"There now, my good woman, you have hugged the boy enough," said Mr.
Woodyard; "you have kissed my hand, and the young man's; and the next
thing is to put the child to bed, and keep him there for the next
three days. I will see that he is taken care of; but mind you don't
give him any of your neighbours' hens, or hares, or partridges; not
because he or his stomach would care a straw whether they were stolen
or not; but because he must not eat animal food, however it is come
by."
"Mayn't I take him up to my own people?" asked the woman, with an
anxious look.
"Why! you lawless baggage, would you kill the child?" exclaimed the
surgeon, fiercely. "I tell you that he has been tossed by a bull, had
a severe shock to his whole system, has got his shoulder dislocated,
requires perfect quiet and careful attendance, cool food, and an
equable temperature, to prevent inflammation; and you talk of taking
him up to a set of jolly beggars, in rotten tents, to sleep upon the
ground, drink gin, and be stuffed with stolen poultry. You must be mad
to think of such a thing; or not his mother at all; which I have a
notion is the case, for he's as white as you are dingy."
The woman looked at him gravely for a moment, and shook her head with
a gesture of deep feeling, saying, as she laid her hand upon her
heart, "It matters little what you think; I feel that I am his mother.
But will the gentlefolks let him bide here?"
"Here come some of them, and they can answer for themselves," answered
the surgeon, pointing to the cottage window, before which General
Tracy and his eldest niece were passing, on their way to the door.
"Well, Doctor, what is the state of the case?" asked the old officer,
as he came in; "how is the poor boy?"
"A dislocated shoulder and a good shake," replied the surgeon,
abruptly; "only a proper punishment for a mite like that trying to
frighten a bull from goring an obstinate old man, who will go through
a field where an animal known to be vicious is roaming at large. I
hope, with all my heart, that some of your bones are broken."
"Your hopes are vain, Doctor," said Walter Tracy: "all my bones are as
sound as ever they were: only a little soreness of my back, where the
cursed beast struck me."
"Ay, you will have lumbar abscess," said the surgeon; "and a good
thing too. But the imp must be put to bed. Here is his yellow-faced
mother wants to carry him off to her filthy tents, where he would be
dead in three days."
"That must not be," said General Tracy. "So you are his mother, my
good woman. I am glad you have come down, for I want to speak with
you."
"Let the boy be put to bed first, before you begin gossiping," cried
Mr. Woodyard; "you can say all you have to say after. Here, young man,
take his things off; though there is not much to take. His trousers
and shoes are all that is needful; for as to a shirt, there is none to
dispose of."
"Well, what of that?" cried the gipsey woman, sharply. "I suppose you
had not a shirt on when you were born."
"No, indeed," answered Mr. Woodyard, gravely. "What you say is very
true. Naked we came into the world, and naked shall we go out of it;
so that it does not much matter whether we have shirts on while we are
here or not. Nevertheless, I will send him up something of the kind
from our school in the village; for I have somehow a notion, perhaps
erroneous, that he will be more comfortable when he has got some clean
calico about him."
"I don't think it," replied his mother; "he never had such a thing in
his life."
"Well, we'll try it, at all events," returned Mr. Woodyard. "But now
let us have quiet, and obey orders."
The boy was accordingly undressed, and placed in the gardener's bed;
and then, while the surgeon looked him all over, to ascertain that
there was no other injury, General Tracy took the gipsey woman to the
door of the cottage, and spoke to her for several minutes in a low
tone. His words brought the tears into her eyes, and the nature of
them may be derived from her reply.
"God bless you, gentleman," she said. "I dare say, to be rich, and
well brought up, and sleep in houses, and all that, is very nice when
one is accustomed to it, and better than our way of doing; but for my
part I should not half like it for myself. It is very kind of you,
however; and as to the boy, I suppose it is for his good. But I can't
part with him altogether. I must see him when I like. And if after he
has tried both, he likes our sort of life better than yours, he must
come away with me."
"Let him give it a fair trial, though," said General Tracy. "He is a
brave little fellow, with a heart like a lion. I look upon it that in
reality he saved my life; for if the bull had not run at him, it would
have gored me as I lay; and therefore I wish to do for him what I can.
He shall have a fair education, if you leave him with me; and I will
at once settle upon him what will put him above want. Of course, I
never think of preventing you from seeing your own child; but you must
promise me not to try to persuade him that your wandering life is
better than that which he will have an opportunity of following. Deal
fairly with the boy; let him judge for himself, and pursue his own
inclinations."
