"No, no, Lena, no, no. We all know that you are not," answered Brown,

in a kindly tone; "but go you to your tent, poor girl, and trust to me

to do every thing to rescue Pharold that can be done. First, I will

try the only means that he himself pointed out. I will follow his

directions to the letter. Then, if that should fail, I will try what

strength of arm can do; for I will not let him be lost if I can save

him. He was a good man, and a wonderful man, Lena. We shall never see

his like among us."

Lena burst into tears: they were the first that she had shed, but they

were too bitter for any restraint; and turning to her tent, she gave

way to them in solitude. In the mean time Brown turned to call one of

the younger gipsies, who, on more than one occasion, had been

Pharold's messenger, to inquire after Edward de Vaux; but ere the

young man had joined him, Mother Gray, as she was called, tottered up,

with a bundle on her arm, to bid him adieu.

"Fare ye well, Brown," she said; "fare ye well. I hope you may make a

better head of the people than Pharold has been: a pretty mess he has

got us all into here. I hope you may do better; but I doubt it, for

you were great cronies, and would never listen to what I advised. So I

am going to people who know how to manage matters better."

"Get ye gone, then, old mischief-maker," answered Brown; "get ye gone,

and the sooner your back is turned upon us the better. I have seen

nothing prosper yet with which you had any thing to do; and I dare

prophesy that those people will never know peace or happiness where

you are suffered to meddle. So get you gone, and Heaven send you a

better heart and judgment. And now," he continued, speaking to the

young man who had come up, "tell me, Arral, have you not been for

Pharold to a house on the other side of the hill--the house of one

Harley?"

"To be sure," answered the young man, "I have been four times."

"Then come with me thither, now," answered Brown, "and lead me by the

shortest way, for I would be there, if possible, before day-break."

"That is not possible, Brown," answered the other; "for it wants less

than an hour of the light, and go as you will it will take two hours

and a half."

"We must do our best," answered Brown, "and can do no more. Go on.

Keep together, my lads," he continued, turning to the rest of the

gipsies,--"keep together till I come back, which will be before the

sun is more than half-way up. But have everything ready to go in case

of need."

Thus saying, he followed his guide; and pursuing very nearly the path

by which Pharold had returned, he arrived in about two hours and a

half at the same house to which Colonel Manners had been conducted. By

this time, however, the sun had been long above the horizon; and when,

after walking through the little shrubbery, they approached the door

of the dwelling, a carriage and four smoking horses, with two servants

in Mrs. Falkland's livery, were seen standing before the house. The

gipsies, however, made their way boldly on, and rang the bell. This

intimation was instantly answered by the servant, and, while they

were still speaking to him, a shrill cry--evidently from a woman's

lips--rang through the passage. Ere the servant could ask their

business, a door on the right was thrown open, and the fine head of

Sir William Ryder appeared, exclaiming, "Henry, Henry! Bring water!

She has fainted!"

A few moments of bustle and confusion succeeded, during which the

gipsies were allowed to remain with the door open, and without any of

those suspicious precautions which the very fact of their race would

have excited against them in any other dwelling. At length the servant

returned; and Brown's first question was, "Is the gentleman who was

hurt worse?"

"No, much better!" answered the servant, "and you may tell Mr.

Pharold--"

"I can tell him nothing," interrupted Brown, "for that is what I have

come here to say--that his enemies have caught him; and that, if Mr.

Harley would save him, he must bestir himself speedily."

"Indeed!" said the servant, "indeed! that will not be good news to my

master's ear; but I must break in upon him to tell it nevertheless.

Wait a minute, my friends, and I will go and see what he says."

The servant then entered the room where his master was, and from which

proceeded the sounds of eager voices speaking. A moment or two after

the door again opened, and the gipsies were joined by the person they

sought. Their story was soon told, and easily understood; and the brow

of their auditor knit into more than one deep wrinkle, as they spoke.

"I will bestir myself," he said, in answer to Brown; "I will bestir

myself, and that instantly too. So rest satisfied in regard to your

friend's fate; for, be assured, that I can break the net in which

they have entangled him as easily as I could a spider's web; and I

will do it, too, with less remorse than I would the toils of the

hunter-insect. I will not lose a moment. Henry, have horses to the

carriage, and let me know when it is here."

CHAPTER XI.

"Has the parson come?" demanded the low faint voice of Sir Roger

Millington, as he turned round from a brief and half-delirious doze,

on the morning after Pharold's capture: "has the parson come?"

"Not yet, sir," answered a sick-nurse, who was now the only person

left to attend him. "It is not ten minutes ago since you first told me

to send for him."

"I thought it had been much longer," said the dying man. "But what is

all that noise in the house? They seem as if they were making all the

disturbance that they could, on purpose to kill me with the headache."

"I dare say, sir, it is some of the other magistrates come, sir,"

answered the nurse; "for last night it seems they caught the gipsy,

Pharold; and, when I went down to send for Dr. Edwards, his lordship

was sitting in the great parlour with Mr. Arden, waiting for two other

magistrates to make examination, as I think they call it. I should

scarcely have dared to send else--that is, if I had not known he had

his hands full for many a good hour, because you see, sir, he forbade

any one to let Dr. Edwards see you, whether you wished it or not."

"Ah! did he so?" said the dying man, bitterly; and then, after a long

pause, he added, "but he would not care about it now, my good woman.

That declaration that he teased me into making last night, was all

that he wanted; and now I may die when I like--with or without benefit

of clergy?" and he groaned faintly and sadly at his bitter jest upon

himself. "But do you think I am dying, woman?" He went on, "I have

lost all the pain; but I am fearfully weak; and my legs and feet have

no feeling in them. Do you think I am dying? Ha, nurse, what does the

doctor say?"

"He says you are very bad, sir; but he hopes--" replied the nurse.

"Pshaw!" interrupted the other; "you have been tutored too. I wish the

parson would come; he would tell me the truth."

"I am sure I wish he would too," cried the woman; "for he knows better

than I what ought to be said to you, sir."

"Ah, I see how it is, I see how it is," cried the unhappy man; "I am

dying, and they have kept it from me till they had got all that they

sought;" and, like the stricken king of Israel, he turned his face to

the wall, while one or two hot and bitter drops scorched his eyelids,

and trickled over his cheeks. After a long silence, however, he again

turned towards the woman, saying, "He is very long; I wish to God he

would come! I have a great deal that lies heavy at my heart; and I

would fain hear some words of comfort before I die. You do not think

he will be frightened away by what that rascally lord has said?"

"Ah! no, sir; no fear!" answered the nurse; "Dr. Edwards is not a man

to be frightened away by any body or any thing, so long as he thinks

he's doing his duty. He is not one of that sort, sir. Why, last year,

when the terrible catching fever was raging down in the village, and

every one that took it died, he was night and day at the bedsides of

the poor people that had it, although the doctor told him a thousand

times that he was risking his own precious life: but he saw that it

gave them more comfort than any thing to see him; and so he went at

all hours, and into all places."

"I wish he would come," groaned the dying man; "I wish he would come."

Almost as he spoke, there was a cautious step in the anteroom, and the

lock of the door turned under the quiet noiseless hand of one

evidently accustomed to the chambers of the sick. The next moment the

clergyman entered, and advanced closely towards the bed, although his

heated brow and quick breathing showed that he had lost no time in

obeying the summons he had received. He was a man between sixty and

seventy, with scanty white hair covering thinly a high broad forehead,

across which the cares and sorrows of others, more than his own, had

traced two or three deep furrows. His countenance was grave, but mild;

and his eyes full of both the light of feeling and the light of sense.

The nurse rose up from the chair in which she had been sitting at the

pillow of the dying man, and Dr. Edwards quietly took her place,

without appearing to see that Sir Roger Millington was eying him from

head to foot; and, notwithstanding his situation, was comparing the

person before him with the prejudiced image of a _parson_, which

habits of vice had alone enabled his imagination to draw.

"I am much obliged to you for admitting me, my dear sir," said the

rector, in a kindly tone. "How do you feel yourself? Are you in less

pain than when I last saw you?"

"Yes, I am in less pain, sir," answered the other; "but I rather

believe that is no good sign. At least they told me, when I was in

torture, that pain was a good omen for my recovery; and now I am in no

pain at all, I suppose it is a bad one."

"I am not sure that it is a good one," answered the clergyman gravely;

"but at all events it has this good with it, that it leaves your mind

and faculties perfectly free to consider fully your situation, and to

take whatever measures, temporal or spiritual, may be necessary for

your comfort and consolation."

"Ay, that is what I want to come to, Dr. Edwards," answered Sir Roger,

"and I am glad you have come to it at once. But first tell me--and I

adjure you by Heaven to tell me true, for these people deceive me--am

I dying, or am I not?"

"I would have answered you truly without any adjuration," answered the

clergyman. "None can, sir, or ought to say to another that it is

impossible he can recover; for God can and does show us every day the

fallacy of our judgment in the things that we best comprehend: but I

do believe that you are in such a situation that it were wise to

prepare yourself for another world without loss of time."

"Then I am dying," said Sir Roger, solemnly.

"I am afraid you are," answered the clergyman. "To deceive you would

be a crime: your surgeon has himself told me that human skill can do

nothing for you."

Sir Roger Millington drew his hand over his eyes, and groaned heavily;

but after a brief pause he withdrew the white colourless fingers

again; and looking steadfastly at the clergyman, said, "It is a

terrible thing to die, sir; more terrible than I thought. I have

fought in more than one battle, sir, and have had my single affairs

too; but I never found out how terrible a thing death is till I came

to lie here, and see life flow away from me drop by drop."

"Because in no other case had you time for thought," answered Dr.

Edwards; "but, believe me, oh! believe me, that the very time for

thought which you seem to regard as an evil, is the greatest mercy of

Heaven. Few, even of the very best of us, if any, can keep his heart

and mind in such a condition of preparation, as to be ready to pass

from this state of mortal sin into life eternal, and to the immediate

presence of a pure and perfect Being, who, though he is merciful, is

likewise just, and will by no means leave the impenitent transgressor

unpunished. No man, my dear sir, when he has years and days before

him, should trust to the efficacy of a deathbed repentance--a moment

which perhaps may not be granted to him; but when a man has gone on in

thoughtless neglect, through the vigour of careless existence, and

unexpectedly finds himself at the end of life with only a few short

hours between him and that judgment-seat, where nothing can be

concealed and nothing palliated, he may then take unto himself the

blessed hope that repentance never comes too late, that our Saviour

himself showed upon the cross that the last hour, the very last

minute, of human life may yet obtain forgiveness of all the offences

of the past, by evincing true repentance, founded on true faith."

"But how can I show either true repentance or true faith?" exclaimed

the dying man, with a peevish movement of the hand. "All I can do

is, to say I am very sorry for everything I have done wrong; and

that I believe the religion in which I was educated to be the true

one--although I have thought very little about it, since I was a boy

at school. But it is no use! it is no use talking!" he added, seeing

the clergyman about to reply; "I have done many a thing, especially

lately, that cannot be forgiven--for which I shall never forgive

myself; and so, how can I expect God to forgive them, who is better

than I am, and who never knew what it was to be tempted as I have

been?"

"You _can_ expect God to forgive them, _because he is_ better than you

are, and because we have an intercessor at his throne, who has known

what it is to be tempted, even as we are; because we have a mediator

in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who was rendered subject to

temptation a thousand-fold more terrible than any that we can endure,

in order that he might obtain forgiveness for even the greatest of

sinners, who truly repents him of the evil he has done. Indeed,

indeed, you greatly err in your ideas of God's mercy. But we had

better, I think be left alone;" and he made a sign to the nurse, who

immediately retired into the anteroom.

"I am sure," said the wounded man, feeling, in some degree, the effect

of such consolatory hopes--"I am sure I do most sincerely repent of

some things that I have done within this last week, and indeed all

that I have done throughout the course of my life that is evil; and I

do think, now that it is too late to mend it, that if I had taken a

different course, and acted in another manner on many occasions, I

should not only have been more comfortable now, but a happier man

altogether."

