CHAPTER XIII.

It is a wonder that man ever smiles; for there is something so strange and awful in the hourly uncertainty of our fate--in the atmosphere of darkness and insecurity that surrounds our existence--in the troops of dangers to our peace and to our being that ride invisible upon every moment as it flies--that man is, as it were, like a blind man in the front of a great battle, where his hopes and his joys are being swept down on every side, and in which his own existence must terminate at length, in some undefined hour, and some unknown manner--and yet he smiles as if he were at a pageant!

Were his smile the smile of faith and confidence in the great, good Being who sees the struggle and prepares the reward, he might smile unshaken indeed; but, alas, alas! is it so? I fear but seldom.

There are few things on earth more melancholy than when one is burdened with some evil news to see those whom it is destined to plunge into grief full of gay life and happiness, enjoying the bright moments as if there were nothing but pleasure in the world. There is something awful in it! It brings home to our own hearts the fearful fact that, at the very instant when we are at the height of joy, some remote, unseen, unknown, unexpected agents may be performing acts destined to blast our happiness for ever. There is something mysterious in it, too; for it shows us that at the very moment when our state is in reality the most miserable upon earth, we are often giving ourselves up to the most wild and rapturous gayety, solely because some other tongue has not spoken in our ear a few conventional sounds which the inhabitant of another land would not understand, but which, as soon as they are spoken, plunge us from the height of joy down into the depth of despair.

On the third morning of Colonel Manners's stay at Morley House, and on which he expected letters that would give him a fair excuse for abridging his visit, he rose as early, but came down somewhat later than usual. He still, however, expected to find himself earlier than the rest of the family; but on passing the music-room, the door of which was ajar, he heard the notes of a harpsichord--the solace and delight of our worthy ancestors--mingling with some gay voices talking; and, taking the prescriptive right of opening quite all half-opened doors, he walked in, and found Miss Falkland at the instrument, speaking cheerfully, over her shoulder, to Miss De Vaux, who stood behind.

A slight complaining cry on the part of the lazy hinges made both ladies turn their eyes towards it; and Isadore smiled as she did so, while a faint colour spread itself deepening over Marian's soft cheek--perhaps she might expect to see some one else than Colonel Manners, and be just sufficiently disappointed to say something civil and kind to him on his entrance, as a sort of compensation for the bad compliment she paid him at the bottom of her heart.

"Isadore was just talking of you, Colonel Manners," she said, looking towards her cousin, as if leaving her to explain in what manner.

"There is a proverb to that effect, madam," replied Manners, smiling; "but I am always glad to find myself subject of discourse to those I esteem, if the matter be not censure at least. May I be let into the secret?"

"Oh, beyond all doubt," replied Isadore. "The fact is, De Vaux betrayed you last night, Colonel Manners; and told me, without even binding me to secrecy, that you sing remarkably well."

"He did me injustice, I assure you," replied Manners; "but if that be 'the head and front of my offence,' I can prove myself innocent of singing remarkably well at any time you like."

"No time like the present, Colonel Manners," said Isadore. "It wants full half an hour to breakfast, and there is nothing on earth so painful as to live in long-drawn expectation of such things. Will you sing, Colonel Manners?"

"I believe," he replied, "that there is some superstitious penalty attached to singing before breakfast; but nevertheless I will dare the adventure if you have any music that I know, for the sin of accompanying myself I commit not."

"Do you know that?" asked Miss Falkland; "or that! or that?"

"No, indeed," answered Colonel Manners; "but I know the air of this one, and have sung it more than once to different words, the composition of a lady possessing no small poetical powers. I will try to recollect them now; though, to speak the truth, it is doing some injustice to the lines to take them from the drama for which they were designed, and apply them to an old song."

"Oh, never mind; we will make all due allowances," replied Miss Falkland; "am I to accompany you, or Marian!--Oh, very well, with all my heart! Is it to be the time of a monody or a jig?"

"Not too fast, if you please," replied Colonel Manners; and Miss Falkland accompanying him, he sang the following lines to an air, which was then not very new, but which is now in all probability lost to posterity.

