he bore was not long in telling. He related

all that he had seen, and all that he had heard of her cousin's

accident and situation; and although we cannot deny that he softened a

little the pain he suffered, and the grief which seemed to oppress

him, Manners told her the truth, though he told it kindly.

Marian's face was alternately the abode of smiles and tears during his

narrative, and during the manifold answers which he gave to her

questions, and again and again she thanked him for all his energetic

interest and feeling kindness, and prayed Heaven sincerely that De

Vaux and herself might have some opportunity of returning it as he

deserved.

Manners only interrupted a conversation which was not without interest

to himself, and was so deeply interesting to her, in order to inquire

for her cousin, and to put many a question concerning Miss Falkland's

health, after the accident of the preceding night. He was still in

full career, when she herself entered, somewhat paler but not less gay

than ever; and although she declared, and persisted in the

declaration, that she was bound by every rule of propriety to fall in

love with the gipsy who had rescued her, and to tender him her hand

and heart, Manners felt sincerely rejoiced that Pharold had been the

person to come so opportunely to her aid. Isadore, indeed, as she

recollected one or two words which had been spoken on the preceding

evening, coloured more than once when Manners addressed her; but she

knew him to be a generous man, and she determined to trust to his

generosity for the result.

Mrs. Falkland soon after joined the party; and the house of mourning

was changed into a house of joy. Nothing more remained but to write to

Lord Dewry, informing him of his son's safety; and this Manners

undertook and executed, keeping in mind the engagement he had come

under to Sir William Ryder, regarding the concealment of his name. A

servant was instantly despatched to Dewry Hall with the note: but on

reaching that place he found that the peer had returned early that

morning to Dimden, and thither he then bent his steps; but arrived too

late to give Lord Dewry even the option of visiting his son that

night.

CHAPTER IX.

Dimden Park--a spot which had been hated and avoided by Lord Dewry

ever since it fell into his possession, on account of its many

memories--some painful in themselves, some painful in their

associations--had, by this time, not alone been revisited by its

master, but had been occupied by him, with a part of his general

household, as if for the purpose of longer residence. Such a state of

things had been in no degree contemplated by the peer, either when

Manners left him, or when he himself terminated his conversation with

the gipsy boy who had become his prisoner; but another conversation

had succeeded with another person, to whose chamber we must now

follow.

The first object of Lord Dewry being to get the gipsy Pharold into his

power--trusting to his previously arranged schemes to work his will

with him when he had him there--it was natural that he should turn his

whole efforts to accomplish his capture before he attended to anything

else. The moment, however, that all the means had been employed for

that purpose which circumstances permitted, his attention instantly

returned to the plans which he had concerted in order to prove the

object of his hatred and his fear guilty of the crime imputed to him,

when he should be ultimately taken. The execution of these plans

materially depended upon Sir Roger Millington; and for his safety and

recovery the peer's next aspirations were consequently raised. As

soon, then, as he had dismissed the affair of the boy, and had seen

the treacherous scoundrel he thought fit to employ for the purpose of

inveigling the gipsy to his destruction set out upon his errand, Lord

Dewry turned his steps towards the chamber of the wounded man,

sincerely grieved for the accident which had happened to him, and most

anxious concerning its ultimate result. Calculating, however, with

nice acumen, the irritable selfishness of sick people, he trusted not

to the personal vexation which he really felt to give his air and

countenance the appearance of grief and sympathy; but as he walked

slowly up the stairs, he thought over every point of the part he was

to play, in order to cover his individual motives from the eye of the

wounded man, and make him believe that sincere interest in his fate

and sufferings was the sole emotion which affected his friend and

benefactor.

At the door of the chamber to which Sir Roger had been conveyed, the

peer paused for a moment; and then laying his hand upon the lock,

turned it, and entered with as noiseless a step as possible. The

windows were darkened; but there was still enough light in the room

for the eye to distinguish the table covered with surgical instruments

and bloody bandages, and all those appliances and means for saving

life which man so strangely combines with the most skilful and

persevering activity in taking it. There was the bed, too, and the

half-drawn curtains, and the gentleman in black, sitting by the

bolster, while a young prim assistant walked about on tiptoe, for the

soothing dose or the cooling drink. A deep groan was sounding through

the room as the peer entered; and although he was, and always had

been, a man of nerve, without any corporal terror at the thought

either of pain or death, there was something in that sound, and all

the accessory circumstances around, that made a sort of shudder pass

over his frame. It were difficult to guess in what feelings that

shudder took its rise. It might be, alone, the natural repugnance of

the human heart to anguish and dissolution--it might be that he

thought of his son--it might be that he remembered his brother, for

there were chords of association between the fate of each, and the

situation of the man he came to visit, which, like the strings of the

Eolian harp, might well be moved to a thousand vague and melancholy

sounds by the slightest breath that stirred them.

He advanced, however, lightly towards the bed, and stood by the chair,

whence the surgeon rose as he approached, ere the wounded man was

aware of his presence. Sir Roger Millington was lying on his left

side, with his face turned away, and his right hand cast over the

bed-clothes; and it was not difficult, from the slow clenching of

his hand, and the rocking motion of his head, to see the intense

agony he suffered. The peer paused, and gazed for a moment with

some emotion--not, indeed, without a mingling of better

feelings--compassion, and sympathy, and disinterested grief, such as

he had not known for many years. It was better than all the acting in

the world; and when Sir Roger, whom no persuasion of the surgeon could

induce to lie still, turned round with the quick and irritable

movement of high fever and excessive pain, he saw the peer standing by

him, with an expression of sincere sorrow which could not be mistaken.

A groan and a fearful contortion followed the change of position; but

when the first agony was over, he looked pleased to see the

countenance of Lord Dewry; and said, in a voice wonderfully strong and

firm, considering his situation, "Your lordship is very kind--I am

badly hurt, I am afraid--those accursed gipsies took too good an

aim--damn me, if I do not think the shot must have been red hot, it

gives one such torture. I have been wounded before, but never felt

anything like this. Do you think I shall die, my lord, ey?"

"Heaven forbid," cried the peer, sitting down; "on the contrary, I

trust the very pain you suffer evinces that you are in no danger; for

I have always heard that mortal wounds are generally the least

painful. Is it not so, Mr. Swainstone?"

"Yes, exactly so, my lord," replied the surgeon, who would probably

have confirmed anything on earth that the peer said to sooth his

patient. "I had told the gentleman so before your lordship arrived."

"You never told me so," cried Sir Roger, looking up at him angrily.

"Yes, indeed, sir, I told you that I hoped and trusted you would

recover," answered the surgeon; "and one of my reasons for thinking so

was the very pain you suffer; for, as his lordship very justly and

wisely observes, wounds which--"

"But that damned parson," cried Sir Roger, "told me I should certainly

die--a foul-mouthed, old, hooded crow!"

"What parson?" demanded the peer, in some surprise and dismay at the

very idea of Sir Roger Millington being brought in contact in his

dying hours with any one who might lead him on to dangerous

disclosures; "what parson does he mean?"

"Oh, only good Dr. Edwards, my lord, the rector," answered the

surgeon. "He came to give the gentleman religious consolation; but he

did not exactly say that he would certainly die. He said that he would

certainly die at some time; and that even, if he were spared at

present, it would be better for him to turn his thoughts to serious

things, so that, if he recovered, the wound might prove salutary to

his mind at least."

"Yes, yes; but he thought, and he meant me to think, too," cried Sir

Roger, "that I was dying, and that I could not recover. I knew well

enough what he meant--the canting old crow; but I'll live, curse me if

I do not, if it be but to pay those hellish gipsies for this torture

to which they have put me. I beg your pardon, my lord, for being

somewhat violent; but I am in agony, perfect agony."

"I grieve most deeply and sincerely, my dear friend, to see you suffer

so much," answered the peer; "and I will take care that no such

fanatical irritation be intruded upon you again. Dr. Edwards is a very

good and well-intentioned man, I dare say; but I will not have a sick

and wounded friend tormented for any rector on the face of the earth.

In the mean time, however, I trust that this state of anguish is not

likely to be of long endurance. What do you think, Mr. Swainstone? Can

nothing be done to alleviate it?"

"I have done as much as I could, my lord, to effect that purpose,"

answered the surgeon, with a very significant shrug of the shoulders;

"and I doubt not, in a few hours, the gentleman will feel the pain

begin to subside."