"That I will promise," answered the woman, in a decided tone; "for
what will make him happiest, will make me happiest."
"Then go at once and talk to his father about it," continued General
Tracy; "let him promise the same thing, and all the rest will soon be
settled."
"His father!" said the woman, with a sad and bitter laugh. "I wonder
where I should find his father? No, no, gentleman, there is no one to
be talked to about it but myself, Sally Stanley. He has never known
what it is to have a father, and his mother has been all to him."
When, after a few more words, they went back into the cottage again,
they found Emily Tracy sitting by the boy's bedside, and holding his
hand in hers, with the little face turned sparkling up to her
beautiful countenance, while with a smile at his eagerness she told
him some childish story, to engage his attention during the time that
Mr. Woodyard was employed in examining his spine. The gipsey woman
gazed at the two for a moment in silence; then, creeping up to the
young lady's side, she knelt down, and, with her favourite mode of
expressing thankfulness, kissed her hand. "I am sorry I said what I
did this morning," she whispered. "May God avert it!"
Emily started, and gazed on her earnestly. She had not suffered the
woman's angry words of the morning to weigh upon her mind in the
least. She had regarded them merely as a burst of impotent rage, and
never fancied that Sally Stanley had attached any importance to them
herself. But what she now said had a totally different effect. Emily
saw by her look and manner that the woman really believed in the dark
prophecy she had uttered; and there is something in strong conviction
which carries weight with it to others, as well as to those who feel
it. Emily was troubled, and for an instant did not reply. At length
she said, sweetly, "Never mind, my good woman. Forget it, as I shall
do. But do not give way to anger again towards those who have no
intention of offending you. I trust your little boy will soon be well;
and I am sure my uncle will reward him for so bravely seeking to
defend him at the risk of his own life."
"God bless you, and him too!" said the gipsey woman. "There is no fear
of my boy. He will do well enough. I knew he would meet with some harm
when he went out in the morning; but I knew too that it would not be
death, and would end in his good. So I only warned him to be careful,
and let him go."
All the woman's words were painful to Emily Tracy; for there is a germ
of superstition in every heart; and, in spite of good sense and every
effort of reason, a dull sort of apprehension sprang up in her bosom
regarding the bitter announcement which had been made as to her future
fate. Its very improbability--its want of all likelihood in her
station and position, seemed but to render more strange the woman's
evident belief that such an event as her marriage with a felon would
actually take place. That the very idea should enter into her mind had
something of the marvellous in it, and easily excited those feelings
of wonder which are strongly akin to superstition.
Emily did not like to let her thoughts dwell upon the subject; and
after telling her tale out to the boy, and making some arrangements
with the housekeeper, who came down at the moment, so as to ensure
that the little fellow should have the attendance of some woman, she
thanked Chandos in graceful terms for the gallant assistance he had
rendered in the morning, and proposed to her uncle that they should
return home.
Emily remained grave and thoughtful, however, during the whole day,
and Rose was also very much less gay than ordinary; so that when Mr.
Tracy, who had been out all the morning on business, returned towards
dinner time, he found the party who had left him a few hours before as
cheerful as a mountain stream, more dull than perhaps he had ever seen
it.
Before dinner but little time was given for narrative, and at dinner a
guest was added to the party who has been mentioned incidentally once
before. This was the young clergyman of Northferry, a man of about
eight and twenty years of age, but who had been the incumbent of the
parish only three or four months. Mr. Fleming was always a welcome
visitor at Mr. Tracy's house, it must be said to all parties. It was
not indeed because he was Honourable as well as Reverend; but because
few men were better calculated to win regard as well as esteem.
Handsome in person, there was a sort of harmony in his calling, his
manners, and his appearance, which was wonderfully pleasing. Mild and
engaging in demeanour, he was cheerful, though not perhaps gay; never
checking mirth in others, though giving but moderate way to it
himself. Yet his conversation, though quiet and calm, was so rich with
the stores of thought, that it was brilliant without effort, and light
even in its seriousness. Perhaps no man was ever so well fitted for
the profession which he had chosen; but I must not be mistaken, I mean
well fitted both as regarded his own destiny and that of others. In
the first place he loved it, and in the next he estimated it justly.