"Doubt it not! doubt it not!" said the clergyman. "Those that sow in

sin shall reap in bitterness: but still have good hope: the very

conviction of the magnitude of your sins which you seem to entertain,

is the first great step to sincere repentance; and sincere repentance

once obtained, the atonement is already prepared in heaven--the

abundance of God's mercy is ready to blot out our iniquity from before

his sight."

"Ah, but there are many things very heavy on my heart and my

conscience!" said the other. "Tell me, Doctor Edwards, tell me," he

added, in a gloomy and anxious tone, "tell me, can a man who has said

that and done that, which can take away the life of another upon a

false charge, hope to be saved?"

The clergyman half started from his seat; and the other, sinking down

again on the bed from which he had partially raised himself, exclaimed

bitterly--"I see how it is! I see how it is--no hope for me--and so I

will die as I have lived, boldly, without thinking about it."

"You greatly mistake me," cried the clergyman; "I wished to imply

nothing of the kind."

"No, no," said Sir Roger, "say no more--I saw it in your face. I can

easily imagine that a man may be pardoned for running another through,

when they were hand to hand--I remember many people in the Bible that

did the same--and I doubt not that many another little sin might be

forgiven; but for taking a man's life that never hurt one, by a

cold-blooded cowardly lie--I dare say that there is no forgiveness for

that!" and as he spoke he drew his breath hard, and set his teeth, as

if working himself up to meet the worst.

"God makes no such distinctions, as far as he has revealed himself to

us," answered Dr. Edwards. "Murder, whether committed with the steel,

or the poison, or the falsehood, is equally murder in his eyes. I was

indeed surprised to hear you charge yourself with such a crime; but I

repeat what I said before, that for that, as for every other sin,

there is abundant mercy in heaven for him that sincerely repents him

of the evil--"

He paused; but the knight made no reply, and remained with a

contracted brow, a muttering lip and a wandering eye, struggling

between two opposite states of feeling,--the habitual daring which

despair had again called to his aid, and the fear of death, and

judgment after death. "Let me urge you," continued the clergyman, when

he perceived that he did not make any reply--"let me urge you to

consider for one moment what must be the state of him who, under the

circumstances which you have named, neglects the only opportunity

allowed him for repentance, and suffers the few short moments granted

mercifully for that purpose to escape unemployed. Remember, sir, that

death is not sleep! that the moment the eyes are closed on this world

they open on another! Remember that the disembodied spirit, freed from

the frailties and the motives of the flesh, must of necessity feel, in

all their bitterness and blackness, the crimes which here we can

palliate to ourselves, as well as conceal from others!--Remember that,

with feelings thus heightened, with eyes thus unblinded, the man who

has committed the crime which you mention, and has neglected to repent

of it fully, must go into the presence of the omniscient Creator, to

meet, in the face of thousands of worlds, the being whom his falsehood

and his baseness had destroyed--that he must hear his crimes

proclaimed in the ears of all, must listen to his eternal

condemnation, and must bear unceasing punishment, the never-dying

consciousness, not only of the crime that he has committed, but of

having neglected the opportunity of repentance--of having castaway the

mercy offered even to the last hour of life. Think, think of his

horror and his shame, and his torture, and his remorse, and, oh!

choose the better path, and, even at the eleventh hour, repent and be

saved!"

The dying man writhed under the picture of the future presented to his

mind, a picture which he had ever contrived to shut out from his own

eyes; but now, as the reality was about to present itself,--as but few

short hours, he felt too well, only intervened between him and the

fulfilment of all,--the conviction of its truth and its awfulness

forced itself upon his heart, even to agony; and with clasped hands,

as the clergyman concluded, he cried out, almost in the words of the

Jewish lawyer, "What shall I do to be saved?"

"Repent sincerely," answered Dr. Edwards; "and as the first great

proof of your repentance, make whatever atonement you can yet make for

the very horrible crime with which you charge yourself--"

"I can, I can make atonement!" cried the dying man, raising himself

joyfully on his hand as the thought was suggested to his mind; "I

can--I can make atonement, and I feel that then I shall die in peace.

I can save the innocent,--I can punish the guilty,--and I will do

both, if God gives me two hours more of life."

"Such indeed will be the earnest of a true repentance," cried the

clergyman, "and it is thus that a deathbed repentance can alone be

confided in as efficacious. I wish not to pry into the secrets of your

heart, sir, any further than may be necessary for the purpose of

affording you advice and consolation. We believe that the ear of God

is ever open to our confessions as to our petitions, and therefore

that to him they should be made; but if I can aid you in carrying into

effect your purpose of full atonement, command me; and be sure that no

earthly consideration of either fear or hope will induce me to pause

or waver in the execution of my duty. I say what I have just done,

because an evident desire has been shown by those who should know

better, to hold you back from the only true way to peace of mind. God

forgive me! if my suspicions wrong any man; but before I came to-day,

I thought the conduct pursued towards me strange; and now that I have

heard so much from your own lips, I think it more than strange."

"And you think right," said Sir Roger. "It is more than strange, but

it is all part of a plan. I see it all now--I see it all. He--he--Lord

Dewry concealed from me at the first that I was dangerously hurt. He

would not let me see you or any one else who would have dared to tell

me so, because he was afraid I should blab. He would not let me have

my papers over from Dewry Hall, pretending they had been forgotten;

because he was afraid that I should destroy those we had manufactured

between us; and last night, when I was half delirious, and would have

signed away my soul for an hour's quiet and rest, he tormented me till

I made a declaration before witnesses, that I had received a note from

a man who never gave it me, and that this gipsy Pharold, whom they

have now got below, was one of those who fired when I was wounded;

though in truth I believe he did not come up till after."

"This is horrible, indeed!" said the clergyman, not a little agitated

by the very painful tidings that he heard. "But let me beg you, sir,

as you hope for pardon and eternal life in that world to which you

must soon depart--let me beg you instantly to take measures to remedy

the evil that you have been seduced into committing."

"Yes, yes, I will do my best to remedy it," answered the dying

man, whose passions were now excited against the seducer who had led

him forward to crimes from which even his mind had shrunk, all

accustomed as it was to evil of a less glaring kind. "Yes, I will do

my best.--Ay, and he affected to feel so much pity and friendship for

me too, till he got what he wanted, and now he has not been near me

all day. Ay, ay! and he promised me every thing on earth that could

make life happy to me, when he knew that I was dying:--but he shall

not triumph in his villany. No, no!"

Although the clergyman was very willing that justice should be done,

yet even that consideration was secondary in his mind to the wish of

leading the unhappy man before him into a better train of feeling ere

he passed to things eternal. "By all means," he said, "let us proceed

as fast as possible to make the atonement that you speak of, and to

secure justice to the oppressed and innocent man you mention; but in

doing so, my dear sir, do not forget for one moment your present

situation. Let not wrath, or disappointment, or irritation, influence

you. Let your sole motive be, as far as human nature is capable of

controlling and purifying its motives, the desire of showing, by full

atonement, that repentance which, with faith in the merits of your

Saviour, may be effectual to salvation."

"Well, well, I will do my best!" answered the dying man. "But let us

make haste, for I am beginning to feel faint; and there is a dimness

comes occasionally across my eyes, and a rush like water in my ears,

that disturbs me. How shall we set about it, Dr. Edwards?"

"The best way will be to call in witnesses," answered the clergyman,

"and to draw up before them a complete statement of everything that

you think proper to reveal, therein setting forth that you are

perfectly aware of your situation, and that you are in a competent

state of mind for making such a declaration. I myself am a magistrate,

although I seldom act; and will give the document every formality in

my power."

"Ay, but the witnesses! the witnesses, sir!" said Sir Roger; "I am

afraid that he may come in every minute and disturb the whole."

"There is no fear of that, I believe," answered the clergyman. "In the

first place, I would not permit such an interruption, were he a

monarch; and in the next place, I was told that he and several

magistrates were assembled to examine some prisoners before

committal."

"Ay, it is Pharold, the object of all his hate, that they have got

hold of," replied Sir Roger; "and they will have him off to jail on

the very things I stated against him."

"Then, indeed, no time is to be lost!" answered Dr. Edwards. "The

surgeon was to follow me here very soon; for I left him in the

village. His assistant and the nurse are in the next room; and I am

not sure that I did not hear his step also come in a moment ago. Thus

we shall have sufficient witnesses, and one who can testify to your

mind being clear and unbiassed. Shall I call them in?"

Sir Roger gave a sign of assent; and gazed eagerly towards the door to

which the clergyman proceeded, as if he feared that some one else

might be without. No one was in the anteroom, however, but the

surgeon, his assistant, and the nurse; and Dr. Edwards having called

them in, and briefly stated his object, they approached the bed, and

the assistant, having obtained writing materials, seated himself as

near the sick man as possible, to take down his exact words. Sir Roger

was about to begin, but the clergyman interposed:--"One moment, my

friend," he said mildly; "we must not forget our care for your eternal

salvation, under any other consideration. Let us pray to God that the

spirit under which this declaration is made may be the spirit of

truth, divested by his grace of human passions and frailties, that the

repentance of which it is the fruit may be pure and sincere, and may

be accepted;" and kneeling down, he offered a short but emphatic

prayer, so full of simple and unaffected piety, that Sir Roger

Millington found feelings springing up in his heart which he had not

known for years, and which made the warm drops rise into his eyes.

The knight then proceeded in a voice, faint and agitated indeed, but

nevertheless one which, in the profound silence that reigned around,

could be distinctly heard. He took up his tale in years long back; he

related how, in better times and circumstances, he had won a large sum

from Sir William Ryder and the Honourable Mr. De Vaux. The first, he

added, had always the character of a frank, open-hearted, but gay and

thoughtless young man; the latter that of one whose keen shrewdness

would have ensured him the highest fortunes, if the violence of his

passions had not on many occasions marred his best-laid plans. The

day, he said, had been fixed for the payment of the money, and it had

been shrewdly suspected that there would be difficulty in procuring

it; but the very day previous to that appointed for the discharge of

the debt, Mr. De Vaux's brother was murdered; and, consequently, that

gentleman succeeding to his title and estates, the payment was made

without delay.

He then passed over at once the twenty succeeding years, and briefly

but distinctly recapitulated all that had taken place since; he had

come down from London, in the hope of mending his broken fortunes by

an application to the wealthy peer.

All this, however, has been already detailed, and needs not

repetition, though it caused more than one glance of surprise and

grief to pass between the clergyman and the surgeon. Nevertheless, for

the time, they made no comment, but suffered the dying man to proceed

uninterrupted as long as he seemed inclined to go on. When he paused,

however, and looked round feebly towards the clergyman, as if to

ask,--"Have I done enough?"--Dr. Edwards rejoined, "If you will permit

me, sir, I will ask you one or two questions, to which, of course, you

will answer or not, as you think fit. This young gentleman will take

them down, however. They shall be short," he added, seeing a look of

impatience cross the sick man's face; "may I ask, did his lordship

assign any reason for the enmity he showed towards the gipsy Pharold,

and for taking such unjustifiable steps to destroy him?"

"He said that he was sure that he, Pharold, had been the real murderer

of his brother," answered Sir Roger; "but I have my own thoughts upon

the subject." He paused, as if hesitating whether to proceed or not;

and the clergyman paused too, for the mind of every one present had

been led towards a suspicion so dreadful, that each felt a degree of

awe at the thought of hearing his own doubts confirmed by those of

another. At length, however, Sir Roger Millington raised himself upon

his elbow, as if he had made up his mind to a painful effort, and

fixing his dim and hollow eyes upon the clergyman, he said, in slow

but solemn tone, "That was what he told me; but, as I am going into

the presence of the Almighty, and casting away all malice against the

man, I declare, that I believe he himself was the murderer of his

brother, that Pharold knows it, and that such is the cause why he

persecutes him even to death. Write that down, young man, for although

I cannot discover all the links in the chain, nor all the motives of

his cunning heart, yet it is fit they should be inquired into, and

that the innocent should be delivered."

The assistant wrote, and read what he had written, and the knight made

an impatient sign for the paper and the pen. When they were given to

him, he scrawled his name faintly at the bottom. "And now, doctor," he

said, looking towards the surgeon, "you certify there, that this

declaration was made by me, when I had all my senses about me as fully

as if I were in perfect health; and you, Dr. Edwards, certify that, at

the time I made it, I knew that I was dying, and did it as the only

proof I could give of my sincere repentance for many sins, of which

the paper he wrung from me last night was not among the least. You may

well say that I know I am near my end," he continued, "for I believe

that I am nearer it than any one thinks."