"That is the best news I have heard from you yet, doctor," said the

wounded man. "But do you not think you can extract the ball? I do not

believe I shall be easier as long as that remains in me, burning like

a coal."

"O yes, you will," answered the surgeon; "and it is necessary to let

the first irritation subside, before I make the attempt again. Were I

to try it now, it might increase all you suffer, and prolong it,

perhaps, for many hours."

"Then you shall not touch it, depend upon that," cried Sir Roger; "I

suffer quite enough already."

"In the mean time, Mr. Swainstone," demanded the peer, "let me inquire

whether a little quiet conversation with a friend is likely to injure

your patient; for I would even deny myself the pleasure of remaining

with him, though I much desire it, if you thought it would prove in

any degree hurtful."

"Not in the least, my lord," answered the surgeon; "a little cheerful

and interesting conversation, such as your lordship's must always be,

would, most likely, withdraw his mind from himself, and rather do him

good than otherwise."

"Then I will relieve you in your attendance upon him for half an

hour," rejoined the peer: "and your assistant can wait in the next

room, in case Sir Roger may want any surgical aid. But, remember," he

added, in a louder tone, "in case I do not see you again, I beseech

you to give your whole time and attention up to my friend here, and

shall esteem it the greatest favour that any one can confer upon me,

if you bring him safely and speedily through this unfortunate affair."

The surgeon bowed; and promising to do his best, proceeded to quit the

apartment with his assistant. The peer then, suddenly seeming to

remember something, followed into the anteroom, and, closing the door,

beckoned him back. "I wish to know, Mr. Swainstone," he said, in a low

but emphatic tone, "your real opinion of my friend's case. You said

just now that the pain would subside in a few hours: do you think that

likely to be really the case? for I see that you have spoken under

some restraint."

"It will certainly be the case, my lord," replied the surgeon,

gravely; "but only from the coming on of mortification, which cannot

be long ere it occurs."

"Good God! then you think he will die?" cried the peer, in real alarm.

"I do think so, my lord," answered the surgeon, "without there

existing in my mind one hope of being able to prevent it. The fact is

this, my lord: the ball entered his right side; and passing directly

through the muscles of the back, was only stopped by the articulations

of the ribs and the vertebrae, both of which have been so much

fractured and injured, that there is neither any possibility of

extracting the ball, nor any chance of its remaining there innocuous,

as is sometimes the case."

"Then how long do you think life may be protracted?" asked the peer,

anxiously.

"It is impossible to say to a day or two, my lord," answered the

surgeon. "It may be over in a week; and, on the contrary, he may

linger ten days or a fortnight."

"Then you do not think that there is any chance of immediate

dissolution?" demanded Lord Dewry.

"None, none whatever, my lord," replied the surgeon. "All hemorrhage

has ceased long. First mortification will ensue, and then--"

"Spare me the description," said the peer; "but tell me, in case of

its being necessary to transact any business of importance with this

unfortunate gentleman, when do you think will be the moment in which

it can best be done?"

"Why, I should say, in the beginning of the mortification," the

surgeon replied. "All his faculties will be clear and active, and the

great bodily pain which he is now suffering will have abated."

"Well then, Mr. Swainstone," rejoined Lord Dewry, "I shall trust you

to give me notice of the precise moment at which you judge it

expedient that this poor gentleman's declaration, on oath, regarding

the transactions in which he has suffered, should be taken down. At

the same time, let me caution you not to alarm him, or suffer him to

be alarmed, by the thought of death; but keep his spirits up, as far

as possible, till it shall become absolutely necessary to let him know

that all hope is past."

Thus saying, the peer returned into the room of the wounded man; and

the surgeon withdrew, wondering who Sir Roger Millington could be,

towards whom the cold and proud Lord Dewry displayed so much courtesy

and warm regard.

The peer, in the meantime, approached the bed of the sufferer with a

more cheerful countenance; and assured him, in answer to some rather

anxious questions, that the real opinion of the surgeon was more

favourable than he had even expected. "I have given orders, too,"

added Lord Dewry, "that no more fanatics be admitted to you. There are

a crowd of those weak fools about the country, who haunt sick-rooms;

and very often, by depressing the mind and spirits, cause those

persons to die who would otherwise have recovered."

"Oh, I'll not die for any of them," answered Sir Roger; "I'll live to

have revenge on those gipsies. They marked me out especially; and I

will live long enough to show that, though I was so badly hurt, I

could mark them too, and remember them to their cost."

"Did you see Pharold, then, among them?" demanded the peer, eagerly.

"Was it he who fired the shot?"

"I saw Pharold plainly," answered Sir Roger; "and can swear that he

was among them. So can the man that held me up in his arms, after I

was wounded; for he pointed him out to me, and I will swear to him

anywhere."

Joy glistened in the eyes of the peer while he listened. He had had

doubts, he had had apprehensions, lest the testimony of his keeper

against the gipsy should remain unsupported by other authority; and he

had not left unremarked Harvey's implication that some of the other

persons present differed with him in their account of the affair. But

the assertion of Sir Roger Millington was conclusive; as he well knew,

from his own former experience as a lawyer, what an effect the dying

declaration of a murdered person always has upon a jury.

During the last twenty-four hours he had sometimes doubted whether he

had or had not somewhat too intricately complicated his plans, in his

eagerness to snatch at every thing which gave an additional chance of

security; but now he congratulated himself that he had acted as he had

done, and fancied that if he confidently and boldly pursued them, his

mind was sufficiently acute to guide each of the schemes he had

engaged in to the same great end and object,--the ensuring his own

security by crushing those who could destroy it.

He now felt armed at all points. By the transactions of the preceding

day he could prove the impossibility of his having committed the crime

which he believed that Pharold would cast back in his teeth; and from

the events of the preceding night he felt secure that if the gipsy

should even be cleared of the murder of his brother and of his son,

the last charge, in regard to the violence in Dimden Park, would be

made good against him, and lay his dangerous lips in the silence of

the grave. But in his eagerness to secure this advantage beyond the

power of fate, Lord Dewry somewhat outran discretion. Without giving

either himself or Sir Roger time to pause, he exclaimed, eagerly,

"Will it not be better, my dear Sir Roger, at once to make a

declaration, upon oath, of your recollections concerning the affair of

last night?"

Sir Roger Millington looked at him suspiciously. "Do you think me

dying, or do you not. Lord Dewry?" he demanded; "for if I am not

dying, but likely to recover, I shall have plenty of time to make the

declaration when I am not in such pain, or give the _viva voce_

evidence, which is much better in a court of justice. So let me know

the truth, my lord."

Lord Dewry saw that it was in vain to hope he would make the

declaration he desired unless he believed himself to be dying; but the

peer had a keen knowledge of human nature, and saw all the dangers

which would attend the disclosure of his real state to Sir Roger

Millington. He knew that men who have confronted the chance of death a

thousand times, and, if one may use the expression, have bearded "the

lean, abhorred monster" in his most angry moods, will writhe and

flutter like a scared bird when he has got them in his inevitable

grasp, and when they know that they cannot escape. He knew that these

are the moments "that make cowards of us all;" and he feared lest some

lingering notions of crime, and repentance, and another world should

tempt Sir Roger Millington to an endeavour towards atoning past

errors, by the confession of all those evil designs which were still

in their passage between the past and the future, between the

revocable and the irretrievable; and he would not have risked the

chance for a world. He saw, however, that he had already created a

doubt which might be dangerous; but, he extricated himself

dexterously.

"God forbid, my dear Millington," he said, "that anything should be

even likely to prevent your giving evidence when the trial of these

gipsies comes on; but my only reason for wishing you to make the

declaration was, that it might be produced at once before the

magistrates, whom I shall request to meet here to-morrow or the day

after, either to take measures for pursuing the villains vigorously,

if they have not been arrested before that time, or to investigate the

matter if they have, which I trust may be the case, as I have already

set half the county on their track. Now what I wish is, that this

Pharold may be committed directly; and you know that among a number of

country magistrates there is always some prating, troublesome fellow,

who throws difficulties in the way; and in this instance, it must be

remembered, some of the people did not recognise Pharold, so that your

evidence is of vital importance."

"Let them come to me," said Sir Roger, vehemently--"let them come to

me, and I will give such evidence as would hang him half a dozen times

over. I should like to be but a quarter of an hour in the same room

with the scoundrel with two good small-swords. Only to think, my lord,

of me--who have made the daylight shine through many a pretty man as

one would wish to see--being hurt in this way by a stinking yellow fox

of a gipsy, that is only fit to be hunted down by a good pack of

hounds!"