He was an aristocrat by family and by conviction; and he regarded an
hierarchy in the church as the only means of maintaining order and
discipline therein, of stimulating to high exertion every member, and
checking every tendency to neglect or misconduct. He had not the
slightest touch of the democratic tendencies usually attributed to
what is called the low church, but yet he had neither pride with him
nor ambition. He was perfectly contented with a small rectory of four
hundred a-year, with a congregation generally poor, and no prospect
either of display or advancement. His private fortune was sufficient,
not large; but it was enough with his stipend to maintain him in the
rank in which he was born, and he asked no more. Had a bishopric been
offered to him, he would certainly have refused it. In the next place
he had little vanity, and detested eloquent sermons. He sought to
convince and instruct, and belaboured night and day to qualify himself
for those tasks; but his language was as simple as his mind. If a
figure would now and then find place, it was because it sprung
naturally from a rich imagination, and was so clear, so forcible, so
just, that, like the rest of his discourses, there was no mistaking in
the least what he advanced. He never tried to enlist the fancy, and
seldom to engage the feelings of his hearers on his side. The latter
he regarded as engines, to be used only on great occasions, in order
to carry convictions into active effect; and he spared them purposely,
feeling that he had within the power of rousing them when it might be
necessary, and could do so more surely by rousing them rarely. Then he
was a charitable man in the enlarged, but not the licentious sense of
the word. He had vast toleration for the opinions of others, though he
was firm and steadfast in the support of his own. Thus anger at false
views never even in the least degree came to diminish the efficacy of
his support of just ones. He fearlessly stated, fearlessly defended
his own principles, but never disputed, and was silent as soon as a
quibble or a jest took the place of argument. There was moreover a
truth, a sincerity, an uprightness in his whole dealings and his whole
demeanour, which had a powerful influence upon all who knew him. To
every man but the most vain it became a natural question--"If one so
vigorous in mind, so learned, and so wise, is thus deeply impressed
with the truth of opinions different to my own, is there not good
cause for re-examining the grounds of those I entertain?" And thus his
arguments obtained more fair consideration than vanity generally
allows to the views of those who oppose us.
Even General Tracy, who differed with him profoundly, always listened
with respect, seldom indeed entered into discussion with him, and
never disputed. Not that he altogether feared the combat, for such was
not the case; nor that he was convinced entirely, for he still held
out on many points; but because he was thoroughly impressed with a
belief of his young friend's reasonable sincerity, and reverenced it.
Besides, General Tracy was a gentleman; and no gentleman ever, without
a worthy object, assails opinions which another is professionally
bound to sustain.
Such was the guest then at Mr. Tracy's dinner table; and there, as
soon as the first sharp edge of appetite was taken off, the adventures
of the morning were once more spoken of, and General Tracy, in a
strain half serious, half playful, recounted the dangers which he and
his nieces had encountered. The young clergyman's eyes instantly
sought the face of Emily Tracy with a look of anxiety. He did not look
to Rose also, which was not altogether right perhaps; at all events,
not altogether equitable, for both had run the same risk.
"Well," continued Walter Tracy, "Emily ran and Rose ran; but I thought
it beyond the dignity of my profession to run before a single enemy,
though he was defended by a horn-work--perhaps lumbago had to do with
it as well as dignity, if the truth must be told. But our worthy
friend soon applied a cataplasm to my lumbago more effectual than any
of Sandy Woodyard's; for in two minutes I was sprawling. Master Bull
then thought he might as well take room for a rush, and ran back five
or six steps to gore me the more vigorously; when suddenly a new
combatant appeared in the field, in the shape of a little urchin, not
so high as my hip, who made at the enemy with all sorts of shrieks and
screams, so that if the beast did not think it was the devil come to
my rescue, I did. But the poor boy fared ill for his pains; for just
as I was scrambling up, I saw something in the air, small and black,
with a great many legs and arms flying about in all directions, just
like a spider in a web between two cabbages; and down came the poor
child, with a fall which I thought must have dashed his brains out."
"Good Heaven!" cried Mr. Tracy, "was he hurt? Was he not killed?"
"Hurt, he certainly was," answered his brother; "and killed most
likely, both he and I would have been, but--as in the story of
Camaralzaman, which some heathen of the present day has changed into
Kummer al Zemaun, or some other horrible name, violating all the
associations of our childhood, the true temple of Cybele to the
heart--no sooner was one army disposed of than another appeared. Up
ran a man with a stick in his hand, a stout, tall, powerful country
fellow, in a fustian jacket; (Rose held down her head and smiled,
without any one remarking her;) and, seizing our friend the bull by
the tail, thrashed him for some five minutes in a most scientific
manner. He must have been used to belabouring bulls all his life, like
a Spanish _matador_; for nothing but long practice would have made him
so proficient in an art not very easy to exercise. Rose, my flower,
what are you laughing at?"