SONG.

"I do not think I could have resisted those verses well sung," cried Isadore, smiling as he concluded, if I had been the most disdainful beauty that ever carried a hawk upon her glove in the days of old. "What do you say, Marian?"

"I do not know how far my powers of resistance might go," answered Marian de Vaux, "but I should very much like to hear the rest of the story. You say that it is in a drama, Colonel Manners, I think; pray, can it be procured?"

"I am afraid not," answered Manners: "it is the writing of a lady, and has never been given to the world; at least, as far as I know."

"But at all events tell us the fate of the lover," exclaimed Isadore; "that you are bound to do in common charity, after having excited our curiosity."

"Oh, he is made happy, of course," he replied, "as all lovers are, or should be."

"Say true lovers, if you please, Colonel Manners," cried Isadore, "and then I will agree; but if a woman were to make happy, as you gentlemen call it before you are married, every impertinent personage who comes up, and making you a low bow, with his hat under his arm, asks you, 'Pray, madam, will you marry me?' as if he were asking you merely to walk a minuet, she would have enough to do, I can assure you."

"I can easily conceive it," answered Manners, laughing; "but what a clamorous summons that bell makes! pray does it ring for breakfast every morning? I did not near it yesterday."

"That was because you were out having your fortune told when it rang, Colonel Manners," replied Miss Falkland; "but it rings every morning at this hour, and if Mrs. Falkland is not down, it falls to my lot to make the tea. Wherefore I must now remove to the breakfast-room."

Thus saying, she led the way, while her cousin and Colonel Manners followed; and the hot and shining urn having taken its wonted place, she proceeded with the breakfast arrangements, while the butler bustled about, first at the sideboard, and then at the table, looking ever and anon at the two young ladies, and then at Colonel Manners, and then at the fire-place, till, having nothing further to do, he was obliged to retire.

"Gibson looks as if he had some vast secret upon his mind," said Isadore, speaking to her cousin; "did you see, Marian, how he moved about? You must know, Colonel Manners, that that old gentleman is a very privileged person in our family, and often condescends to pour forth the secrets of the village upon us, in despite of all our struggles and reluctance."

"I am sorry he did not gratify himself this morning," said Manners: "there are few things more delightful than a village story well told."

"You were the great obstacle, I am afraid," replied Miss Falkland: "he has his own peculiar notions of decorum, and a visiter is pretty sure of reverence; but I do believe, from his extreme alacrity this morning, that he would have even disregarded your presence had a single word been said to him. But I did not choose to gratify him even by a word; for I knew if I had but said, 'Gibson, bring more butter,' he would instantly have burst forth with, 'Yes, miss, I'll tell you all about it. The park-keeper's daughter's husband's sister--' and so he would have gone on for an hour."

Colonel Manners could not help laughing, and even Marian smiled at the manner in which her gay cousin imitated the old man's prolixity; but at the same time there was an expression of anxiety on Miss De Vaux's countenance which nothing but the presence of Edward de Vaux could have done away. He had not yet come down, however, and the next person who entered was Mrs. Falkland, whose first observation, after the common salutations of the morning, was, "Why--is not Edward down? surely he has not grown a sluggard in the wars!"

"Oh no, my dear aunt," replied Marian; "I dare say he was down before we were up, for he told me last night that he was going out early this morning, but would be back to breakfast."

The old butler was just at that moment entering with a partridge pie; and halting in the midst, he exclaimed, "No, indeed, Miss Marian; no, indeed! Master Edward has not come down, because he has never been up."

"Never been up!" said Mrs. Falkland, mistaking the man's meaning; "then you had better send up his servant to wake him, Gibson. But why are you so pale, Marian? what is the matter?"

"Oh, that is not it at all, ma'am," replied the butler, taking upon himself to answer for all parties. "Mr. De Vaux has never been in bed last night, ma'am. His servant told me so this minute. There is the bed turned down, says he, just as the housemaid left it, and his slippers standing by the great chair, and his hat, and sword, and riding-coat gone."