"I trust we shall catch him," said the peer, who saw that it was vain

to press the wounded man any further upon the subject of the

declaration.

"Catch him!" cried Sir Roger, who was working himself up into a state

of vehement excitement--"catch him! you cannot miss catching him, if

you take proper means. By Jupiter, if you miss him, I'll undertake,

for a small sum, to catch him myself as soon as I am well; or rather,

I should say, catch the whole of them, for curse me if I know which of

them it was that fired the shot."

"Indeed!" cried Lord Dewry; "I am sorry for that; I thought you were

certain it was Pharold."

"I daresay it was," answered the knight, "for I saw him standing in

front, when they picked me up. It was either he himself or a young

fellow who stood near, and who bullied a great deal beforehand. But as

those that bully never act, I dare say it was Pharold himself."

"I wish to heaven your recollection would enable you to swear that it

was Pharold," said the peer in a low but distinct voice.

"Oh, I can swear that it was he who did it, to the best of my belief,"

answered Sir Roger, who, notwithstanding all his sufferings, could not

but feel, that, in the peer, he had obtained a friend whom it might be

inexpedient to lose, and whose care and attention, under his existing

circumstances, might well make some impression upon him, although he

even did doubt the motives which produced such conduct--"I can swear

it was he who did it, to the best of my belief," he repeated, with

some emphasis on the last words; and then added, in the peevish tone

of pain, "You seem to have a goodly dislike towards this Pharold, my

lord."

The peer did not wish, of course, that his personal hatred to Pharold

should be too apparent, even to those whom he employed as tools; but

he still less wished that that personal hatred should be so far

without plausible motive as to lead men to turn their thoughts towards

remote causes, in order to seek out some probable reason for such

persisting enmity. Nor, indeed, was a sufficient motive wanting; for

the terrible news he had heard the night before from Colonel Manners

had awakened feelings towards the gipsy which, though blending with

ancient hatred, were yet sufficiently powerful in themselves to stand

forth, even in his own mind, as the great incentive to his designs

against Pharold, as one great stream, joining others, mingles its

waters with theirs, and gives its name to all.

"I have good cause to hate him," he said, bending down over the

wounded man, with the expression of all his dark and bitter feelings

frowning unrestrained upon his brow--"I have good cause to hate him,

Sir Roger--judge if I have not, when I tell you that his hand has not

only been dipped in my brother's blood, but also in the blood of my

only son."

He spoke in a low and agitated voice: but Sir Roger caught his meaning

distinctly; and, with an involuntary movement of real horror, started

up upon his elbow. He fell back again instantly, with a groan of

agony; and the big drops rolled from his forehead. The peer paused for

a few minutes, seeing that the sudden movement had renewed all the

sufferings of the wounded man: but he had yet much more to say, and

when the knight had in some degree recovered, he began again with

expressions of sympathy and kindness:--"I am sorry to see you suffer

so terribly," he said: "you seemed easier just now; and I was in hopes

that the change for the better, which the surgeon prognosticated, was

already coming on."

"I was better, I was better," said the knight, peevishly; "but that

cursed start that you made me give, by telling me about your son, has

torn me all to pieces again. You should not tell one such things so

hastily."

"Were my son out of the question," replied Lord Dewry, with every

appearance of frankness and sincerity--"had this Pharold never shed

one drop of my kindred blood, I would pursue him and his tribe to the

last man, for what they have made you suffer."

There is no calculating, however, the turns which the irritability of

sickness will take; and whether Lord Dewry overcharged the expression

of his regard or not, Sir Roger murmured to himself, in a tone too

indistinct for the peer to distinguish his words,--"I dare say you

think so, now that you have your own purposes to answer too--I am not

to be blinded. Well, my lord," he continued aloud, somewhat

apprehensive, perhaps, that the peer's present kindness might render

him the obliged person, instead of the conferer of the obligation, and

thus deprive him of many a profitable claim for the future--"well, my

lord. I am very much obliged to you for your kindness; but I trust you

will not allow my having suffered, in an attempt to serve you, so

greatly as to render me for the time incapable of doing all that I

could wish--I hope that you will not allow this fact, I say, to alter

your lordship's kind intentions in my favour."

The peer understood very clearly, although Sir Roger was rendered

peevish and somewhat imprudent by pain and sickness, yet that with

habitual rapacity he now wished to tie him down to the fulfilment of

all that had been promised on the former evening, lest the opportunity

should slip, and the gipsy be convicted of other crimes by other

means. Confiding, however, in the assurance of the surgeon, that the

unhappy knight must die, he felt that he could be liberal as the air

in promises, without any dangerous result; and he therefore replied at

once, "Fear not, fear not, Sir Roger; not only will I do all that I

said, when you were first kind enough to give me your assistance, but

it shall not be my fault if I do not find means to do more. Set your

mind, therefore, at ease upon the subject, and do not allow any

thoughts for the future to give you apprehension, or delay your

recovery. Since, however, you have spoken of the subject yourself,

there are some things in those papers which we were looking over last

night which I should much like to see again. Have you them here?"

Sir Roger, however, was not to be deceived; and his present views were

directly opposed to those which he perceived or suspected in his noble

companion. In the first arrangement of the affair, indeed, when he had

been suddenly raised from apprehensions of the most gnawing want to

hopes of competence and ease, when he believed that the peer could not

ultimately act without him, and that he had it always in his power to

enforce, by a few gentle hints of publicity, the performance of all

that had been promised, he would have given the papers out of his own

hands without fear. Under those circumstances, too, the peer had

thought it better that the knight should keep them, that their

production might take place more naturally.

Now, however, the position of each was changed. Lord Dewry looked upon

Sir Roger as a dying man, whose life could not be protracted to the

completion of all they designed, and who might be worked upon by the

fear of death, or the irritability of sickness, to take a very

different view of the life he was leaving, from that which he had

hitherto entertained. Sir Roger, on his part, saw that, tied down to a

bed of pain, through, a long and tedious convalescence, no opportunity

could possibly be afforded him of superintending and directing the

proceeding in which he had been engaged; and, therefore, that his

great hold upon the peer was to be found in the papers which they had

altered together. Both, therefore, wished to possess them; and Sir

Roger, in the apparently casual question of Lord Dewry, perceived at

once the object he proposed. "No, my lord," he answered, somewhat

abruptly, "I have them not with me; I left them at your house, at

Dewry Hall. I wish to God I had them with me."

The peer was somewhat startled by the eagerness of his tone; for it is

impossible for men to confederate in villany without being more or

less suspicious of each other. "Cannot I find them for you. Sir

Roger?" he demanded. "If you will intrust me with the key of your

valise, I will bring them over with me to-morrow."

A grim smile checkered the expression of pain on the countenance of

the wounded man, and he replied, "Your lordship is very good; but as I

shall require a number of things contained in my valise, I think it

would be better if your lordship were to have the goodness to order

some of your servants to send me over every thing which I left in the

apartment assigned me at Dewry Hall."

"Certainly, certainly," answered the peer, who saw that he must press

the matter no farther--"certainly, it shall be done this very night.

But do you not think, Sir Roger," he continued, with renewed

apprehension lest the unhappy man, if left unwatched by his own eye,

should discover his real situation, and be persuaded to make

inconvenient confessions--"do you not think, Sir Roger, that you

yourself might bear removal to the hall? I do not like your remaining

in this damp old house, which has not been inhabited for many years,

and in which there is but little that can render you comfortable,

during your convalescence. If you could bear the motion--"

"Impossible, my lord," replied Sir Roger sharply; "I wonder you do not

see that I can bear no motion at all. This place will do very well: I

have lain in worse quarters; and if you will order my valise to be

sent, it is all I want. To tell the truth," he added, "I am somewhat

tired, and am afraid that to speak much more would injure me."

"Then far be it from me," replied the peer, "to prolong our

conversation, Sir Roger. I shall take care that everything that

circumstances admit be done for your accommodation, and that you be

not again teased by our fanatical rector, as you were this morning."

There was a degree of anger in his tone which, had it not been

repressed by many a potent consideration, might have flashed forth in

a very different manner; but it was still sufficiently perceptible to

make the wounded man add some deprecatory sentences, which the peer

received in good part, and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Sir

Roger Millington placed his hand over his eyes, and gave way to

thoughts of a very mixed, but all of a melancholy character.