"I think it was enough to make any one laugh," answered Rose, "to see
how foolish the representative of our nation looked while he was
receiving such a cudgelling. I was too frightened to laugh then, my
dear uncle; but here, by the side of this table, I can enjoy the joke
at my ease."
"It was no joke then, indeed," said General Tracy; "for it was a
matter of life and death between the brave lad and the bull. He had no
resource in the end, however, but to hamstring him, which he also did
most scientifically; and I believe that more than one of us has to
thank him for being here at this moment. It turned out that the man
was your new gardener, Arthur; and we must really see what can be done
for him. As to the gallant little gipsey boy, I have taken care of him
myself, and will provide for him."
This last announcement roused curiosity, and brought on explanations,
in the course of which a good deal of what has been already told was
detailed, with several other particulars which have not seemed
necessary to relate.
"And did the woman really seem doubtful as to whether she should
accept your offer or not?" asked Mr. Tracy.
"Yes, she did," replied his brother. "And I am not quite sure that she
was not in the right. It is a very moot point with me, brother Arthur,
whether civilization tends to the happiness of the individual,
whatever it may do for society in general. When I offered what I did,
I thought, not that I was doing the boy a favour, for a man never does
another a favour; but that I was showing my gratitude for his
self-devotion and the real service he had rendered me, when I proposed
to put him in a position which I myself from my prejudices valued; but
when I came to consider the woman's doubts, I began to inquire, and to
doubt also, whether he would be happier in the one state than the
other."
"You proposed to give him a good education," said the young clergyman;
"and if you did so, he would assuredly be happier; for he would be
wiser and better."
"And yet, 'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise,'" replied
General Tracy.
"Ignorance of evil, granted," answered Fleming. "But could that be
assured to him in the life he was likely to lead? Can it be assured to
any man in any course? I think not."
"Perhaps not," answered Walter Tracy; "but yet I have many doubts, my
young friend, whether the amount of evils of any kind is greater or
less (to the individual) in a civilized or uncivilized state of
society. These gipsies, were it not their misfortune to be placed
amongst nations in a different condition to themselves, would be one
of the happiest races on the face of the earth. Nomadic from their
very origin, they would wander about hither and thither, feeding their
sheep, or their cattle, or their horses, and pilfering a little. I
dare say, from their neighbours, if they had any; but where the rights
of property are very ill defined, a little pilfering is not very evil
in its consequences; and with a thin population there is no
opportunity of carrying it on to a great extent. Besides, I believe,
that almost all the bad qualities of the gipsey proceed from his
position. His hand is against every man's, because every man's hand is
against him. He is a wanderer amongst settled tribes; a stern adherer
to his ancient forms, amongst a people whose only constancy is that of
a cat to the house in which it is kittened; a despiser of the
civilization which, as he has constant proof before his eyes, does not
make those who are blessed (or cursed) with it a bit more wise, merry,
or virtuous than himself. It is very natural, therefore, that he
should despise the institutions and dislike the men, amongst whom he
is so located only for a short time. For my part, I only think it
wonderful, that these good people do not commit more crimes than they
do; and that our purses and our lives are not taken, instead of our
poultry, and the lives of our ducks and geese. I begin almost to think
it a sin and a shame to withdraw that bold boy from his freedom
amongst hedges and ditches, to poke him into a dull, fusty school; and
to cut him off from those blessings, of which he has learned the value
and tasted the enjoyment."
Mr. Fleming smiled. "If the mother were really doubtful," he said, "it
would be very easy for you, my dear Sir, to remedy the error you
regret. But I cannot help thinking, that for the sake of the jest, you
are taking a much narrower view of such questions than your mind would
otherwise lead you to. You seem, General, to consider the individual
as only born for the individual. But let me ask you, Is he not placed
here for much more than that? I would not push my notion, on the
subject to any of the extreme lengths which some of the gentlemen who
have called themselves philosophers have done. I do not look upon man
merely as a part of a great machine, one of the wheels or pulleys, or
cogs, of the instrument called society, and that he is bound to
regulate all his thoughts, feelings, and actions by one precise rule,
for the benefit of the country in which he lives, or even for the more
extended fellowship called society. There is a certain degree of
individual liberty, surely, due to all men; and, to a certain point,
they have a right to consult their own happiness, even by indulging
their whims and caprices, provided they are not detrimental to others.