"Take a little wine and water, Sir Roger," said the surgeon, looking

at him, and remarking that strange and awful grayness, which generally

precedes dissolution, coming like the shadow of some unseen cloud over

the sick man's face; "take a little wine and water. It can do you no

harm."

"I know that too well!" answered the other, in a hollow voice,

drinking the draught which the nurse handed him. "It can neither do me

harm nor good--for it is all passing away." The wine seemed, however,

to revive him for a moment, and he eagerly besought the clergyman to

take the paper which had just been signed to the magistrates assembled

below. "Let them not pursue their injustice even so far," he said, "as

to send an innocent man to jail. I have been in a jail myself, and

know what it is."

"I think," answered Dr. Edwards, "that perhaps I maybe of more service

with you here; for now that you have proved your repentance really,

let me strive to assure you all the comforts thereof. I have much to

say to you--much consolation and hope yet to hold out to you, if you

will permit me."

"Oh! yes; stay, stay, by all means," said the wounded man; "do not you

leave me. He can take it to them: for he can do this wretched carcass

no good now: let him take it;" and he pointed with his finger towards

the nurse, though, beyond doubt, it was the surgeon he intended to

designate, distinctly showing that his sight had failed, though his

power of hearing still remained.

"Perhaps you will have the kindness to do so," said Dr. Edwards,

speaking to the surgeon; "but take care that it does not get into the

hands of any one who may suppress it; for though we can all bear

witness to the contents, yet the document itself is most valuable. I

think I heard that Mr. Simpson was among the magistrates below. If so,

give it into his own hand; for, though a calm and quiet man, he has

much good sense and much firmness. But let us fold it up and seal it

first."

The surgeon undertook the task, though, it must be confessed, not very

willingly, for he loved not to do any thing to any one that might

afford matter of offence. He spent some time in inquiring where the

magistrates were, and some time in consulting with a constable at the

door of the great hall whether it would be proper for him to go in. In

short, at length, as he had just made up his mind, and had his hand

upon the lock, the nurse whom he had left with the sick man, and who

thought it absolutely necessary that he should be present at a

patient's death, came eagerly to tell him that the unhappy Sir Roger

Millington was in the last agonies. It was too good an excuse for

shifting upon another an unpleasant duty to be lost; and, putting the

paper into the constable's hand, he bade him go in and deliver it

directly into the hands of Mr. Simpson the magistrate. The man

received the commission as a matter of course, and proceeded to

execute it, while the surgeon returned to the sick room. He opened the

door--all was still--the assistants stood holding back the curtain,

and gazing fixedly in--the clergyman was kneeling by the bedside, with

his eyes raised towards heaven.

CHAPTER XII.

While the dark and solemn scene of death had been passing above, with

half-closed windows and a darkened apartment, events scarcely less

painful had been taking place below, in the broad light of a clear

autumn day.

Six magistrates, whom Lord Dewry, with the usual overacting of

conscious guilt, had invited, in order to give every appearance of

impartiality and justice to his unjust designs, dropped in one by one,

and were ushered into the chamber where the peer sat waiting with

burning impatience for the arrival of the whole. Totally indifferent

to the business themselves, each as he came in tortured the baron with

light and impertinent gossip,--of the weather, of the harvest, of the

prospects of the country, of the new fashion of dress swords, and the

exquisite effect of Marechal hair-powder; and forced him into

conversation while his heart was full of deep stern thoughts, that

abhorred the idle topics on which he was expected to speak. Some,

however, mentioned his son, and congratulated him on the rumour of his

safety, which had already spread over the county: and here alone the

peer found matter on which he could converse feelingly; for the news

of his child's safety had come to him, in the midst of the fiery

passions that were agitating his bosom, like the thought of a drop

of cold water to Dives in the midst of his torments. Each of his

visiters wished to know more than general rumour had already told, and

many were the inquiries in regard to how Captain de Vaux had been

wounded, and who Mr. Harley could be, who had lately taken the house

at Little ----. Of all this, however, Lord Dewry could tell them

nothing. Colonel Manners's letter had been as laconic as possible;

and, therefore, the peer could merely reply, that it appeared the

wound had been received by accident, but that he intended to go over,

in order to hear more, as soon as they had concluded the business on

which they were assembling.

At length the number was complete; and Lord Dewry, having asked the

servant who ushered in the last tardy magistrate if all were prepared,

proposed that they should proceed to the old justice-room, where they

would find everything ready for them.

"The old justice-room!" cried bluff Mr. Arden; "I have not been in

there for many a year, my lord. But I have seen many a thing done

there, in my young days, that we should not dare to do now. They did

not mince the matter in those times; and I remember in the year

forty-five--now some three or four-and-twenty years ago--it was quite

enough to be _strongly suspected_ for a man to find his way to prison

very soon, without all these examinations and investigations. But they

are cutting down our powers every day, gentlemen. 'Pon my soul, I

think, when they have cut off every other part of my magisterial

rights, they will cut off the tails of my coat, for the _better

protection of the subject_, as they call it."

A loud laugh followed; and thus with mirth and merriment they

proceeded along the passages of a house, where despair and indignant

grief waited anxiously in one room, and suffering, remorse, and death

tenanted another. Preceded by two or three regular constables, they

reached the little vestibule before the door of the justice-room,

where fifteen or sixteen persons were assembled, anxious to witness

the proceedings. They had not, however, been admitted without

selection; and among them were to be seen none but small tenants and

dependants of the lord of the mansion. The little crowd drew back as

the magistrates approached; and, the folding-doors being thrown open,

they entered the large old-fashioned hall, which had been prepared for

their reception. It formed, as has been before said, a long

parallelogram at the extreme of the building, built out upon the high

bank to the west, and had probably been designed originally for a

chapel. Four tall windows on either side rendered the aspect of the

whole light and cheerful; and from the south-east the sun, as bright

and warm as in the height of summer, was pouring a flood of glorious

light, which streamed in long oblique rays of misty splendour across

the perspective of the hall. A table, covered with the various

implements for writing, crossed the farther extremity of the

apartment; and beyond it was an array of chairs for the magistrates,

while at each end was a seat for the clerks; and a smaller table,

also, under one of the south-east windows, was furnished with paper

and pens for another secretary. The windows on that side were open,

and the warm soft breath of the southerly wind was felt fanning the

cheek, and breathing of nothing but peace, and gentleness, and

tranquillity.

The magistrates proceeded to their places, and each taking a seat,

left the chair in the centre vacant for the peer; but he, however,

declined it, and begged Mr. Arden, as the senior, to preside at their

proceedings.

"Nay, nay, my lord," replied the bluff old squire; "your official

station in the county, as much as your rank, gives you the

precedence."

"In the present instance, however, my dear sir," replied Lord Dewry,

"I must appear before you as a private individual, as I am here in

some sort as the accuser, and if you find cause to commit the

prisoner, I must become the prosecutor. Therefore, I will sit here

beside you, but without exercising any official authority in a matter

where I am in a degree a party."

"The prisoner cannot say that your lordship has not every disposition

to give him impartial justice," answered Mr. Arden, taking the vacant

chair. "You would have him let off before, when I would certainly have

committed him; and now you will not exercise your authority where he

is concerned. Let him be brought in, however. Constables, bring in the

prisoner." Two men instantly departed from the farther end of the hall

for that purpose, and while they were gone some formal business was

transacted, the clerks received their instructions, and one or two of

the magistrates looked into Blackstone's new work, the volumes of

which had been scattered about upon the table. At length a murmur and

the sound of footsteps were heard, and the doors being again opened,

the constables re-entered, followed by the persons who had been

waiting without, reinforced by several of the servants of the peer, as

well as by the footmen and grooms who had accompanied the magistrates

thither. The principal object of the whole group, however, was of

course the prisoner Pharold, and on him every eye was instantly fixed.

Walking between the two constables, who did not attempt to hold him,

he advanced boldly up the middle of the hall, and with a slight

contraction of the brow, and curl of the lip, gazed on the party

assembled to interrogate him with stern and fearless calmness. His

wrists were handcuffed, but no other restraint was put upon him; and

when he had advanced within a few yards of the table at which the

magistrates were seated, he paused of his own will, and waited as if

in expectation of what was to follow, merely turning round to some of

the crowd who followed, saying, sternly, "Do not press upon me; you

are near enough."

Mr. Arden put on his spectacles, and after gazing for a moment or two

at the prisoner, he turned towards Lord Dewry, and said, "My lord,

will your lordship be good enough to state the charge against this

man; as of course that part of the business referring to the murder of

your son must be dropped, since it fortunately turns out that he is

alive. There are, however, I think, still two serious charges to be

disposed of, and probably our best plan will be to examine into them

separately: by separately, I mean, distinct from each other, though,

as many of us have come some distance, we had better go into both ere

we depart."

Lord Dewry paused for several minutes ere he replied; and looked over

some papers which he had laid upon the table before him; but in truth

a momentary feeling of doubt and embarrassment crossed his mind. He

had determined most positively to urge against the gipsy the death of

his brother; he had arranged all his plans for that purpose; he had

matured them perfectly; he had secured, as far as human ingenuity

could go, every link of the chain; and nothing remained but to cast it

boldly round his victim; and yet, at the very moment of execution, a

doubt and apprehension, a sort of prophetic hesitation, seemed to

seize him, and he wished that it had been possible to abandon the

charge of the murder of his predecessor, and to confine his accusation

to the deer-stealing and the death of Sir Roger Millington, which was

now, as he well knew, so near, as to effect all that could be wished,

by rendering the charge against Pharold capital.

He wavered for a moment, then, but he saw that the very wish to give

up an accusation so boldly made would appear suspicious, if any one

discovered it; and turning to Mr. Arden with a faint smile, he asked,

"With which of these charges had I better commence, my dear sir? The

one which is susceptible of the most immediate proof is that referring

to the recent offence."

"No, no, my lord," replied the magistrate, "take them in the order of

their dates. Let us get rid of the ancient business before we begin

the other. 'Tis well to be off with the old love before we be on with

the new, my lord."

"As you think fit," answered the peer, somewhat disappointed at the

magistrate's decision, but determined, as he must proceed, to proceed

boldly. "Well, then, my charge is as follows:--that the prisoner

Pharold, now before you, did, on the 18th day of May, in the year

17--, feloniously and with malice aforethought put to death my

unfortunate brother, the late Lord Dewry, in or near that part of the

road from Morley village to Green Hampton, which crosses the wood

called Morley Wood; and I am now ready to produce sufficient evidence

to induce you to commit the prisoner to the county jail for trial."

While he spoke, the gipsy's eye rested on him with a glance so stern,

so keen, so searching, that he felt as if the dreadful secret of his

bosom--all its motives and all its feelings, its doubts, its

apprehensions, its remorse, its complicated plans and subtle

contrivances, were undergoing, one by one, the examination of that

dark, fixed regard. Though he looked towards the prisoner as little as

possible, yet the gipsy's eye was a load upon him, that oppressed and

would have confused a less powerful mind than his own. Even as it was,

however, he could not bear it without emotion, and turning abruptly to

Mr. Arden, he went on,--"I trust, Mr. Arden, that you have brought

with you the notes of the former examination."

"Everything! everything, my lord," replied the magistrate; "prepared

as I was for the case, I brought every memorandum that could at all

bear upon it; and I think my clerk had better read the depositions

made at the time, and then you can proceed with any new facts which

may have since come to your knowledge."

The peer bowed his head, and the clerk, under Mr. Arden's

instructions, proceeded to read a variety of documents relating to

facts with which the reader is already acquainted. It is unnecessary,

therefore, to repeat them; but the demeanour of the two persons

principally interested in the details was in itself sufficiently

singular to attract the attention of some of the magistrates, though,

if they sought in their own minds for the motives, they were mistaken

in the conclusions at which they arrived. During the reading of all

the formal and immaterial part of the depositions, the gipsy remained

with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and his head slightly bent, with

the aspect of one who hears a thing with all the details of which he

is too familiar to give it any deep attention. But when the clerk came

to his own deposition, and read the declaration which he had made of

having seen the murder committed, and marked the murderer so

particularly as to be able to swear to him if he ever saw him again,

his lip curled with a bitter and a biting sneer, and, raising his

head, he fixed his eyes upon his accuser, with a gaze that might well

have sunk him to the earth.