"His compassion and his regard," he thought, his mind turning to the

crafty man who had just left him--"his compassion and his regard are

all false and affected, that is clear enough. To think of his wishing

to move me fourteen or fifteen miles in this terrible state! I should

like to know what his object is. He has some deep object, beyond

doubt. Can he be afraid of my betraying him? Perhaps he may. His

schemes are villanous ones enough, that is certain: but he knows that

if I were to peach, I should lose the annuity from him, and get

nothing from any one else; so he cannot be afraid of that." Then came

a long interval of confused and rambling speculations on the motives

of the peer, which had something of delirium in their vague and

unconnected whirl; but then a more terrible image rose before the mind

of the sick man. "Can he think me dying?" he asked himself. "Can the

surgeon have told him that I am dying? No, I won't believe it. I feel

as strong as ever, notwithstanding all this pain! I cannot be dying!

No, no, I will live to revenge myself upon those cursed gipsies.

Doctor," he continued aloud, as the surgeon now re-entered the room,

"are you sure that you are not deceiving me about my condition? Are

you sure that I am not in danger?"

The surgeon was a good but an easy-tempered man; not indifferent to

religion; but still not very certain, at all times, in regard to the

precise line of conduct which it dictated. Although he thought it

wrong, as a general principle, to depress the spirits of a patient, by

telling him his danger, yet he had conceived that the clergyman had

done but his duty, as a man of religion, in letting the wounded knight

know what he, as a medical man, had thought it his duty to conceal.

The arguments and injunctions of the peer, however, coming in support

of his own opinion, he maintained his first assertion to Sir Roger,

telling him that, although it was impossible to answer for

contingencies, and that he could not exactly tell what might be the

ultimate result of his wound till he had examined it on the following

day, yet he saw no reason whatever to apprehend any _immediate_

danger.

With this assurance Sir Roger satisfied himself, and passed a feverish

and painful night, in murmurs at the agony he suffered, in curses and

imprecations upon the whole race of gipsies, and in vague speculations

upon the motives and views of Lord Dewry, in his conduct of that

morning. At times his mind seemed to ramble a little; and he would

mutter vague sentences, referring to many a different object, which

would excite both the attention and wonder of the medical man, and

make him believe that his patient wanted the aid of religion more than

he had imagined at first. When spoken to, however, his replies became

instantly clear and precise, and all his faculties appeared again as

perfect as ever.

In the mean while, the peer, after leaving such directions as the

circumstances and his own particular plans required, placed himself

once more in his carriage, and returned to his usual abode; but he

determined that on no consideration should the wounded man be left

longer in Dimden House without his presence. "Those meddling priests,"

he thought, "think themselves privileged to obtrude and to persevere

in their obtrusion; but I do not think the rector will presume to set

his foot within the doors of Dimden while I am there, without my

especial desire; and if he do, he shall soon be disposed of. I dare

say, however, that Sir Roger himself said enough to prevent his speedy

return; but that surgeon, that Swainstone, is a weak fellow, and I

will trust nothing to circumstances."

There were other things, however, to be accomplished, which required

no small skill and cunning to bring about; but the mind of Lord Dewry

was all activity and eagerness, now that the strife had actually

commenced, and that he felt that the struggle between him and the only

witness of the crime he had committed was so far advanced that it

could only end in the destruction of one or the other. There was no

more hesitation now--there was no more fear or doubt--there was none

of that wavering between many feelings and many emotions. He had

plunged in, and he was resolved to make his way through. The news of

his son's death had decided him; and the burning longing for revenge

went hand in hand with all his other motives. He had hesitated at the

first step; but that irretrievable first step was now taken, and he

did not regret it. He had chosen his path; he had begun the contest,

and his whole thoughts and mind were bent to take advantage of every

circumstance in order to terminate it in his own favour.

Again and again, as the carriage rolled on, he revolved in his own

mind the various means that could be used to induce the dying man to

make such a declaration of what he had witnessed during the affray in

Dimden Park as would give an irresistible grasp of Pharold; and yet

how accomplish this purpose without letting Sir Roger know that he was

dying, and that the crimes to which he was making himself a party

would soon appear in the dreadful account against his disembodied

spirit? It was a difficult task, and yet he thought he could

accomplish it, if he were for any long time present in the knight's

sick-room; but on another point he saw, and saw with a glow of

triumph, that he could turn the very refusal of the papers, which for

a moment he had considered as detrimental, to the very best account.

Although it was late, and he had not dined, yet he ordered the

carriage, ere it proceeded home, to pass through the neighbouring

village, and stop at the vicarage. It was an honour which the proud,

cold, irreverent peer had seldom paid to the poor minister of a

religion that condemned him; and with some surprise the vicar beheld

him enter his little study. But the struggle in which he was engaged,

like all other struggles of base interest, whether they be for the

purposes of political ambition or of private avarice, was one that

mightily tamed pride, and rendered coldness warm and affable. He was

anxious to buy golden opinions from all sorts of men: and although he

had a further purpose at present in view, he addressed the clergyman

with that sort of courtesy which his situation prompted him to use

towards every one whose word might be of value in the opinion of the

world.

"My dear sir," he said, "I come to you for the purpose of requesting a

favour." The vicar, who neither loved nor approved the man who spoke

to him, answered coldly that he should be happy to do any thing to

serve his lordship; and the peer proceeded to explain.

"The fact is," he said, "that last night, in a terrible deer-stealing

affray, which took place at Dimden, a poor friend of mine was severely

wounded, and is not expected to live from hour to hour. Among his

baggage, which remains here at the hall, he tells me that there are

papers of great importance; and, indeed, he wished me to bring them to

him; but as his mind is not itself, and his faculties wander from time

to time, I do not conceive I should be justified in placing papers of

importance at his disposal. At the same time, of course, I cannot

presume to examine them, and I wish much to seal them up in your

presence, if you have time to get into my carriage with me, and

accompany me to the hall. It is for this purpose that I have now

called here as I passed from Dimden on my way home."

The vicar thought that the matter might have been more simply

arranged; but as there was nothing in the peer's request which was

unreasonable, he consented to accompany him; and in few minutes they

were at the door of the mansion. Leaving the cook to fret over his

delayed ragouts, the peer instantly ordered sealing-wax and lights to

be brought; and, accompanied by the clergyman, proceeded to the

apartments which Sir Roger Millington had occupied for so short a

time, and in which various articles of apparel were still lying about.

The valise, however, firmly locked, was in one corner of the room; and

what was still more pleasing in the sight of the peer, there appeared

on one of the tables a small portable letter-case, in which, beyond

all doubt, the knight had placed the papers which were of so much

consequence to Lord Dewry.

Lord Dewry took the wax, and bidding the servant who brought it hold

the taper, he sealed first the letter-case, and then the valise, and

requested the vicar to do the same with his own seal. "I am induced,"

he said, in a frank tone, "to take all these precautions, by a

conversation which I had with my poor friend this morning, in which he

spoke of these things as of the most vital importance. It might be the

mere rambling of delirium, but it might be more correct; and,

therefore, as this caution costs me nothing but the wax, and you, my

dear sir, nothing but the loss of a few minutes' time--though I know

your time is valuable--I thought it best not to neglect a line of

conduct, which I might regret not having pursued hereafter."

"I think your lordship is quite right," replied the vicar, placing his

seal also on the cases. "In matters of worldly prudence, and in our

religious duties, where there is any thing to be done which may

produce good, and cannot produce evil, to neglect it is, in the one

case, a folly, and in the other, a sin."

The peer repressed the sneer that began to curl his lip; and, perhaps,

felt at his heart that the good man's words were true, though through

life he had neglected the rule they taught. He then bade the servant

close up the apartment, and lock the door, till the death of the

unhappy knight should render the things that it contained the property

of others; and descending the stairs with the vicar, he begged that he

would favour him by remaining to dinner, which was about to be placed

upon the table. The clergyman replied that he had long dined; and in

answer to the offer of the peer's carriage to take him back to the

vicarage, he answered that he would rather walk.

"He is stern and repulsive!" thought the peer as the clergyman left

him: but there was still a lingering gleam of better feeling, which

occasionally lighted up his darkened heart, and he added, almost

instantly, and aloud; "but he is loved by the poor, and he is a good

man; and I would rather have such a one near me than a pampered

voluptuary."

"Sir!" said the servant, who was standing by.

"Pshaw! nothing!" replied the peer, and walked back to his

dressing-room.