The Spartan code and the Prussian system to me both equally tending to
take from man many of his highest qualities and rights; but still, to
a certain degree, man is bound to his fellow-man, as well as to God. I
say, _as well as to God_, because I know that there are some persons
who may not see that the one duty is a consequence of the other. But I
fear I am preaching out of the pulpit," he continued, with a laugh;
"and I must be forgiven as for an infirmity. The habit of preaching, I
fear, is a very encroaching one, which, with the authority that the
calling of teacher gives, renders many of us somewhat domineering in
society."
"No one can say that of you," answered Walter Tracy, "But I must
defend myself. I was certainly speaking of the boy's individual
happiness, not of his duty to society."
"Can the two be separated?" asked Horace Fleming, in a thoughtful
tone. "I have always myself considered that the greatest amount of
happiness on earth, is only to be obtained by the performance of all
duties. I should be sorry to part with that conviction."
"I doubt not it is just," answered General Tracy gravely; "and I would
not seek to take it from you even if I did; for it is a pleasant one,
and a most useful one. But I will only remark in passing, that the
most difficult of all points in ethics, is to define what duties are.
So many of those things that we call duties are but conventional
opinions, that I fear a rigid scrutator of the world's code of
obligations would soon strip moral philosophy very bare. As to society
itself, its rules are very much like the common law of England; a code
of maxims accumulated during centuries, by different races, and under
different circumstances, often contradictory, often absurd,
continually cruel, frequently unjust and iniquitous in practice, even
when theoretically right, and yet cried up by those who gain by them
as the perfection of human wisdom, to which all men must submit their
acts, and most men do submit their reason. Of one thing I am very
certain, that the aims and objects of society at present, the
tendencies which it encourages, and the rewards which it holds out,
are all opposed most strongly not only to that end which it professes
to seek, but to that religion the excellence of which you are not one
to deny--nor I either, be it remarked. Its tendencies, I contend, are
anything but 'to produce the greatest amount of good to the greatest
number,' which philosophers declare to be its object; its result is
anything but to produce 'peace and goodwill amongst men,' which is the
grand purpose of the Christian religion."
Mr. Fleming was silent; for he felt that, though he differed in some
degree, there was a certain amount of truth in the assertion. But Mr.
Tracy exclaimed, "I do not understand you, Walter. In what respect
does society so terribly fail?"
"In a thousand," answered General Tracy, abruptly.
"But an instance, but an instance," said his brother.
"Look around," replied the other; "do you not see, wherever you turn,
even in this very land of ours, which is not the worst country in the
world, that wealth gives undue power? that it is not the man who
labours in any trade who gains the reward of industry? that the
produce of labour is not fairly divided between the labourer and the
wealthy man who employs him? that the laws which regulate that
division are framed by the wealthy? and that an inordinate authority
has fallen into the hands of riches, which keeps the poor man from his
rights, drowns his voice in the senate, frustrates his efforts in the
market, defeats his resistance to oppression, whether it take a lawful
or unlawful form?"
"Pooh, pooh, Walter," replied Mr. Tracy; "this is all an affair of
legislation and political economy, and has nothing to do with
society."
"All laws spring from the state of society in which they are formed,
brother," replied Walter Tracy; "and political economy is but the
theory of certain dealings between man and man. But that society must
be a fearful and iniquitous conspiracy where a few are rolling in
riches, living in luxury, and rioting in idle wantonness, upon the
produce of other men's labour who are suffering all the ills of
extreme poverty, if not actually perishing for want. It is a gross and
terrible anomaly, brother Arthur, to see the great mass of a people
nearly destitute; to see many even dying of starvation; to see the
honest and the industrious man unable, by the devotion of his whole
time, and the exertion of all his energies, to obtain sufficient food
for his family;--and yet to see enormous wealth, which, if the fruits
of labour were fairly divided, would feed whole provinces of artizans,
accumulating in the hands of a few men supported entirely by the
labour of others. It is, I say, a gross and terrible anomaly; and it
will bring its curse sooner or later."
"But you surely would not advocate an agrarian law," said Mr. Fleming.
"That chimera has been slain a thousand times."