Lord Dewry, however, encountered not his glance. He felt that the

gipsy's look must be then upon him; and, though he kept his own eyes

steadfastly on the papers before him, he turned deadly pale under the

consciousness of his own guilt, and the knowledge of what must be

passing in the bosom of the innocent man he had accused.

"This is your declaration, made twenty years ago, prisoner!" said Mr.

Arden, examining the gipsy's countenance through his spectacles.

"I know it is," answered the gipsy; "and it is truth, which twenty

years cannot change as they have done you and me, hard man!"

"Egad, he's right there!" cried the magistrate; "twenty years have

worked a woful change both in my eyes and in my teeth; but, thank God,

I can ride as fresh as any man after the hounds, and shirk neither

fence nor gate."

"Have you anything to add to your declaration, prisoner!" asked Mr.

Simpson, in a milder tone. "Nothing," answered Pharold. "Let me ask

you, however," continued the other, "whether you have ever, by any

chance, seen the murderer since the events which you have detailed in

this paper?"

"More than once!" answered the gipsy.

"Then, why did you not point him out for apprehension?" demanded Mr.

Simpson.

"Because no one asked me," replied Pharold. "I told yon hard old man,

that I would point the murderer out if he were set before me; but I

never promised any of you to be as one of your hounds, and seize the

game for your sport or advantage."

"Then if the murderer were brought before you," asked another

magistrate, "would you point him out, and swear to him?"

The inquiry was taking a turn unpleasing to the peer; for although he

felt well convinced that Pharold would, sooner or later, retort the

accusation upon him, and was ready to meet it boldly and calmly, yet

he was not a little anxious to conclude his own statement of the case

first, and to bring forward every circumstance which could criminate

the gipsy, in order to take all weight from the testimony of his

adversary, and make the magistrates pass it over with contempt.

"I think," he said, rising ere the gipsy could reply--"I think,

gentleman, if you will now permit me to proceed with what I have

further to adduce, you will find the matter very much simplified, and

can then examine the prisoner in whatever manner you think fit."

"Certainly, my lord! certainly!" said some of the more complaisant of

the party; but the magistrate who had put the question was less easily

turned aside; and he replied,--

"Permit the prisoner, my lord, to answer my question in the first

place. My memory is bad," he added, dryly, "and before we got to the

end I might forget it. Now, answer me, prisoner,--that is, if you do

not object--there is no compulsion, remember,--if the murderer were

brought before you, could you and would you point him out, and swear

to him!"

"That I could do so," answered Pharold, "I have already said; but that

I would do so, I do not know. It would depend upon circumstances."

Lord Dewry looked suddenly up, and their eyes met, but there was

nothing in Pharold's glance at that moment but cold stern

indifference; and those who saw the look he gave the peer could not

have distinguished that he was moved towards him by any other feelings

than those which might well exist between the accused and the accuser.

Lord Dewry paused, and a momentary feeling of remorse for that which

he was engaged in crossed his bosom, now that he saw even persecution

would hardly make the gipsy violate his word so far as to betray his

fearful secret. But he had gone too far to recede, and he crushed the

better feeling. He called up the image of Sir William Ryder returning

to England, and supporting a charge against him by the testimony of

the gipsy; he recalled the state of feverish apprehension in which he

had lived for twenty years; and he went on with the work he had begun,

resolved that the struggle should be commenced and ended now for ever,

in the vain hope that thus his latter days might pass in peace!

"Now, my lord," said the magistrate, when the gipsy had replied--"now,

my lord, I beg pardon for having detained you."

"Well, then, sir," answered Lord Dewry, with some of his haughty

spirit breaking out even then--"well, then, if it quite suits your

convenience, I will proceed. I must give a slight sketch of some

events long passed, gentlemen; and the clerks had better take it down

as my deposition, which may be sworn to hereafter. Not very long after

my brother's death, gentlemen, I had some money transactions to settle

with an honourable friend of mine, one Sir Roger Millington; and I

went to London for the purpose. I found him just returned from

Ireland; and he told me that, in the neighbourhood of Holyhead, he had

met with an accident by which one of his finest horses had nearly been

killed; but that he had obtained a secret from a gipsy there by which

the animal had been completely cured. You may easily suppose I gave

the anecdote but little attention at the time. In settling our

accounts, however, Sir Roger had to give me, in change for a larger

sum, several smaller notes, on which he wrote his name. I took no

great notice of these bits of paper till I returned to the country,

when, on looking them over, I found, to my surprise, that one of them

was marked with my brother's own name, in his own handwriting. This

led to further examination; and in this banker's book, and also in

these memoranda, I found, by the dates and numbers of the notes, that

the very note in question must have been drawn by my poor brother from

his bankers the day before his death. The next thing to be discovered

was, where Sir Roger Millington had obtained it; but, as that

gentleman was continually moving about from place to place, some time

elapsed ere I could see him again. When I did so, however, I found

that he had received this very note from a gipsy called Pharold, at

Holyhead, in change for a larger one given him in order to purchase

the secret by which the worthy knight's horse had been cured."

"A most singular coincidence!" cried Mr. Arden. "Murder will out,

gentlemen!"

"For a long time no trace could be discovered of the gipsy," continued

Lord Dewry; "but at length he suddenly reappeared in this

neighbourhood; and one of my keepers obtained information that he and

his gang had laid a plan for robbing my park of the deer. On his

telling me this, I ordered him to take such measures as he thought

expedient for seizing the whole of them in the fact; much more

anxious, indeed, to capture my brother's murderer than to punish the

deer-stealers. It so happened, that just at the same time Sir Roger

Millington came down to pay me a visit; and on hearing that the

culprit was likely to fall into our hands that very night, he insisted

upon coming over here, both to direct the operations of the keepers,

and to satisfy himself that this gipsy Pharold is the same from whom

he received the note. I would fain have persuaded him that it was a

wild scheme; but he was a soldier, gentlemen, and accustomed to

contemn all dangers. The unhappy result you know. He was mortally

wounded, and is now lying in a state of delirium, if he be not already

dead. Last night, however, I took advantage of a time when his mind

was quite clear and rational, to obtain from him this declaration in

the presence of competent witnesses; and herein you will find that he

positively states that the man Pharold, whom he saw with the gipsy

deer-stealers in Dimden Park, was the same from whom he received this

note."

"Foul, hellish liar!" exclaimed Pharold, starting abruptly from the

state of calm and apparently indifferent thought in which he had been

standing, with his eyes fixed upon the handcuffs on his wrists, and

his head bent down. "Foul, hellish liar! He never either gave me

aught, or had aught from me! I cured his noble beast for nothing; and

not for his sake either; but he gave me naught, nor would I have taken

his gold if he had offered it."

"What, then," cried Mr. Arden, "you acknowledge that you did see this

gentleman at Holyhead, and did cure his horse by some nostrum in your

possession! Clerk, take that down carefully."

"Ay, and take down that, if in dying he say he either gave me aught or

received aught from me," continued Pharold, vehemently, "he goes to

the place appointed for liars and false witnesses, if the great God of

all the universe be a God of justice and righteousness."

"Do you know, gentlemen," said Mr. Arden, turning round and rubbing

his hands, "I think that quite enough has been elicited to justify us

in committing the prisoner without further ceremony."

"We might perhaps be justified," said Mr. Simpson; "but I think there

is something more required of us than that, both by our own

consciences and our precise duties. It lies with us to prepare the

case as far as possible for superior functionaries; and, therefore, I

should propose that we proceed at once to collect every information

that is to be procured, and that we do not think of committing the

prisoner till we have done so. A great deal more still remains to

be--"

Here one of the constables advanced from the other end of the hall,

and passing quietly round the table, interrupted the magistrate by

handing him a sealed packet, which he instantly opened, and proceeded

to read the first lines. While he did so, the constable advanced to

the spot where the peer sat, and spoke a few words in a low tone of

voice, while another magistrate, taking advantage of Mr. Simpson's

silence, proposed that they should adjourn to the bedside of Sir Roger

Millington, and receive his deposition officially.

"I am sorry to say," answered Lord Dewry, with as grieved and

melancholy an air as he could assume, under circumstances which were

in reality satisfactory--"I am sorry to say, gentlemen, that the wise

and judicious proceeding just suggested cannot be executed, as the

constable has this moment informed me that my poor friend is no more.

His dissolution occurred a few minutes ago; and though I grieve for

the loss of my friend, it would be vain to say that I am sorry that an

event which was inevitable should have taken place so soon, when every

hour of prolonged existence was an hour of torture."

"I trust, then, that the declaration which he made last night," said

the same magistrate, "was in every respect such as to be admitted in

evidence. Will your lordship permit me to examine it?" The paper was

handed to him, and he cast his eyes over it without any comment. Mr.

Simpson, however, was evidently strongly affected by the packet he had

just received. He returned more than once to several of the passages

it contained; and when he had satisfied himself of the precise terms,

he let the hand which held the paper fall over the arm of the chair;

and with a pale cheek and a look of deep thought, continued gazing at

vacancy for several moments.

The first thing that seemed to rouse him was a renewal of Mr. Arden's

proposal for the instant committal of the prisoner, when, turning

round abruptly, he said, "No, Mr. Arden! no! we have not half gone

through the case; and something has just been put into my hand which

gives a very different aspect to the business altogether. This is a

very painful paper, gentlemen; and the task put upon me is a very

painful one, but, however, our duty must be done; and I will not

shrink from mine. However, let me beg your lordship in the first

instance to remark that this thing is no seeking of mine. For many

members of your lordship's family I have the utmost respect and

regard, and I would not willingly do anything to hurt any of your

house; but, as I have said, my duty must be done."

While he spoke, the gipsy's eye lighted up anew, but the countenance

of the peer fell. His colour varied twenty times in a minute; but ere

the magistrate had done speaking, he had recovered his self-command,

and determined on his course, whatever might be the nature of the

communication which Mr. Simpson had received. "To what end, may I

ask," he said, haughtily, "to what end does all this tissue of idle

words lead, sir? Let me beg you to explain yourself, for I can

conceive no circumstances under which your professed regard for my

family should interfere in any way with the execution of your duty."

"You shall hear, my lord, you shall hear," answered Mr. Simpson, with

more mild dignity than the peer had imagined he could assume.

"Constables, clear the hall there."

"Shall we take away the prisoner, sir?" demanded one of the men who

stood by his side.

The magistrate paused, and then replied, after a moment's thought, "He

has a right to hear anything that may benefit himself. He is here

before us without legal advice or assistance of any kind; and he must

not be shut out from a knowledge of facts which he may have to

communicate to his counsel hereafter. You, constable, however, retire

to the door. I think we are enough to manage one handcuffed man should

he prove turbulent."

None of the other magistrates interfered: the hall was cleared; and

Pharold was left standing in the midst, with no other witnesses but

the magistrates and their clerks. Restraining all his feelings by a

mighty effort, the peer sat sternly gazing upon the speaker, with the

violent passions that were working within, discernible only in the

starting sinews of the thin clenched hand which he had laid upon the

papers before him.

"What I have to read, gentlemen," continued Mr. Simpson, "has just

been sent me by the excellent rector of this parish, Dr. Edwards; and

it is entitled The dying declaration of Sir Roger Millington, knight.

It is, gentlemen, to the following effect;" and he proceeded to read

the confession which fear and repentance had induced the dying man to

make. The agitation of the peer was dreadful; but it was alone

internal; and all that was externally perceptible were those signs of

passion and indignation which an innocent man might feel at a false

accusation. At length, however, when, in conclusion, the unhappy Sir

Roger charged him boldly as the murderer of his brother, Lord Dewry

started up, exclaiming,--

"The raving madness of a delirious and dying man! How can you,

gentlemen, sit and listen to such trash! But I will soon bring you

proof of what state the man was in, when that canting old fanatic saw

him and he turned towards the door.