Early the next morning he returned to Dimden, where he received, as we

have seen, the tidings which Colonel Manners sent him of the security

of his son, which, though it poured some balm into his heart, came too

late to effect any change in his purposes against the gipsy.

CHAPTER X.

"The time was," thought the gipsy, as he climbed the hills once

more, after leaving Colonel Manners at the house of Sir William

Ryder,--"the time was when these limbs would have undertaken double

the toil that they have undergone this day, as a matter of sport. But

now they are weary and faint, like those of some sickly dweller in

cities--of some slave of effeminate and enfeebling luxury. Age is

upon me: the breaker of the strong sinew--the softener of the hard

muscle--the destroyer of vigour, activity, and power has laid upon me

that heavy hand, which shall press me down into the grave. But it

matters not--it matters not. I have outlived my time; I have changed,

and the things around me have changed also; but we have not changed in

the same way. They have sprung up, new and young, while I have grown

weary and old; and, in the midst of the world, I am like a withered

leaf of the last year among the green fresh foliage of the spring. It

is time that I should fall from the bough, and give place to brighter

things."

As he thus thought, whether from corporal weariness, or from the

listlessness of the dark melancholy which oppressed him, he turned

from the high-road into the first plantation that he met with; and

without such care for personal comfort as even a gipsy usually takes,

cast himself down under the trees, and sought to refresh himself by

sleep. Gloomy ideas, however, still pursued him long; and, with the

superstitious imaginations of his tribe heightening the universal

propensity to superstition in our nature, he fancied that the

melancholy which disappointment, and anxiety, and difficulty, and

failure, had produced, was but some supernatural warning of his

approaching fate. The bravest, the wisest, the best, as well as the

most hardened and the most skeptical, have felt such presentiments,

and have believed them; and very often, also, either by the desponding

inactivity of such belief, or by rash struggles to prove that they did

not believe, have brought about the fulfilment of that which

originally was but a dream.

Sleep, however, came at length; and it was daylight the next morning

ere the gipsy awoke. He rose refreshed; and his dark visions, perhaps,

would have vanished, if he would have let them: but there is nothing

to which one so fondly clings as superstition; and to have cast from

him as untrue a presentiment in which he had once put faith, Pharold

would have held as treason to the creed of his people. He rose, then;

and, pursuing the paths through the plantations and the woods,

avoiding all public ways, and never venturing farther from the covert

than to follow the faintly-marked track through some small solitary

meadow, he mounted the remaining hills, and bent his steps towards the

thick wood in which he had left his companions, revolving, as he went,

what might be the probable fate of those to whom he had so

perseveringly clung, when he, himself, should be no more.

He found the other gipsies all on foot, and busied about the various

little cares of a fresh day, with the light and careless glee of a

people to whom the sorrows of the past week are as a half-forgotten

tradition. The old were talking and laughing at the entrances of

their tents, the young were sporting together by the stream, and the

middle-aged were employed in mending this or that which had gone wrong

about their carts and baggage, and whistling as lightly at their work

as if there were no such thing as grief in all the world.

"And thus will it be," thought Pharold, as he approached--"thus will

it be with them all, ere I am a week beneath the earth. But it matters

not, it matters not. So be it. Why should I wish tears shed or hearts

bruised for such a thing as I am?"

He believed that he did not wish it; yet where is the man so steeled

by nature or philosophy as to look forward to the grave, and not to

hope that some kind bosom will sigh, some gentle eye give a tear to

his memory when he is gone? and though Pharold believed that he did

not wish it, he deceived himself. At the door of his own tent sat she

on whom, in this his latter day, he had bestowed the better part of

all his feelings; whom he loved, at once, with the tenderness of a

father and the tenderness of a husband,--a union of feelings that

never yet produced aught but sorrow, for it never can be returned in

the fulness of its own intensity.

She was looking lovelier, too, than ever he had seen her; and though,

heaven knows, her beauty owed but little to richness of dress, yet

there was a something of taste and elegance in her attire, rude as it

was in quality, that pleased the eye of one who had acquired a

knowledge of what constitutes beauty in other times and circumstances.

She had twined a bright red handkerchief through the profuse masses of

her jetty black hair, and had brought a single fold partly across her

broad clear forehead. Her full round arms were bare up to the

shoulders; and, as if in sport, she had cast her red mantle round her,

like the plaid of a Scottish shepherd, contrasting strongly, but

finely, with the drapery of a blue gown beneath. Her head was bent

like the beautiful head of Hagar, by Correggio; and her dark eyes,

their long lashes resting on her sunny cheek, were cast down, well

pleased, upon one of the children of the tribe, who, leaning on her

knees, was playing with the silver ring that circled one of the taper

fingers of her small brown hand.

Lena did not hear the approach of any one till Pharold was within

fifty paces; but the moment his well-known step met her ear, she

started up and ran to meet him, with smiles that were, perhaps, the

brighter because she felt that she had something to atone for, weighty

enough to be concealed, and yet not to oppress her very heavily.

Pharold pressed her to his bosom; and whatever he might try to

believe, he felt--felt to his heart's inmost core--that there was at

least one person on the earth that he should wish to remember him,

after the stream of time had washed away his memory from the hearts of

others.

He gave but one moment to tenderness, however; and the next, turning

to the rest of the gipsies, he inquired, "What news of the boy?" The

old woman was instantly called from one of the tents, and came

willingly enough to make her report to Pharold, though she grumbled

audibly all the way at being hurried, and at such tasks being put upon

her at her years.

"Well, Pharold, I have done your bidding," she said, in a tone both

cajoling and self-important--"I have done your bidding, and have seen

the lad. Poor fellow, his is a hard case, indeed; and such a fine,

handsome boy, too, and so happy a one as he used to be--"

"But what said he, woman?" interrupted Pharold, sternly. "Keep your

praises of him till he be here to hear them, and thank you for them;

for, doubtless, he is the only person who will do so. Tell me what he

said of his situation."

"What he said!" replied the beldam; "why, what should he say, but that

if he be not got out to-morrow night--that is, this night that is

coming,--he will be sent away to the county jail, and hanged for the

murder of that fellow that is dying or dead up at the house? That's

what he said."

"But did he say how he was to be delivered?" asked Pharold. "That is

the question."

"Yes, to be sure he did," answered the old woman. "Do you think I went

there for nothing? He may be delivered easy enough, if folks like to

try. You know the windows of that there strong room, Pharold, well

enough, and I know them too, for I was in there for half a day or

more, when old Dick Hodges swore to my nimming his cocks and hens. He

lies in the churchyard now, the old blackguard, for that was in the

old lord's time. But, as I was saying, you know the windows well

enough. When they had you up at the house, and wanted to make a

gentleman of you, but found they had got hold of the wrong stuff--"

Pharold's brow grew as dark as a thundercloud. "On, woman, on with

your story," he cried, "and turn not aside to babble of the past. What

have you or I to do with the past? You were the same then that you are

now, only that the vices and follies of youth have given place to the

vices and follies of age."

"Well, well, I'm sure I'm telling my story as quickly as it can be

told," replied Mother Gray; "but as I was saying, you know the windows

well enough, and know that any one that is at all strong could knock

off two or three of the bars, and let the boy out in a minute. Any one

could do it."

"Oh, but he said that nobody but Pharold must come," cried Lena,

eagerly, forgetting for the moment all caution, and then reddening,

like the morning sky, as soon as she had spoken.

"Ha!" cried Pharold, turning his keen dark eyes full upon her, "said

he so? and how know you that he did say so, Lena? Ha!"

The poor girl turned redder and redder, and looked as if she would

have sunk into the ground, while Pharold still gazed sternly upon her,

as if waiting an answer; but the ready cunning of the old woman came

to her aid with a lie. "How does she know that he said so?" cried the

beldam: "how should she know it but by my telling her?"

Lena heard the falsehood more willingly than she would have spoken it,

though by her silence she made it her own, as much as if her lips had

given it utterance.

"'Tis well, 'tis well," said Pharold, with a bitter smile curling his

lip,--"'tis well. So he said that none but Pharold should come? Now

tell me, woman, if your tongue be not so inured to falsehood that it

cannot speak truth,"--Lena burst into tears, and crept back to her

tent, while Pharold went on,--"tell me why this boy said that none but

Pharold must come, when any one else could remove the bars as well?"

"Because he said that any one else who did not know the park might

make some mistake," replied the old woman, "and so ruin both himself

and poor Will."

Pharold mused for a moment or two and then asked, "Was all quiet when

you went?"