"Far from it!" exclaimed the old officer. "I would touch none of what
are called the rights of property; but I would drive to the winds that
most absurd of all false pretences, invented by the rich for the
purpose of oppressing the poor; namely, that it is wrong and dangerous
to interfere between master and workman. I contend, that instead of
wrong and dangerous, it is right and safe; it is just and necessary.
It is right to defend the weak against the strong; it is safe to
ensure that despair does not give overwhelming vigour to the weak. But
the question is not, what I would do. I was asked for an instance of
the evils of the society in which we live. I have given you one,
Arthur; but if that does not suit you, I could give a thousand others.
I could show how that society, of which you are so fond, is wicked and
iniquitous in every different direction, towards the rich as well as
the poor; how it encourages vice and depresses virtue; how it leagues
with crime and scouts honesty. I could point to the same course
pursued towards man, and more especially towards woman."
"Let us run away, dear uncle," cried Rose, "before we are brought upon
the carpet. I am of an excessively rebellious disposition, as you well
know; and I am afraid if I hear any more of such doctrines, I shall
revolt against the powers that be."
"The revolt of the roses!" cried her uncle, laughing; and very glad to
change the subject, though it was a hobby. "Heaven forbid such a
catastrophe amongst the flowers! But who would you revolt against, my
Rose? Against the gardener, eh?" and he looked shrewdly from her to
Emily, who smiled also. Rose coloured more than the occasion seemed to
warrant; but Mr. Tracy, who was not in the secret of the gipsey's
prophecy, joined in with high praises of his new gardener's science
and taste.
"He is a stout, good-looking, courageous fellow, as ever lived," said
General Tracy. "Pray, where did you pick him up, Arthur? He is not
from this part of the country, I should imagine, by his tone and
manners; for we are not the most polished, either in demeanour or
language."
"He came to apply this morning," answered Mr. Tracy; "and brought high
testimonials both of skill and character, from Roberts, the steward of
Sir Harry Winslow, who is dead, you know. I suppose he has served over
at Elmsly Park, though I never thought of inquiring; for I was so much
pleased with him, in every respect, that I engaged him at once."
"Upon my word, things are going on very favourably, Rose," whispered
General Tracy to his niece, in good-humoured malice. "Few sons-in-law
are received with such prepossessions." But he suddenly perceived that
Rose's fair face bore a look of much distress, and stopped at once in
his career of raillery, though not without some surprise.
A pause ensued, only interrupted by Mr. Tracy drinking wine with the
young clergyman, and a few quiet words between Fleming and Emily; and
then Rose Tracy asked, with a sort of effort, "How long has Sir Harry
Winslow been dead, papa?"
"I only heard of it yesterday," replied Mr. Tracy. "The funeral is to
take place the day after to-morrow, I hear."
"He was a very singular man, was he not?" inquired the young lady.
"Very," answered her father, laconically; "and by no means a good one.
I knew little of him, never having met him but twice, and then on
county business. But his haughtiness was insufferable, and his manners
like ice."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Fleming, "he knew that he was not liked or
respected. For I have often remarked that men who have placed
themselves in a position which prevents others from desiring their
society, affect to reject that which they cannot obtain."
"The fox and the grapes," said Emily, with a smile.
"As old as Æsop!" remarked her uncle; and there the conversation on
that head dropped. Soon after, the dinner came to an end, and the
whole party returned to the drawing-room. Mr. Fleming asked Emily to
sing, and seemed delighted with the sound of her voice. General Tracy
sat beside Rose and teazed her; but not about the gardener any more.
And Rose, after having been very thoughtful for some time, suddenly
resumed all her good spirits, sung with her sister, laughed with her
uncle, played a game at chess with her father, and was beat with
perfect good humour. But on the following morning when General Tracy
asked her, before breakfast, to go down with him to the cottage to see
the gipsey boy, she at first made some objection. They were alone. "My
dear Rose," said her uncle, "this is nonsense. You do not suppose for
one moment, that though I might joke you on that silly woman's
prophecy, I could think it would have the least effect upon your
mind."
"Oh dear, no!" answered Rose, "I am not so foolish as that, dear
uncle; and if it will give you any pleasure, I will go. But the
gardener has nothing to do with it," she added with a gay smile; "for
I happen to know he is not there, and does not take possession for
some days. My maid told me so this morning, without my asking any
questions; so your wicked smile has no point:" and away they went to
the cottage.