"Sit down, my lord!" said Mr. Simpson, sternly. "I cannot allow you to

leave the room."

"Sit down! not allow me!" cried the peer, turning upon him with all

the dark and haughty spirit of his heart flashing forth. "Do you dare,

sir, to use such terms to me in my own mansion?"

"Anywhere, Lord Dewry!" replied the magistrate. "I say, sit down! or I

must give you in custody to one of the officers, _I_ will show you,

gentlemen, in what state of mind was the deponent when he made this

declaration. Here is the attestation of the surgeon and his assistant,

that Sir Roger Millington was, at the moment he signed this paper,

perfectly sane and rational; that he did it under the full knowledge

that he was a dying man; and that every word here written was exactly

used by himself. Gentlemen, this requires immediate investigation; for

every word here written must greatly affect the prisoner before us."

Lord Dewry had cast himself down again in his chair; but wrath in the

present instance supported hypocrisy; for it was anger and indignation

he sought to assume, and the former at least, in the present instance,

required no acting. He folded his arms upon his breast, he rolled his

dark eye over the form of the magistrate, and he set his teeth in his

nether lip till the blood almost started beneath the pressure. In the

mean while there was a confused and murmuring conversation among the

magistrates, some standing, some sitting, and all talking together. At

length Mr. Arden exclaimed, in a loud voice that overpowered the

rest,--

"Well, well; this matter requires much consideration. Let us at all

events remand the gipsy for four or five days, while we inquire into

the rest. Here, he might be tampered with; but let us remand him to

the cage at Morley."

"Remand me!" cried the gipsy, in a tone that called instant attention,

while his deep black eyes seemed flashing with living fire. "Remand

me! remand a man that you know to be innocent! Are these your boasted

laws? is this your English equity? Have you no more freedom in your

hearts than this? Did ye but know what real freedom is, ye would feel

that nothing upon earth,--neither gold, nor wealth, nor friends, nor

pleasures, nor health, nor life itself, to the freeman,--is half so

dear as liberty! If ye take his gold, ye call it robbery; if ye take

his life, ye call it murder; but I tell you, that every minute and

every hour of liberty is more than gold or life; and yet, base

hypocritical tyrants, without scruple and without remorse, you take

from your fellow-creatures, on the slightest pretence, the brightest

possession of man, the noblest gift of God. Ere you know whether your

fellow-creature be guilty or not ye doom him to the worst of

punishments, ye confine him in dungeons, ye fetter his free limbs with

iron, ye deny him God's light and God's air, ye make him the companion

of devils and fiends, and then ye find that he is innocent, and send

him forth into the world degraded, corrupted, vile as ye are

yourself,--punished without guilt, and robbed of many a long day of

golden liberty by those who pretend to dispense justice, and who talk

of equity. Out upon ye, I say! and out upon your laws! If there were

such things as liberty and justice in the land, the very rumour that a

fellow-creature was deprived of his freedom for an hour, would gather

together half the land to see justice done; and he who dared unjustly

to deprive a freeman of his liberty would be punished as a traitor

against the rights conferred by God. Then would not this bright and

beautiful land bear the multitude of prisons that darken the sunshine

in every town and village; and speedily the very use for them would be

forgotten; for man's heart, ennobled by freedom, would forget crime;

or crime, punished on the spot, would be a lesson far more awful. Now

ye debase yourselves and your fellow-creatures, and expect them to act

nobly; ye punish the innocent with the worst of punishments, and

expect them to refrain from guilt. If I am innocent of the crime with

which I am charged,--and God knows, and ye all know, that I am,--let

me go free. If I be guilty, punish me with death, but take not away my

liberty. Death were light, but one other night in a dungeon would

crush my very soul!"

There was something so strong, so fiery, so impetuous, in the whole

tone and manner of the gipsy, that the magistrates, taken by surprise,

sat silent and attentive, till he had concluded an appeal which they

certainly had not expected. "There is some reason in what you say,"

answered Mr. Simpson, mildly, "and, perhaps, if we had tasted a few

hours' imprisonment ourselves, we should not be so ready to send

others to that fate, as we are found too often. However, now answer

me, prisoner: you have declared that if the murderer of the late Lord

Dewry were set before you, you could recognise him, and swear to him.

I ask you, therefore, do you see him now?"

A powerful emotion, which he could not resist, made the peer suddenly

turn away, as the magistrate thus addressed the gipsy; and Pharold's

dark keen eyes fixed sternly upon him. For several long, terrible,

anxious moments the gipsy was silent, and many were the strong and

agitating passions which struggled in his heart, and threw their

alternate shadows over his countenance; but at length he replied, in a

low but solemn and distinct voice, "I have said that I could tell, but

I have not said that I would; and I now say that, come what will to

myself, I will accuse no man."

The magistrates gazed at each other for a brief space, both surprised

and perplexed; but at that moment there was heard the sound of

chariot-wheels, the step of a carriage violently thrown down, and a

considerable bustle and speaking in the passages beyond. The next

instant the door of the hall was thrown open, and a gentleman entered,

with his hat still on his head, and a large fur cloak cast round him,

as he had got out of his carriage.

"I really must have the hall kept clear," exclaimed Mr. Simpson. "We

are here in private deliberation, and no one must be admitted."

The stranger, however, without paying the slightest attention, walked

straight up the middle of the hall; and laying his hand upon the

gipsy's arm, as he passed the spot where he stood, "I have come," he

said, "to deliver an innocent man." The next moment he advanced to the

table; and taking off his hat gazed round upon the magistrates.

The effect produced upon several persons present was no less strange

than sudden. The peer, with a countenance as pale as ashes, a

quivering lip and haggard eye, staggered up from his seat, grasped the

arm of the intruder, and holding him at arm's length, gazed in his

face, with an expression of doubt, and surprise, and horror. Mr. Arden

rubbed the glasses of his spectacles, exclaiming, "Good God! good God!

This is very strange! It can't be--no, it can't be!"

"It is! it is!" exclaimed the peer, falling back into his chair, and

covering his eyes with his hands. "It is! it is! thank God! oh! thank

God!" and the deep groan which accompanied his expression of joy, far

from lessening its force, seemed to speak that the load of worlds was

taken off his heart.

"In the name of Heaven, sir, who are you?" exclaimed one of the

younger magistrates.

"Who is he?" exclaimed the gipsy, "who should he be, but William Lord

Dewry. There are plenty here who must know him well."

"And none better than myself," cried Mr. Arden. "My Lord, are you

living or dead?"

"Living, sir," replied the person whom we have hitherto known by

the name of Sir William Ryder. "Had I not believed, gentlemen, that

in this hall I have as much right as any one, I should not have

intruded upon your deliberations; but as I learned this morning

that my friend Pharold here, to whom I owe my life, was brought

before you on a charge of taking it, I felt myself bound to interfere.

You must, therefore, permit me to be present at your further

deliberations.--Edward," he continued, turning to his brother, "you

had better retire. We have matter for much thought and for much

emotion between us, which were as well confined to ourselves alone."

"But, my lord'. but, my lord!" exclaimed Mr. Arden, "here is an

accusation made formally against your brother, also, of the same crime

with which the gipsy was charged."

"Who made it?" exclaimed Lord Dewry, looking somewhat reproachfully at

Pharold.

"Not I," answered the gipsy,--"I bring a false accusation against no

man."

"At all events, sir," rejoined the peer, turning to Mr. Arden, "it

must be sufficiently evident to all, that my brother, whatever may

have been our personal differences, cannot be guilty of my murder, as

I am here alive and well. I say again, therefore, that you had better

retire, Edward, and leave me to conclude this business as I see fit;

unless, indeed," he added--"unless you are inclined to contest either

my identity or my rights."

"No, no, no!" cried the other, starting up vehemently, and clasping

his hands together, while the burning tears of intense emotion rolled

rapidly over his cheeks. "No, no! So help me God, I would not lose the

knowledge that you are living for the highest rank and noblest fortune

that the earth could give; and I tell you, William, that to lay down

at your feet that which I have wrongfully possessed, to give up to you

wealth and station, and retire to poverty and obscurity, will be the

happiest act of my whole life. It will! it will! as there is truth

in Heaven, whatever my conduct heretofore may have caused you to

believe--and now I leave you."

"That is one step at least," said the peer. "Fare you well for the

present. I will join you soon.--And now, gentlemen," he continued,

turning to the magistrates, as his brother, with a slow and faltering

step, quitted the hall--"and now let us proceed, as quickly as

possible, to render justice to a man who has been erroneously accused,

and subjected already to some loss of liberty,--a loss which I know is

more bitter to him than the loss of life would be."

"Why, my lord, one would think you had turned gipsy yourself," said

Mr. Arden, "you speak so exactly the same sentiments which he has

himself expressed."

"I have mingled much with persons who feel the same ardent love for

uncontrolled liberty," replied the peer somewhat dryly, "and it is

therefore that I wish at once to proceed to those matters which may

instantly set this good and honest man at liberty. It is evident,

gentlemen, that the charge against him must instantly be discharged,

and therefore it may be better to order those unworthy handcuffs to be

taken instantly from his wrists."

"Not so fast, my lord," said Mr. Arden, who was not well pleased with

the tone in which the peer replied to him, and who had also a strong

disposition to commit every one who was committable. "Although your

sudden, miraculous, and very strange reappearance must of course put

an end to all proceedings relative to a murder which has not taken

place, yet there is another charge of a nature equally grave against

the prisoner, which renders it impossible to discharge him in the

summary method which you seem inclined to urge. There is a charge of

deer-stealing followed by murder, in both of which crimes it is pretty

evident that the prisoner has taken part. I should like to know, too,

before I part with him, whether the whole story that he told of your

being shot by a man on horseback had any foundation, or was a mere

invention."

"In regard to the last point I will satisfy you at once," replied Lord

Dewry, "as far as I ever intend to satisfy any one. I was met by a man

on horseback, as I believe the gipsy told you, who demanded money of

me, and on my refusing it, somewhat harshly indeed, he did fire at and

wound me. My horse took fright, and plunged into the river; I fell

from the saddle, deprived of all sense; and had not that good man,

Pharold, leaped into the stream, dragged me out, and given me into the

hands of those who tended me with kindness and wisdom, my fate would

not have been doubtful for a moment. In regard to my after-conduct,

private motives determined it, into which no one has any right to

inquire. They were such as satisfied my own heart and my own

understanding, and that is sufficient."

"And pray, my lord," demanded Mr. Arden, "were you acquainted with the

person who wounded you? Could you swear to him?"

"I am not making a charge before you as a county magistrate," replied

Lord Dewry; "but telling you an anecdote as an old acquaintance; and

let me add, that my story is done. In regard to any further charge

against Pharold, there is, I think, by this time sufficient evidence

collected at the hall door to prove that he took no part either in the

destruction of the deer or the violence offered to the gamekeepers. If

you will order the persons who were present to be called in you will

soon be satisfied."

"I beg your pardon, my lord," said Mr. Simpson: "I am most happy to

see you once again, when such a thing appeared impossible; but still I

am afraid the course you suggest cannot be pursued."

"And why not, sir?" demanded Lord Dewry: "I believe that I have the

pleasure of speaking to Mr. Simpson, though time has somewhat altered

his features: if so, I address both a humane and reasonable man; and I

ask why cannot the plain and straightforward course I propose be

pursued at once?"

"Let them have their way, William de Vaux! Let them have their way!"

cried the gipsy, whose dark features had been working under the

influence of many a contending passion since his friend had appeared.

"Let them have their way! One and all they are set in their own hearts

to do injustice. What, indeed, are they there for, but to dispense

that kind of injustice that you call law? Let them have their way!

They are but working out the inevitable will of fate; and though they

bring the curse of innocent blood upon their head, they needs must do

it."