"As quiet as a dead sheep," answered the old woman, with a grin.

"And no one stirring in the house or in the park?" demanded Pharold.

"In the park all was dark and solitary," she replied: "I saw nothing

but some fine fat deer, and an owl that came skimming along before us

in the long walk; and on the outside of the house all was quiet enough

too: but there were two rooms above where there were lights; and I

waited awhile to see if they would be put out: but they were so long,

that I made up my mind, as all the rest was still, to creep on; and I

got close under the boy's window and called his name, and he told me

that the lights were in the room where the man is dying."

Pharold mused again; but the man whom we have heard called by the name

of Brown, a powerful gipsy of about forty years of age, took a step

forward, and laid his hand kindly upon Pharold's arm. "I will tell you

what, Pharold," he said, "this seems to me a doubtful sort of

business. I do not think the boy would do any thing willingly to trap

one of us: but he may have been taken in somehow; and it does seem as

if there was something strange about it; so I'll tell you what, I'll

go, and the old woman shall show me the way."

"No, Brown, no," said Pharold; "I would put upon no man what I was

afraid to do myself,--if I could be afraid to do any thing. If there

be no treachery, there is nothing to fear: and if there be treachery,

I should be base, indeed, if I let any of my people fall into what was

meant for myself. No, no, I will go: no man can avoid his hour, Brown.

We all know that when fate has fixed what is to happen, we may turn

which way we will, but we shall not escape it. I will go; and if there

be treachery, let it light upon the heads of those that devised it. It

is my fate--I will go."

"No, no, Pharold," said the other; "let me go. To me they can do

nothing. Me they cannot charge with any crime, even unjustly; for I

was not in the park at all when the man was shot. You and all the

others were, though you went there to prevent it; and so, if they

catch you, they may send you to prison: but if they catch me, they can

do nothing with me. They can but say I came to speak with the poor boy

through the bars."

Pharold, however, persisted. It had ever been his habit among his

fellows to take upon himself the execution of any thing difficult or

dangerous, and he regarded it almost as a privilege, which he clung to

the more, in the present instance, from a superstitious conviction

that fate was leading him on, and that it was useless to struggle

against its influence. "There yet remains the whole day before us," he

said, when he had silenced opposition, "and but little remains to be

done. Call all the people round me, Brown, for I am going to speak

with them,--perhaps it may be for the last time."

The gipsies who already surrounded him saw well that a presentiment of

approaching death weighed upon the mind of him who had been so long

their leader, and it is but doing them justice to acknowledge, that

most of them grieved sincerely to observe that such was the case.

None, however, offered comfort or consolation; for their belief in

their own superstitious traditions was far too strong for any one to

dream even that such a presentiment might prove fallacious. The rest

of the tribe were soon called together; and, stretching themselves out

in various groups around, with the clear forest stream bubbling and

murmuring through the midst, and the bright sun streaming through the

oaks and beeches upon the bank on which they lay, they waited in

silence for what Pharold had to say. The tone he assumed was simple

and calm, perhaps less marked and emphatic than that which he

generally affected. "My friends," he began, "I am going this night

upon a matter more dangerous than any that I have ever yet

attempted,--at least so, for many reasons, I am led to think; in it I

may probably be taken by men who hate and persecute us; and if I be so

taken, do not deceive yourselves--I shall never return among you

alive. I feel it, I know it; and, therefore, if by the first light of

to-morrow's sun I have not returned, look upon me as among the dead,

take up your tents, and go as far as you may. When you are so far from

this place that they cannot follow you to persecute you, seek out what

has become of the clay that I leave behind. Lay me in the earth, in

some green wood, but where the summer sun may shine upon me, and the

winter snow may fall: turn my face to the eastward, and put one hand

upon my heart, and let not the earth that covers me be more than four

palms deep.[7] When you have done all this, forget me; but forget not

what I am going to say. Remember, ever before all things, that you are

a nation apart, and mingle not with the strangers among whom you

dwell. Let them follow their way, and you follow your way. Give

obedience to their laws, but maintain your own liberties: bend to

their power, but preserve the customs of your fathers. Shut, them out,

too, as far as may be, from among you: let them not learn either your

history, or your language, or your knowledge; for if they do they will

make these the means of softening and enslaving, under the pretence of

civilizing and improving you. Forget not that you have been, and that

you shall yet be, a great people; nor ever think that there are too

few of you left for the time of your greatness to come. Look at this

acorn: it fell from a great tree, that has been cut down; and though

now it be smaller than the egg of a wren, it shall be as great as the

mightiest of the forest. So is it, and so shall it be, with you. None

of you can ever gain so much as I could have gained by abandoning my

people; but I would not do it. I refused wealth, and ease, and honour,

and I chose poverty, and wandering, and persecution, because I was

born of the gipsy race, and would not belie the blood of my fathers,

by mingling with the persecutors of our people--because I would not be

chosen from among them for a plaything and an experiment. I learned

their knowledge, though they learned not ours, and I returned to mine

own as true in heart as when I left them. Thus let it be with you all;

and if, after I am gone, the name of Pharold is ever mentioned, let it

be as an example of how true our people should be to the ways of their

fathers."

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

[Footnote 7: The gipsy tribes throughout Europe are so like one

another in their habits, that it is extraordinary so great a

difference should exist in their manner of burying their dead as has

been observed among them, especially when they attach much importance

to the method they each pursue. Among the greater part of the

continental gipsies the habit of burying their dead under water

prevails, but to other tribes, again, the forest affords a place of

sepulture; and to others, I have heard, the summits of high

mountains.]

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

He paused, and there followed among those who surrounded him the

low murmur of people who draw their breath deep after a long and

eager attention, but no one spoke; and in a few minutes Pharold

proceeded:--"If I return no more, there will be some one wanting to

lead and direct you all aright. My choice falls upon you, Brown, as

the calmest, and the wisest, and the bravest, with years sufficient to

ensure experience, and yet with vigour unimpaired by age. Do you

consent, my brothers, that he shall be your Ria?"

The choice was one which all anticipated, and with which all were

pleased, except, perhaps, two or three, who, feeling that they ought

to be satisfied though they were not, and that they must submit

whether they liked it or not, yielded with the rest, or, perhaps, gave

more clamorous approval. "I have now," continued Pharold, turning

towards Lena, who, since the people had been called round him, had

remained near in silent tears while he had been speaking,--"I have now

spoken to you of all things save one. I leave among you my wife, then

a widow; and as Heaven knows I have dealt justly with you all, so, I

beseech you, deal justly and kindly by her. Be unto her as brethren

and sisters. I supplied unto her the place of parents that are dead;

you supply unto her, I beseech you, my place when I am dead also. Let

her share with the rest in what you gain, until she shall choose out

some one to be to her a support and a husband. Let her choice depend

upon herself, but oh, let her choice be good; let it not fix upon a

fair form or a smooth tongue, but upon a strong mind and a noble

heart."

He spoke firmly, but, perhaps, somewhat bitterly; and Lena, though she

raised her eyes for a moment with a look of imploring deprecation,

said nothing, but wept on in silence. "And now," continued Pharold, "I

will have done, my friends, with but one more injunction, which is,

keep together. Let not the people of the land separate you, but be ye

true among yourselves."

Thus saying, he rose from the bank on which he had been leaning, and

the rest sprang upon their feet also. His scanty auditory then

dispersed to their several occupations again, though some lingered for

a few minutes, gazing upon him as on one they might never see more

after that day was over; and Pharold, after speaking a few words in a

gentler tone to Lena, laid his hand upon the arm of the man Brown, and

walked with him slowly down the course of the stream.

Their conversation was long: many were the sage and prudent maxims

that Pharold gave to him whom he had pointed out as his successor,

many the wild and singular cautions which he suggested. It was, in

fact, his lesson of political economy and good government; but, as it

would not suit any other world but the little world for which it was

intended, it were useless to repeat it here. He did not, until the

end, refer again to himself in any way; but, after having spent

nearly two hours in giving instructions respecting the rule and

protection of the tribe, he added, "I need not tell you, Brown, that I

feel the flame going out--not that it is weaker, not that it is less

bright--the broadest blaze of the fire is often the last, but it is

near its end; and if it be not to-morrow or the next day, in the

manner that I apprehend, or in the way my enemies seek to make it, yet

death will come soon, in his own time, and by his own path. Look

there!" and he spread out before his comrade his broad palm, traversed

with the many lines and marks which are usually to be found there. The

other gipsy gazed on it for a moment, gravely, but made no reply; and

Pharold went on:--"Nevertheless, as I have heard the ignorant and the

conceited declare, that people often do things themselves to bring

about a fate that is foretold them, I will neglect nothing that can

turn aside mine. If, then, by dawn to-morrow, I have not returned to

you, send instantly a trusty messenger to the small village of ----,

where I have sent several times before, to the House of Mr.

Harley--many of the people know it--bid them tell him for me, that I

am in prison, on a false accusation which he knows of, and that if he

would save me, he must come over to Dimden soon. See that it be done

rightly, Brown; for were anything to happen to me without his

knowledge, he would say that I had used him unkindly, or had not

confidence in his honour."

"I will do it myself, Pharold," replied the gipsy: "I will take one of

those that have been over, to be sure of the place, and will see the

man myself, if it be possible."

"Oh, he will see you," answered Pharold; "he has learned bitter

lessons in life, and knows that a better heart may beat under a

gipsy's bosom than under the robes of peers and princes. Now, then, I

have said all, Brown: and fare you well, my friend. You at least will

not forget me."

"Never!" answered the other; and they parted. During the rest of the

day a degree of gloom naturally hung over the party of gipsies; and

wherever Pharold turned, there were eyes looking at him, with some

degree of superstitious awe, as one in whom approaching fate was

already visible. Evening, however, came at length, and night began to

fall; and, ere the first twinkling star could claim full possession of

the sky, a thin whitish autumn mist rose up from the valleys, and came

drifting with the wind through the trees, and down the course of the

little stream by which the gipsies' tents were pitched. Pharold

remarked it with satisfaction, exclaiming, "May it last, may it last.

With such a mist as that, and a dark autumn night, he were a keen man,

indeed, that could take me in Dimden Park."

As far as the continuance of the mist went, he was gratified to his

wish; for it not only remained, but increased in density to that

degree, that even round the gipsies' fires the dark faces lighted by

the red glare appeared dim and phantom-like to those who sat on the

other side of the blaze. Pharold himself remained from sunset till

nearly midnight in his tent; and Lena had not appeared at all from the

time he had spoken to the tribe in the morning. At length Pharold came

forth; and the gipsies, who were still congregated round the fires,

thinking that he was about to join them for a time ere he went, made

room for him among them; but he glided on past them all, merely

saying, in a low voice as he came near the spot where Brown was

placed, "I go! do not forget!"

He then walked rapidly on, threaded the most intricate mazes of the

wood, traversed the common above the park, leaped the park wall, near

the spot where Dickon and his party had entered on the ill-starred

deer-stealing expedition, and paused for a moment to look around him,

and consider his further proceedings. The mist, which lay heavy on the

common and the lawns, was still more dense and dark amid the covered

walks and narrow paths of Dimden Park; but the obscurity proved of but

little inconvenience to one so much accustomed to wander in the night

as Pharold. Long habit of the kind seems, indeed, to give another

sense, and to enable persons who are possessed of it to distinguish,

as it were instinctively, obstacles in their way which the eye could

not have detected.

Thus he walked on, through the thick trees and among the narrow paths

of the park, without ever either taking a wrong direction, or running

against any of the massy trunks round which the small footway turned.

Ever and anon, however, he stopped, to listen, but all was still:

there was not a voice, a footstep, a rustle, a sound of any kind to be

heard, till he entered one of the principal alleys leading towards the

house, when a distant clock struck a quarter to twelve, and, as if

roused by the sound, the owl poured forth her long melancholy cry, and

flitted slowly across Pharold's steps, stirring slightly the foggy air

with the scarcely heard wave of her light wings.

Pharold marked its voice, and felt it flap past him; and, in that mood

when the heart connects every external thing with its internal gloom,

he muttered, "Hoot no more, bird of ill omen! I am prepared and

ready!"

The end of the alley which he had chosen opened upon the side of the

lawn, at the distance of perhaps a hundred yards from the house. But

the fog was too thick for even the bare outline of the mansion to be

visible; and the only thing that indicated its proximity was the

appearance of two or three rays of light, pouring from the apertures

in some window-shutters, and streaming through the white mist, till

they lost themselves in the night. Pharold paused and gazed; and

emotions as mingled, but less painful, affected his bosom, as those

which had been experienced by Lord Dewry when he had last looked

towards the same building. All was silent around; he felt himself

secure in the obscurity; he was in no haste to go on; and as he stood

and gazed towards the dwelling where two years of the happiest part of

life had been spent, his mind naturally reverted to the past. He

called up those boyish days, the pleasures he had then enjoyed, his

friendship with one noble-minded youth, and the injuries he had since

received from the other companion of his boyhood. He thought of what

he had been, and of what he might have been; of the promises held out

to him by those who would have kept them; of the prospects that were

open before him, if he had chosen to follow them; he thought of the

life of honour, and respect, and fortune, which might have been his;

and he compared it with the life of wandering, and persecution, and

anxiety, which he had led from the day he quitted that mansion to the

hour that he stood there again, in the sear and yellow leaf of years,

in the close of man's too brief existence. It was a melancholy

retrospect, and he could not but feel it as melancholy; but there was

a proud, stern satisfaction mingled with it all, enhanced even by the

magnitude of the sacrifice he had made. He felt a deep gladness in

knowing, now that life lay behind him as a past journey, that he had

adhered to his persecuted people, in spite of every temptation that

could have led him to abandon them; that voluntarily and perseveringly

he had made their fate his fate, in preference to a more splendid

destiny than hope herself could have led him to expect. He felt proud,

too, and justly, that those feelings and principles which had won him

the strong affection of the noble and good in another class, and among

another people, had never been forgotten amid dangers, and perils, and

sorrows, and temptations; and that he could lay his hand upon his

heart, as he gazed up towards the mansion, and say, I have been as

noble in poverty and wandering as if I had never quitted the shelter

of those once lordly walls.

He stood and gazed for near ten minutes; and then ending his revery,

as all deep contemplations end, with a sigh, he turned slightly from

the path he had been pursuing, skirted round the edge of the wood,

and, without crossing the open space, approached through the trees

that part of the building called the justice-room, which lay, as we

have seen, contiguous to the chamber in which the boy was confined.

Since he had been there, however, the river had encroached so much

upon the bank, that no one less active and expert than himself would

have found space to pass between the walls of the high old chapel-like

projection, so called, and the edge of the bank above the water. He

accomplished it, however, though with some difficulty; and then,

turning the angle of the building, approached the window of the strong

room. Raising himself on a ledge of ornamental stonework, which ran

along the basement, he put his hand through the bars to feel whether

the inner window was closed or not, and finding that it was shut, he

knocked gently on the glass with his knuckles. The moment after, it

was opened, and the voice of the youth demanded, "Who is there?"

"It is I, William," said Pharold; "are your limbs free?"

"They are free of cords," answered the lad in a voice that trembled

with agitation, and, perhaps, with remorse--"they are free of cords,

but I cannot get out."

"I will open the way for you, then," answered Pharold; "but when I

have picked out the mortar from these bars, you use your strength to

force them out from within."

The boy made no answer, but listened to hear if those who lay in wait

had taken the alarm; and a hope did cross his mind that they might

have neglected their watch on that dark and chilly night, and that

Pharold might give him the means of escape, without the consummation

of the treachery to which he had yielded. The hope increased, as

Pharold, with a small crow bar, gradually loosened the iron from its

socket in the stone, and yet no one appeared; and as soon as it was

practicable, the boy, using his whole strength from within, forced out

the lower end of the bar. The space, however, was not yet large enough

to give a passage to his shoulders, and the gipsy instantly applied

himself again to loosen the neighbouring bar. "Oh make haste, make

haste," cried the youth, with almost frantic eagerness--"make haste,

Pharold, make haste!"

"Hush!" cried Pharold, sternly, and turned hastily to listen; but at

the same instant two men sprang upon him. The gipsy struggled to cast

them off, but his foot slipped, and they both fell with him to the

ground. Ere he could rise, two more were added to the assailants; and

finding resistance vain, Pharold instantly abandoned the attempt,

suffered his arms to be pinioned with a burning heart, and followed

whither they led him.