"If your lordship, during your long absence, have not forgot entirely

the customs of this country," replied Mr. Simpson, as soon as he could

make himself heard, "you will perceive at once, that, as one of the

unfortunate victims of this deer-stealing affray has died in this very

house, not half an hour ago, it is our bounden duty not to discharge a

prisoner against whom a charge upon oath of participation in the crime

has been made by an eyewitness, until the coroner shall have sat upon

the body, and returned a verdict; nor have we, I believe, any right to

take the matter out of the coroner's hands, by previously examining

the witnesses, which must afterward appear before his jury. I am

grieved to oppose you, I am grieved to inflict further imprisonment on

a man of whose innocence I do not entertain any strong doubts; but

Harvey, the head keeper, has sworn that the prisoner was present,

aiding and abetting, when Sir Roger Millington was wounded, and we

should not be justified even in receiving bail till the coroner's jury

have returned their verdict."

Lord Dewry bit his lip, and remained silent for a few moments, while

Mr. Arden rubbed his hands, and elevated his eyebrows with the air of

a man who considers all opposition as silenced; and the gipsy eyed the

bench of magistrates with a look in which scorn was the only

expression that tempered hatred and indignation. "Pray, sir, how long

must it be ere the coroner can be summoned?" demanded the peer. "You

know not what you are inflicting upon a man as honest as any one

present. To him every hour of his freedom is more than life; and I

could give you fully sufficient proof to show that while his innocence

of the crime charged against him is clear, the punishment inflicted on

him by imprisonment cannot be estimated by the feelings of other men

under such circumstances."

"The coroner cannot even be summoned to-day, my lord," replied Mr.

Arden; "and, consequently, it must be to-morrow or the next day ere

the gipsy can be liberated, even if the result be as favourable to him

as you expect. But what are two or three days spent in a snug warm

room to a man who has never known any thing better than a hovel in a

sandpit? Where is the great hardship? I see no very severe

infliction."

"To him it is the most severe," replied Lord Dewry; "and if it be

possible--"

"Cease, cease, William," cried Pharold, in a bitter and earnest tone;

"you degrade those noble lips by pleading in vain to men who can

neither understand your heart nor mine. Besides, it matters not, it

matters not. The long weary line of life has come to its end with me.

All that I had to do is done. I have seen you break through all your

good and wise designs, all your humane and generous scruples, for

the purpose of defending and delivering me; I have seen you return to

your home, and claim your own; and so far I have seen my utmost

desire. But hear what I have seen more," he continued with a rising

tone, while his eye flashed, his dark cheek flushed, and his brows

knit together--"hear what I have seen more, William de Vaux, and then

see whether I ought to care for anything else after. I have seen my

people mock my care, and refuse my counsels! I have seen one of my own

tribe betray me, in order to liberate himself! I have seen the wife of

my bosom take part in the scheme for delivering me over to

imprisonment and death, by the means of my best affections! I have

spent a whole bright autumn night in a prison! I come forth into the

day with bonds upon my hands, and I hear myself condemned, without

crime, to the torture of a longer slavery in chains and stone walls!"

As he went on, he spoke more and more rapidly, and his eye rolled over

the magistrates, as he lashed himself into phrensy, by a

recapitulation of his sufferings and his wrongs. "But think not," he

continued furiously, "think not that bolts, or bars, or walls shall

keep me in another night, in the living tomb into which ye have thrust

me! No, no, there is always a way for a bold heart to set itself free!

Thus, thus I spurn your chains from me!" and by one great effort of

skill and strength he slipped his hands out of the handcuffs, which

were somewhat too large, and dashed them down into the midst of the

hall.

"Constables! constables!" shouted Mr. Arden.

"You call in vain, hard, stone-hearted man," cried Pharold, shaking

his clenched hand at him, "you call in vain;" and bounding to the side

of the hall on which the tall windows had been thrown open, he set one

foot upon the secretary's table, and with a single spring reached the

high window sill, catching with his hand the small stone column on

which the casements hung. There he paused for one moment; and turning

his head, exclaimed, "William de Vaux, noble William de Vaux,

farewell,--for ever, and ever, and ever, farewell."

He let go his hold: he sprang forward, and was lost to the sight. The

next moment the dull heavy splash of a large body falling into the

water rose up and was carried by the wind through the open windows

into the justice-room.

"Run round, run round," cried Mr. Arden to the constables, who were

now hurrying in; "he has escaped through the window; run round there

by the outside."

One or two instantly followed these directions; but another sprang up

to the window to mark the course of the fugitive, and point it out to

the pursuers.

"He must have jumped into the stream, gentlemen," said the man,

turning to speak to the magistrates, as soon as he had reached the

spot where Pharold had stood the moment before. "He must have jumped

into the stream, for there is not footing for a mouse."

"He did, he did: we heard him," answered Mr. Arden. "Look out, and see

where he comes to land. My lord, why do you cover your face with your

hand? you seem more sorry for the prisoner's escape than I

anticipated."

"It is because I know him better than you do, sir," answered the peer;

"and I fear that you have driven him further than you imagine."

"I can see nothing on the river, gentlemen," cried the constable, "but

the bubbles and the eddies where he must have gone down. There's a

shoulder, there's a shoulder, I do believe; and his long black hair as

I live:--it is gone again; he is down--I see no more of it."

Lord Dewry started up and rushed out; but it was in vain that every

effort was made to find the gipsy living or dead. The constables who

had run round the justice-room declared that they had never seen

anything rise. The other, who had watched from the window, soon became

very doubtful in regard to the reality of the objects he had seen

floating down the stream. An old labourer, who had been working at a

distance, stated that he had remarked something fall from the window

of the justice-room into the water, but had seen nothing come to land.

The peer, with as many people as he could collect, followed the course

of the river for some way; and the constables, though with different

views, pursued the same course. In the meanwhile, the magistrates

continued in deliberation, as it is called; although it must be

acknowledged that their conversation referred much more particularly

to, and rested much more pertinaciously upon, the strange return of

Lord Dewry, the various circumstances which could have given occasion

to his absence, and the various events to which his re-appearance

would give rise, than even to the disappearance of the prisoner, and

the after-measures to be adopted.

The matter, however, was quite sufficiently interesting to make three

quarters of an hour pass unnoticed; and at the end of that time a

servant appeared to inform them that, as the body of the unhappy gipsy

could not be found, Lord Dewry did not intend to intrude upon them

again, and that he had only to request that due information of the

death of Sir Roger Millington might be given to the coroner.

The magistrates received the message--probably as it was intended--as

a hint that their further presence at Dimden was not desired. Mr.

Arden laughed, and declared that he would take care to tease his

lordship for his want of courtesy, by asking him unpleasant questions

whenever he met him; but Mr. Simpson, on the contrary, looked grave

and sad, and as he parted with his fellow-magistrates declared his

intention of withdrawing from his official duties. "I should never,"

he said, "be able to remove from my mind the impression of that

unfortunate gipsy's fate, and I should fear that it might have some

effect upon the execution of my duty in future."

CHAPTER XIII.

Day had waned, night had overshadowed the world several hours, and

Mrs. Falkland, with Marian, had long left the house in which Edward de

Vaux lay ere any sounds intimated that the master of the mansion had

returned. Anxious, bewildered, and impatient, De Vaux lay sleepless

till ten o'clock, when the rapid rush of rolling wheels, and the quick

footfalls of the horses, as they passed his window, told him that he

whom he expected had arrived.

A few minutes elapsed without his appearance in the sick man's room,

however, and, with his characteristic impatience, De Vaux concluded

that "the fools had said he was asleep," and was sending to declare

the contrary, when the door was quietly opened, and the person he

wished for approached his bedside.

"I am most happy to see you, my dear sir," said De Vaux, looking up in

the fine bland countenance that was bent over him, "for I cannot

sleep--I cannot rest--till I ask you who, who is it that I see?"

"Ah! I perceive that your aunt has betrayed me," said Lord Dewry. "She

recognised me instantly this morning; but I laid strict injunctions

upon her, for many reasons, to keep my secret with you till I

returned. But I expected more than was reasonable. There is a proverb

against a woman keeping a secret."

"No, no," said De Vaux: "she did not exactly betray you. She let a few

words accidentally fall, that only served to rouse my curiosity, which

she then refused to satisfy."

"And what said Marian?" demanded the other, with a smile.

"Oh, she said nothing on the subject," replied De Vaux, "but she

looked happier than I ever beheld her; and that too seemed to confirm

some vague surmises which my aunt's words had called up. But yet I

cannot believe it--it is impossible--I knew you myself as Sir William

Ryder in America--every one knew you by that name there--and I cannot

believe the wild fancy that has taken possession of me."

"It is nevertheless true," replied the peer. "Sir William Ryder has

slept for more than twenty years in a village churchyard in Ireland,

and I am--what I suppose you suspect--your uncle. Agitate yourself

with this matter no more to-night, my dear boy: suffice it," and he

pressed his nephew's hand kindly in his own, "suffice it that I am

proud to have Edward de Vaux for my nephew, and shall rejoice to

acknowledge him as my son."

The words were oil and wine to the heart of Edward de Vaux, but still

there was something wanting. "Thank you, thank you," he replied, still

holding his uncle's hand in his own; "but yet one word more before you

go:--that dreadful story that the gipsy told me--that story that drove

me almost mad--it is not, it cannot be true. My father did not--could

not--"

"Edward," replied his uncle, gravely, "on no account must I do wrong

to the memory of a noble-hearted man. The gipsy told you true, as far

as he knew the truth. Nay, do not shudder: there are many palliating

circumstances which he did not know, but which I will relate to you

hereafter, in order to calm and tranquilize your mind. In the meantime

be satisfied with knowing that, as far as I am concerned, all that was

painful in the past shall be forgotten and buried in oblivion for

ever. Nor, indeed, would I, even to you, so far withdraw the veil from

things gone as to give any explanation, had it not been by my

authority and directions--under a mistaken view of your character and

heart--that the gipsy related to you as much as you already know. Your

knowledge of thus much renders it necessary for your own peace that

you should know more; which I will tell you as soon as you are well.

Rest assured, however, that all which you have yet to hear is good and

not evil, and will tend to alleviate and soften what is past."

With such information Edward de Vaux was forced to rest contented

during the whole of the following week, for he could draw no more from

his uncle; and he feared, by questioning any one else upon the

subject, to raise suspicions which he trusted were as yet quiet in the

minds of all others. The rest of the little world, however, in which

these events had taken place, were not so soon satisfied. The

immediate neighbourhood of Dimden and of Morley House was, of course,

more agitated than the rest of the county; for there it may be said

that the stone had dropped into the water, and though the rippling

circles that it made extended far and wide around, yet each eddy was

fainter and fainter, of course, as it became farther removed from the

centre. In the immediate vortex, however, not only for nine days, but

nearly for nine months, all was gossip, and rumour, and confusion.

Every one had his own distinct report of the transactions which had

taken place in regard to the return of the old Lord Dewry; every one

had his own version of the story; and as neither the peer himself, nor

any of his family, gave either encouragement or refutation to any of

the statements, but held a stern and rigid silence upon the whole

affair, every one was left to enjoy his own version undisturbed, and

to make himself sure that it was the right one, by any logic that he

thought proper to use.

There is no such diffusible a substance in nature as truth; for though

an infinitely small piece of gold can be spread over a wire that might

girdle the great earth, yet a much less portion of truth will serve to

gild a much greater quantity of falsehood. Thus, in all the stories

that were current, it is more than probable that some portion of truth

existed; and many of them, aided by curious inquiry and shrewd

conjecture, came very near the real facts of the case.

The good-natured world of course anticipated all the disagreeable

things that were to happen. Lawsuits innumerable were prognosticated;

Lord Dewry was to compel his brother to refund the long enjoyed rents

of his estates; the brother was to deny his claim and rights

altogether; the marriage between Edward de Vaux and his cousin was to

be broken off; and some persons even anticipated that the lover would

shoot himself, and the lady die of consumption.

None of these events, however, did really take place. Lord Dewry

showed himself in no hurry to take possession of his estates either at

Dimden or at Dewry Hall, but his title was not the less generally

recognised and his rights undisputed. His brother, indeed, lay for

many weeks ill at Dimden House; and, under the influence of feelings,

which those around him did not rightly comprehend, besought Lord Dewry

not to visit him till his strength was recovered, or till his death

was near.

Edward de Vaux still remained at his uncle's cottage at the little

town of ----, tended by its owner with all the care and affection of a

father. His recovery was somewhat tedious indeed; and it was long ere

the surgeons permitted him to rise. From that period, however, his

convalescence proceeded more rapidly, and the kind tone of all his

uncle's conversation--the hope, the cheerfulness, the sunshine, that

beamed through it all--tended to sooth his mind, and turn it from

everything that was painful in his situation. At length it was

announced that he might with safety drive over to Dimden to see his

father: and on the day preceding that on which he went, as soon as the

short twilight of winter was over, Lord Dewry ordered his doors to be

closed against all the world; and walking up and down the room--as was

his custom when he spoke on matters of deep interest--while his nephew

lay on the couch beside him, he entered into the long promised

explanation of his past conduct.

"I need not recapitulate, my dear boy," he said, "all that you have

already heard, nor tell you how bitterly I suffered from a loss, the

pain of which can never be wholly forgotten. At the time it nearly

drove me mad. At all events it made me look upon everything in nature

through a false medium, made me hate mankind, loath even the society

of my best and dearest friends, and find agony rather than consolation

in the sight of the infant which my lost angel had left me, and which

to a more sane and less impatient spirit would have been a source of

joy and comfort to my latest hour. It was under these circumstances,

and with these feelings, that I suddenly met my brother in the

neighbourhood of Morley House, while I was riding over to the county

town, with the purpose of giving him such a sum as I could spare at

the time, but of refusing the greater part of the assistance he

demanded. I had many other causes for dissatisfaction in regard to his

conduct besides his boundless extravagance; but of those causes we

need not speak. I acknowledge that I treated him harshly; and that,

not contented with rejecting his demand, I rejected it in that stern

and peremptory tone which was in some degree cruel, for grief had

hardened me for the time against all those things to which at other

moments I yielded most willingly. He pleaded more earnestly, more

humbly, than could have been expected from one who had no small share

of pride; but I refused to hear, and only repeated my determination.

Words of great bitterness passed between us; and at length he drew

forth a pistol, saying that nothing was left him but death or

dishonour, and that he preferred the former. I remember not the exact

words of my reply; but they were galling, bitter, and ungenerous; and

as I spoke them, I spurred on my horse. The next moment there came a

loud report, a giddiness of my eyes, and I felt myself reel in the

saddle. For the moment my powers over my horse were lost; and taking

fright at the sound, he plunged down the bank, lost his footing, and

slipped into the river. Nay, Edward, look not so distressed, remember

the shot might be accidental; my brother was following me eagerly at

the time, with the weapon in his hand which he had threatened to raise

against his own life: a plunge of his horse, a false step, an

accidental movement, might discharge the pistol without his will. I am

willing to believe it so; and I have never inquired further. If you

are wise, Edward de Vaux--if you are wise, you will inquire no further

either. There are few situations in which doubts are preferable to

certainty, but there are some, and this is one. Suffice it that,

whatever your father's intention was, he was driven at that moment,

both by despair and by a brother's harshness, to a state of mind in

which he could hardly be held responsible for his own actions. I

forgive him from my heart for that deed, though others have taken

place lately which I fear I cannot forgive--at least not as yet. But

of these no more: I seek not to be your father's accuser. I would

rather exculpate him as far as possible."

De Vaux sighed deeply, and still kept his hands clasped over his eyes,

for he could not but feel that his uncle willingly deceived himself,

in order to palliate the actions of his father. "Let me now turn,"

continued Lord Dewry, "to my own fate and conduct. The wound I had

received, though not dangerous--having passed obliquely along the back

of my head and neck, only slightly grazing the bone--was sufficient to

stun and confuse me; and although in the plunge into the water I was

thrown free of the horse, I should certainly have been drowned, had it

not been for the activity and courage of the gipsy Pharold. I knew

little that passed till I found myself lying on the moss, in the thick

wood above Morley Point, with two gipsies standing by me, one of whom

was my deliverer. I was still bleeding profusely; and Pharold was in

the very act of sending his comrade for help to bear me home. My first

words, however, were directed to stop him; and I besought the

companion of my boyhood to have me carried to the tents of his people,

and to conceal my escape from every one. The very first impulse on

recovering my recollection had been to execute a plan, which had often

occurred to me within the last few weeks previous to that time, of

abandoning state, and station, and society altogether, and wasting

away the rest of my days in grief and mourning. Had I been a Roman

Catholic at my wife's death, I should certainly have devoted myself to

the cloister; and the only consideration which had prevented me from

quitting England and all my former connections, had been the thought

of the inquiries and the search that would be made for me, and the

annoyance to which such proceedings might subject me. Now, however,

the opportunity was before me. I easily gathered, or rather divined

from the circumstances in which I found myself, that no one was

acquainted with my being still in life but the gipsy and his comrade:

I knew that my child, with an ample fortune and numerous connections,

would be well protected and cherished by my sister; and I resolved

instantly to seize the only opportunity I might ever have of quitting

without inquiry or pursuit, scenes that were full of painful memories,

and society which I detested. The rest was easily arranged. I felt

that I was but slightly wounded. Pharold would have done whatever I

chose to dictate on earth; and I was borne to the gipsies' tents, and

tended with as much care and skill as if I had lain in a palace,

surrounded by friends and servants.

"None knew me personally but Pharold himself; and he pledged himself

solemnly to conceal the fact of my existence from every one. It was

agreed that his tribe should instantly remove to a distance, carrying

me with them; while he remained, in order to watch the subsequent

proceedings of my family, and give me information thereof. He was

absent for several days; and when at length he rejoined his people, I

found that he had been himself arrested, and in some degree suspected

of having murdered me. He told me, however, that my brother had been

the first to assert his innocence, and to effect his liberation. This

conduct pleased me; and I resolved to linger in England some time

longer, in order to mark your father's after proceedings. Through the

exertions of Pharold, I learned all that took place. I found that,

however he might have acted in other circumstances, my brother acted

nobly towards my child; and I took some pleasure, the first that I had

known for months, in viewing the emotions of his heart through the

conduct to which they led. The pleasure, however, was of a very

mingled nature; and at length I prepared to set out for Ireland, with

the intention of proceeding thence to America. At Holyhead I removed

from the tents of the gipsies, with whom I had hitherto continued,

because I was aware that Sir William Ryder, an old acquaintance both

of my brother's and my own, was to visit Pharold on Edward's account,

in order to ensure more perfectly the gipsy's silence. He came at

length, but in coming his horse took fright, threw him, and nearly

killed him on the spot. He likewise was borne into the gipsies' tents,

and for some days hovered between life and death. I saw him often,

without being seen, and many a time as I stood in the shadow, while

Pharold conversed with him, I heard him express bitter sorrow and

repentance for all the follies into which he had been led, and depict

vividly the writhings of a noble spirit under the consciousness of

having dipped deeply in vice and become a participator in crime. I

became interested in him, and determined in other lands--for he also

was following exactly the same track towards America as myself--to let

him know of my existence; which would at least relieve a part of the

load under which he suffered. He partially recovered, and proceeded to

Ireland; but he never reached America; for ere he could embark, the

consequences of the injuries he had received in his fall assumed a

severe character, and at a small inn, in a small and wretched Irish

port, I found him dying and alone. His surprise on seeing me had

nearly killed him; but he soon regained composure, and I remained with

him till his last hour.

"By his advice, and authorized by his own hand, I took his name; and

by means of papers which he gave me at his death, have received ever

since the annuity of a thousand per annum, which my brother had

settled upon him; nor did I think myself unjustified in either of

these actions, for I only assumed a rank inferior to my own, and

received money which to all intents and purposes was mine. However, as

Sir William Ryder had a numerous acquaintance, it became necessary to

fix my abode in such a spot as would remove every chance of my assumed

name being questioned. My feelings too at this time led me to seek

solitude, and an entire change, not only of scene, but of all the

circumstances of life. Thus I retired to the spot where you found me,

during the late war; and there, in the midst of savage life, and

various sources of interest and excitement, I gradually recovered

calmness and peace. Of my life in America I need give you no picture,

as you have seen how it passed; and I have now only to explain further

the motives of my return.

"Every human thing is weak in its resolves, and I not less than

others; but still, in some degree, it is happy that it should be so;

for our determinations are always the children of circumstances, and

upon circumstances also must their execution ever depend. Like a

madman and a fool, I had fancied that in Marian's mother I had found

imperishable happiness; and when she was suddenly snatched from me, my

whole feelings, my very soul, seemed turned into bitterness and

disappointment. In bitterness and disappointment, then, I had resolved

never to love another human being, and to cast off every tie that

could bind me to human affections: but time brought resignation and

consolation; and a longing, a thirst to see my child and my native

land often came upon me with overpowering force. I sought not to

resume wealth or station. I sought not to mingle again in cultivated

society; but the yearning of the heart of a father and a man towards

my daughter and my country were sometimes hardly to be resisted. That

my child was well, happy, and protected, I learned from the constant

correspondence which I kept up with the gipsy Pharold; and, at the

same time, the interest which I took in the wild tribes around me, and

the love they evinced towards me, acted as a strong tie to the land in

which I had settled. I wavered often, but I resisted long; till, at

length, I became acquainted with your admirable friend Manners, and

through him first personally knew yourself. Your very name was full of

interest to me; but how much was that interest increased when, by some

casual words which passed between you and your friend, I learned that

you were destined to become the husband of my only child. All the

faults of your father's character rose up before my imagination his

very faults towards your mother were remembered and when I pictured to

myself my dear Marian suffering under similar conduct, my heart was in

an agony of doubt and apprehension. From that moment I watched your

every word and action with eager anxiety, striving to judge your mind

and heart. I did judge you, Edward, and I judged you wrongly. There

was a fastidiousness, an irritability, an impatience, a degree of

pride, that put me strongly in mind of your father; and although I

thought I saw some nobler traits, yet I was anxious, doubtful, ill at

ease; and I determined, at any risk, at any cost, to try you to the

uttermost, ere you received the fate of my child into your hands. I

did try you, Edward, and somewhat too severely; and both for having

mistaken your nature, and made you suffer deeply, I now ask your

forgiveness. At the time you left me, I was engaged in negotiating the

purchase of a large tract of land to be reserved for certain tribes of

Indians, but a larger sum was required than I could command; and this,

with the other circumstances I have mentioned, hastened my return to

England. I arrived in my native country even before you did; but a

thousand difficulties surrounded me which I had not foreseen; and my

anxiety and eagerness made me act with less caution than I should have

done. I had no agent in whom I could confide but the gipsy Pharold;

and although he wrought in every thing exactly under my directions,

yet a thousand circumstances, over which we had no control, turned our

actions from their course, and led to results that neither of us

anticipated. My intention was not to claim either my name or my

estates, if I found that you were worthy of my child: but I have been

forced forward, from step to step, as if by the strong hand of fate,

till at length it became an imperative duty to disclose myself, in

order to deliver the innocent from persecution. One satisfaction,

however, I have obtained, which is, that I can now feel unbounded

confidence in the man to whom I leave the happiness of my child in

charge. Remember also, Edward, that I have resumed my own rights,

without compromising the honour or reputation of your father--"

"Indeed! indeed!" cried De Vaux, starting up, and grasping his uncle's

hands. "Thanks, thanks, my dear sir! That is a blessed relief indeed!

But will not people suspect--"

"They cannot do so reasonably," replied Lord Dewry. "The secret, my

dear boy, remains with you and me alone, and never to a living

creature shall it pass my lips, as I hope for happiness hereafter."

"But the gipsy!" cried De Vaux, "the gipsy!"

"The gipsy is no more!" replied his uncle, a shade coming over his

countenance. "Persecution and severe laws have driven him to despair,

and despair to death. And now, Edward, to-morrow you are about to

visit your father; in regard to letting him know what information you

possess, act as you shall think fit. Were I in your circumstances, if

possible, I should conceal from him that I knew aught beyond common

report; but if you do communicate to him the knowledge you have

obtained, add that for all and every fault towards myself I forgive

him from my heart and soul, but that his conduct towards Pharold the

gipsy rests dark upon my mind; and that, perhaps, it would be better

if we did not meet again till time had softened the remembrance.

Present him, Edward, with this packet also. It contains a deed

which will prevent him from feeling any great change of fortune

from my return."