Several lights and several figures appeared at the small backdoor to

which they conducted their prisoner; and more than one lantern was

raised to his face, and more than one inquisitive countenance stared

into his, as he was taken through some long stone passages towards the

very room from which he had been endeavouring to liberate his

treacherous young companion. The four men who had seized him hurried

him on, keeping close together, as if afraid that, notwithstanding all

their efforts, he might still escape. At the door of the strong room

they paused; and one, producing a key, proceeded to apply it to the

lock, and to undraw the heavy bolts and bars. Pharold spoke not a

word; but the moment the door was open, and the light, from some

lanterns behind, flashed in through the aperture, his eyes sought the

unhappy youth, whose face was covered with tears.

Pharold had only time to ask himself, "Is he guilty, or is he

innocent?" when, springing past him and those that conducted him, the

lad made straight towards the door. One of those behind instantly

stopped him, exclaiming, "Holla, my lad, where are you going so fast?"

The one who had opened the door, however, turned round almost at the

same time, crying, "Let him go, let him go; now we have got this one,

we do not care for the other. Let him be off as fast as he will."

The gipsy's doubts were cleared up in a moment. He saw himself

betrayed by one of his own people, whom he was in the very act of

rescuing; he saw himself delivered up by one for whom he had been

risking so much; he saw his most generous feelings made use of as

snares to take him; and he believed that she whom he loved more than

anything on earth was a party to the infamous treachery by which he

had been entrapped. Oh, how he hated the whole human race!

So deep, so powerful was the agony that he suffered, that, without a

word, without a movement, he stood upon the spot to which his captors

thrust him forward, his dark eyes bent upon the ground, his pinioned

hands clasped together, as if they had been riveted with iron, his

limbs as motionless as if they had been stone. The people round gazed

at him, but he saw them not; they taunted and they sneered, but his

ear was dull. He felt not at that moment the insolent gaze, the brutal

jest, the loss of liberty, the very hands that wrung his muscles. He

felt alone that he was betrayed, that his love and his confidence had

been cheated and dispised. All the rest was nothing. That, that was

the iron that entered into his soul! Ere he had been there a minute,

the keeper Harvey, who had not been among those that took him, pushed

through the gaping crowd, to assure himself that the report which had

reached him was true. But there was something in the gipsy that the

man felt and feared, with feelings full of hate, indeed, but nearly

akin to awe; and when he saw him stand there like a statue, in the

stern bitterness of utter despair, a faint conception of his

sensations thrilled even through the coarse mind of the keeper; and

after a hasty glance, without proffering a word, he made the rest

retire, and following them himself, locked and barred the door.

At about three o'clock in the morning, those who watched in the gipsy

encampment were roused by a hasty step, and in a moment after the boy

William, all panting and wild, stood by the fire. "What news? what

news?" cried one of the men, eagerly; "where is Pharold?"

"Bad news!" answered the youth, gazing round him with a look of

bewildered consciousness: "they have caught Pharold as he was helping

me out of the prison."

"Brown," cried one of the men, approaching a neighbouring

tent--"Brown, here is bad news; they have caught Pharold, and here is

Will come back."

Brown instantly started from the hut and came out to the fire: but he

was not the only one; for Lena's sleepless ear had caught the tidings,

and she too rushed out, with many others that the noise had awakened.

Wild apprehension and distress were in her eyes; but she spoke not,

while Brown proceeded rapidly to question the lad on what had

occurred. The trembling tone in which he answered might proceed from

fatigue and agitation at his escape, the varying colour on his cheek

might be the flash of the newly stirred up blaze; but there was a

rambling and inconsistent character about the story that he told

concerning his own escape and the capture of Pharold that raised doubt

in many. "You rushed past the people," said Brown, after many other

questions, "and got out even after they had taken Pharold. Did no one

try to stop you?"

"Yes," answered the lad; "one man did; but I got away from him, too,

and ran as hard as I could. But why do you look at me so, Lena?" he

added, unable to bear any longer the keen, fierce glance which she had

never withdrawn from his face for one moment from the time she had

first come forth.

"Why do I look at you so?" said the girl, stepping forward boldly

towards him, and casting back the jetty hair from her forehead while

she spoke, with a burning cheek and flashing eye, and almost frantic

vehemence of tone--"why do I look at you so? Because, base traitor,

you have betrayed him that came to save you--and you know it

well!--because you have cheated me into persuading him to go;--and oh,

if such a foolish thing as love for me had any hand in what you have

done--and I say boldly before them all that I believe it had--may that

love stay by you to curse you to your latest day! For think not you

will prosper in your villany--I hate you! I abhor you! I spit upon

you! and I call God and the heavens to witness, that if there were not

another man in all the earth I would die sooner than be your wife!

Cast him out from among us, Brown, cast him out! Dickon was but a

child in villany to him; Dickon was wilful and violent, but he was not

base and false; Dickon might be a rebel, but he was never a traitor.

Cast him out, Brown, cast him out; for the blood of my husband is upon

him; and I will not dwell in the same tents with him. He cannot deny

it; his face speaks it; his tale is not even like truth. Oh, my heart

misgave me when he used so many vows and protestations last night that

he would not have Pharold put in danger for the world. Truth is more

simple; and he is a traitor, and the seller of his friend's blood!"

She spoke with all the energy of passion and indignation: her eyes

flashed, her arms waved, her very form seemed to increase in size with

the wild vehemence of her feelings; and the unhappy youth in the

meantime stood before her, with bent head and averted glance, like a

convicted criminal before his judge.

"You are guilty, William," said Brown, gazing on him with pity,

mingling a drop or two of milder feeling with the sternness of his

abhorrence for a crime almost unknown among them,--"you are guilty."

The youth made no answer; and after a pause the other went on:--"You

must go out from among us, for we cannot shelter a traitor. And yet I

grieve for you, William, that anything should have tempted you to

commit such a crime. But still you must go out from among us; for if

we be not all faithful to each other, in whom can we trust? Yet I

would not cast you alone upon the world, so that one fault might bring

on a hundred; and therefore I will send you down to the north country,

where, on the side of Cheviot, you will find more of our people, among

whom I have a brother: seek him out, and tell him I sent you to him."

"I will not go there," answered the youth, doggedly--"I will not go

there, to have this story thrown in my teeth every hour; I will rather

go and seek out Dickon, and rove with him."

"No, no, Billy, my chick," cried the old woman Gray--"no, no, go down

to the Yetholmers, as Brown says--a merry set they are, and a free,

and I will go with you, my lad. I dare say Dickon has gone thither

already; and, do you hear, Bill, I dare say among the bold young lads

thereabouts we may be able to get up as fresh a band as this is; and I

have got a good penny under my cloak, and I will be a mother to you,

my boy. Then who knows when you are a smart young fellow, with a

goodly band of your own, whether this young minx here, who has flown

at you like a wild cat, about that Pharold, who is no great loss any

how--perhaps she may be sorry enough that she was not more civil."

"I shall be sorry," said Lena, in a less violent, but not less

determined, tone than she had before used--"I shall be sorry if ever I

hear the name of such a base and cowardly thing as he is upon this

earth again."

"Well, well, scornful mistress Lena, you may rue," replied the beldam.

"What say you, Will, will you take me with you?"

The youth at first had shown no very strong liking for the old woman's

company; but the hopes of better fortunes which she had held out to

him, the boldness with which she had taken his part, the stern and

reproachful looks of all around, and the feeling that he was parting

for ever from all those with whom his life had hitherto been spent,

made him willing to cling to any fragment of familiar things which

would remain with him to soften the breaking of all accustomed ties.

His conscience, too, reproached him bitterly with what he had done;

and the company of any one would have been preferable to solitude with

his own heart. Willingly, therefore, he caught at her proposal; and

drawing himself up, prepared to steel himself against the contempt of

his comrades, while the old woman went to make her brief preparations:

but he saw nothing around but the stern, cold looks of persons who, in

hatred and scorn, were waiting to see his departure. It was more than

he could bear; and, calling to the old woman to follow him down the

stream, he turned sullenly away, and walked slowly on without a word

of adieu to any one.

"Brown," said Lena, laying her hand upon the gipsy's arm--"Brown, I

know what I am going to ask is in vain, for Pharold, when he went,

felt the shadow of death upon him, and I am a widow; but did he not

tell you any way to rescue him, if he should be taken? He spoke with

you long, and he said to me, too, that there was some way that might

deliver him, though he spoke not clearly. Oh, if it be so, and he have

told you how, lose no time, spare no exertion; for though, God knows,

I was deceived by that base villain's artful speeches, and believed

that my husband was safe, yet I feel--although I know my innocence of

thought, or word, or deed--I feel as if I were guilty of his death."