De Vaux coloured as he took it; and his uncle added,--"You must not

again make me deem you proud, Edward."

"No, no, my dear sir," replied De Vaux. "What I have suffered has not

only been a trial, but will, I trust, prove a cure; for the errors

that you saw and justly feared, were fully as real as apparent. I

cannot but feel pained, however, that we should have so small a right

to expect--to expect--" He paused, hesitated a moment, and then

added,--"to expect bounty at the hand which now bestows it."

"Call it not bounty, my dear Edward," answered his uncle, "nor couple

yourself with others in any shape, for in this deed you are in no

degree interested. The fortune which Marian inherits from her mother

will render you independent, till my death renders you wealthy. And

now to conclude, ere I wish you good-night:--I have been forced to

speak to you long of your father. In doing so, though I have tried not

to spare my own faults, I have been obliged to dwell for long upon

his; but I have done so once for all, and I never more mention them

again, either to his son or to any one else. It has been as painful

for me to speak, as for you to hear. It is over; and now, good-night!"

We might dwell longer upon the feelings of Edward de Vaux; but we have

only space left for his actions. The next morning early he set out to

visit his parent, and it was late ere he returned. When he did so,

however, he announced to his uncle that, although still unwell, his

father had quitted Dimden, and removed a few stages on his journey to

a remote part of the country, in which he had determined to fix his

residence.

"Of course, my dear sir," he added, "every inducement, but one, would

lead me to remain here, in the scenes wherein I have been brought up,

which are full of sweet recollections, and which contain her I love

the best on earth. Nevertheless, he is my father; and I cannot suffer

him to linger through the hours of sickness, in sorrow, dejection, and

solitude, when, perhaps, the society of his son may give him

consolation, or, at least, afford some diversion to his thoughts.

To-morrow, therefore, I will see Marian; and then, if the surgeons

will let me, will set off to follow my father. As soon as his illness

is terminated," and he spoke with a look of pain and apprehension, "I

will return, and claim a promise which is more valuable to me than

life; and, in the meantime, I know that none who are dear to me will

think the worse of me for having in this instance preferred duty to

happiness."

Lord Dewry made no opposition to his purpose, and it was accordingly

executed. Two months elapsed without any event of importance. Lord

Dewry took possession of his rights again; and rumour and gossip, at

every fresh incident in our drama, revived more and more faintly, till

at length they died away, and gave place to newer things. The body of

the gipsy Pharold was never found; and a vague report spread over the

country that he was not dead, but had returned to his people, and had

been seen in several places by persons who were acquainted with his

person; but the origin of this report could not be traced; and certain

it is, that The Gipsy never again presented himself before any of the

family of De Vaux. The tribe which he had led disappeared from the

country; and whither their wanderings conducted them, or what was

their fate, the writer of this book cannot tell, though it appears

that Mr. Arden, that indefatigable magistrate, pursued them with his

usual vigour, on the charge of deer-stealing and murder, but was

unsuccessful in the attempt to identify any of the parties. In the

meanwhile two inducements led Lord Dewry to establish his permanent

residence at Dimden, rather than at the newer mansion which his

brother had inhabited; first, that it was full of memories that he

loved; and, secondly, that it was near those who were the dearest to

him on earth. Colonel Manners, for his part, had prolonged his stay at

Morley House for some time; but he then returned to London, promising

faithfully to renew his visit, when the same cause which had brought

him first into that part of England was again urged as a plea for

revisiting it. To the surprise of all his military acquaintances,

however, shortly after his arrival in the capital, Colonel Manners

resigned the command of his regiment, and retired upon half pay.

Various causes were assigned for this proceeding; but the real motive

lay hidden in his own bosom, deeper than he liked to own even to

himself.

While these events were passing, Edward de Vaux wrote often to his

uncle, and still more frequently to Marian; but at the end of two

months the peer received a letter in which his brother's handwriting

was faintly to be traced. It was short, and to the following effect:--

"My Lord,

"I am dying; and a few days are all that remains to me of life; I

therefore venture to ask that you would see me once more before we

part--perhaps for ever. I would fain receive your forgiveness from

your own lips. I would fain tell you how that remorse--which led me on

to new crimes and more intense sufferings at every step, while it was

the companion of terror and despair--has conducted me to repentance

and consolation, now that the burden has been lightened by your

return. I have not only wronged you, but I have fearfully wronged

others, and I acknowledge it with sorrow and with shame. Nor will I

attempt to excuse or palliate any part of my conduct; for you, whose

life has passed without spot, cannot tell the goading power of that

fiery scourge with which one great crime drives us on to a thousand

more, in order to conceal it. My cruel, I might almost say insane,

persecution of an unhappy man who, as I hear, is now no more, had such

feelings for its cause; but I know too well that if my deep and bitter

repentance be not accepted by the Almighty, it will be no vindication

of a great crime to urge that it was the consequence of another. In

regard to my offences towards yourself, I have been punished by twenty

years of those torments which have been assigned to hell itself--the

worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched. But this is

not enough; and if I did not trust that the deep repentance which I

feel may obtain some better expiation of my offences than my own

sufferings can afford, I should die without hope. I do hope, however,

that mercy may be found; and oh, my brother, let me beseech you to

encourage that trust, by seeing me, and assuring me of your full

forgiveness, ere I go to another world."

The peer lost not a moment, and arrived at his brother's bedside

before the last scene was over. He found in him, however, scarcely a

trace of what he had been even three months before. At that time,

intense mental exertion and activity had apparently given him power to

bear up under all the load that pressed upon his heart; but the sudden

re-appearance of his brother, and the events which accompanied it,

seemed to have broken, in a moment, the staff under his hand, and he

had fallen at once into age, decrepitude, and decay.

Lord Dewry and Edward de Vaux returned not after to Dimden Hall in

deep mourning; and though joy certainly sparkled in the lover's eyes

as he once more held Marian to his heart, yet for many weeks he was

grave and sad, and only recovered his cheerfulness by degrees. Nor

indeed even then did Edward de Vaux ever resume the same demeanour

which he had formerly borne. Sorrows, anxieties, and humiliation had

rendered him grave; but they had nevertheless in no degree made him

less amiable in the eyes of those that loved him. On the contrary,

whatever had been frivolous, or fastidious, or irritable in his

nature, had been removed; and in the trials he had undergone he had

cast away the impatient pride, which was the worst quality he had

possessed, and had obtained a calm dignity, which had a better and a

nobler foundation. Marian de Vaux did all she could to sooth, to

comfort, and console him; and in the end, if there was anything on

earth of which he was proud, it was of the love and the conduct of her

he was shortly to call his bride. As soon as De Vaux urged the

fulfilment of the engagement between Marian and himself, he met with

no opposition; and the day was fixed. Manners was immediately informed

of the fact; and, according to the invitation he received, came down

to Morley House a fortnight before the time appointed for the

marriage. Even six or eight months will work their change in every

one; and Isadore Falkland remarked that Colonel Manners neither seemed

in such good health nor such good spirits as when last she had seen

him: but ere the ceremony took place, in the air of the country and

the cheerful society which he now enjoyed, he had recovered both; and

only now and then gave way to a moment or two of absent thought.

All was now gayety and cheerfulness: and as nothing occurred either to

delay the wedding again, or to imbitter the after lives of Edward and

Marian de Vaux, we shall pass the whole over with the fewest possible

words--they were united and were happy.

But one scene more, and we have done. On the day succeeding that of

the wedding, there was, according to the custom of that time, a grand

and solemn dinner given at Morley House to all the grave and reverend

seniors in the neighbourhood. It was now the height of summer; and

though men sat long and drank deep in those days, yet people who were

sufficiently reasonable to condemn the practice, and sufficiently firm

to contemn an idle sneer, could rise from table when they liked, even

then. Thus, about an hour after the ladies had retired, and just as

the sun's lower rim touched the horizon, Colonel Manners, who had been

strangling a whole generation of yawns, rose and sauntered to the

window. Mr. Arden, who had sat next to him, instantly seized the

decanter, and exclaimed, "Come, come, colonel; your glass is charged."

"Thank you," answered Manners; "I do not drink any more."

"Poo, poo," cried the magistrate; "no flinching, colonel; your glass

is charged--charged to the muzzle; and a gallant soldier like you will

never refuse to fire it off."

"I am on half-pay," answered Manners, with a smile; and moving towards

the door, notwithstanding all Mr. Arden's objurgations, he left the

room.

In the drawing-room he found the ladies scattered in various parties,

and engaged in various occupations. Mrs. Falkland was paying such

attention to her guests as the circumstances required; but Isadore, as

if she had quite forgotten them, was standing at the far bay window,

looking at the setting sun and thinking--

Manners advanced as quietly as possible to the same spot, and spoke a

few words to Miss Falkland, which she answered in the same tone. It

was a low one. The conversation might thus have gone on for a long

time without disturbing any one; but Lady Margaret Simpson, who sat at

the other side of the room, was fond of being a third; and in about

five minutes she crossed over and joined them.

"Well, Colonel Manners," she said, "I have not been able to speak a

word to you all dinner-time, and I wanted to talk to you about the

wedding. Has not this been a very fortunate termination to all that

bad business?"

"Most satisfactory, indeed," answered Manners, with a glance towards

Isadore, who looked vexed and provoked. "I doubt not that De Vaux and

his fair bride are fully of your opinion."

"Oh, they of course think so," rejoined Lady Margaret; "and there can

be no doubt that marriage is a very right and very proper thing, when

fortune, and rank, and all that agree. Do you not think so, my dear

Miss Falkland?"

"Certainly, madam," answered Isadore, in a tone which argued a doubt

whether she should laugh or cry; "I dare say it is a very proper

thing."

"Then now tell me," cried Lady Margaret, in a gay and happy tone of

raillery--"then now tell me, why you--who I know have had three very

good offers indeed--why you yourself do not marry? Tell me the truth,

now."

"Oh, certainly I will," answered Isadore, half gayly, half pettishly.

"It is, I suppose, because I do not think it worth while to marry

without love; and if the man that I could love does not choose to

propose to me, it is quite impossible, you know, that I can propose to

him."

God knows whether the colour that spread over Isadore's face came from

within or without,--whether it was a rush of warm blood from some deep

source in her heart, or the warm beams of the setting sun reflected

from the damask curtain on her cheek. However that might be, she felt

that the crimson was growing too deep, and turning round, upon some

light excuse, she left the room. Manners remained for a moment or two

to hear some more of her ladyship's pleasantries; and then declaring

that he could not abandon, even for the pleasure of her society, his

sunset walk in the garden, he strolled out through the anteroom, which

was not the way that Isadore had taken. When he reached the lobby,

however, he remembered that there was a certain music-room, of which

he had remarked that Isadore Falkland had lately become extremely

fond, and as he had by this time acquired a strong liking for the

things that she liked, he turned his steps thither instead of to the

garden.

No sooner did he open the door, than he beheld Miss Falkland seated

near the window, with a handkerchief in her hand, engaged in the

somewhat sad occupation of wiping tears from her eyes. "Good God,

Colonel Manners!" she exclaimed, as soon as he appeared, "leave me,

leave me, I beg."

But Manners did not obey. On the contrary, advancing rapidly towards

her, he took her hand, saying, "Miss Falkland, I am either the most

happy or the most miserable of men. I have broken through all my

resolutions; I have exposed myself to love, where I have no right to

entertain a hope; I love for the first time, deeply, passionately,

sincerely, and it is for you to say whether that passion shall be my

curse or my blessing."

Isadore replied not, but her tears burst forth more vehemently than

before; and the hand that Manners had taken remained trembling in his.

Manners pressed her to his heart; and Isadore ended her flood of tears

upon his bosom.

It was nearly three months after this event ere Isadore Falkland again

met Lady Margaret Simpson; and then her ladyship's first exclamation

was, "Goodness, my dear Miss Falkland, they tell me you are going to

be married to Colonel Manners! Well, I do declare, when you are so

very handsome, it is a great pity that he is so ugly."

"Ugly!" cried Isadore. "Ugly! Lady Margaret! He is the handsomest man

in all the world!" and she continued to think so to her dying day.

THE END.