"Nay, Marian, do not look so alarmed," said Isadore, laying her hand affectionately upon that of her cousin. "This will prove all airy nothing, depend upon it; but you had better come away with me, love, and leave mamma and Colonel Manners to sift it; for you will only agitate yourself more than is at all necessary by listening to the miraculous conjectures of every different servant in the house."

"No, no; I would a great deal rather hear all, Isadore," answered Marian, in her usual calm tone, though the excessive paleness which had spread over her countenance evinced clearly enough that her heart was any thing but at ease. "You had better send for Edward's servant, my dear aunt."

Her suggestion was instantly followed, and De Vaux's servant, who had been an old soldier, entered the room, and stood at ease before the party assembled round the breakfast-table.

"Colonel Manners, will you be so kind"--said Mrs. Falkland.

"Most certainly, my dear madam," replied Manners, understanding her meaning as well as if she had expressed it. "When did you see your master last, William?"

"Last night, sir, at twenty minutes to twelve," said the man. "Did he seem as if he were about to go to bed?" demanded Manners.

"No, sir," replied the servant. "He made me give him his dressing-gown and slippers, but told me not to wait, for that he had a great deal to write before he could go to bed."

Marian's face cleared up a little, for she was glad to imagine that De Vaux might have sat up writing on all the many subjects which she knew occupied his mind till daylight had appeared, and might then have set out at once for the gipsy encampment; but Colonel Manners proceeded:--"Do you know at what time any of the other servants were up?"

"The groom and I were up at five, sir," replied the man, "and it was just dawning then; but as we went along the corridor I saw my master's door ajar, and thinking I must have left it so by carelessness, I just pulled it gently to."

"Were all the horses in the stable?" asked Colonel Manners.

"All, sir," answered the servant.

"And now, William, in what state did you find your master's room?" demanded Mrs. Falkland.

"Why, madam, I found that nobody had been in bed, clearly enough," replied the man; "and I found, too, that Captain De Vaux had put off his dressing-gown and slippers, and put on his riding-coat and boots; and I remarked, also, that the curtains of one of the windows were undrawn, and the window itself open."

"Oh, then, I dare say he went out after daylight," said Colonel Manners, "and will soon be back. Shall we ask him any thing further, my dear madam?"

Mrs. Falkland had nothing more to inquire, and the man was dismissed.

"It is as well," said Manners, who knew that De Vaux was the man of all others to be very much mortified, if he came back and found that his absence had been made unnecessarily a nine-day's wonder of--"it is as well to treat this business as quietly as possible, though, I confess, it does seem to me strange that De Vaux should go out so early, so very early, as to be seen by none of the servants, and also should never have gone to bed; but I think Miss De Vaux said just now that he mentioned his intention of going out very early."

"I did so," replied Marian, colouring slightly, from a feeling of embarrassment, in regard to disclosing any part of all that her cousin had confided to her, and yet painfully anxious on his account. "He intended to go to speak with somebody, who gave you, I think, a letter for him yesterday, Colonel Manners."

Manners was not a little anxious for his friend also; but he saw Marian's still deeper anxiety, and he strove tenderly to avoid giving her greater pain than necessary, while he yet continued to investigate the cause of her lover's absence. "Oh, if he be gone to that person who gave me the letter," he said, "De Vaux is safe enough; but, perhaps, he may not be back for an hour or two, as it is a long way, and they may have much to speak of; but yet, Mrs. Falkland, I should like, if you could make an excuse for sending for the housemaid who usually washes the stone steps, to ask her one or two questions."

"Certainly," answered Mrs. Falkland. "If you will ring the bell, I will find some excuse."

The housemaid was accordingly sent for; and holding fast either corner of her apron, presented herself before the company in the breakfast-room. Mrs. Falkland then asked her one or two questions of no particular moment, and Colonel Manners next demanded, somewhat to the girl's surprise, "The mornings are becoming frosty now, are they not, my good girl?"

"Oh, that they are, sir," answered she. "It was all as white this morning as if it had snowed last night."

"And did you see any marks of feet upon the steps?" demanded Manners.

"No, sir, none," replied the girl.

"Are you sure?" repeated Colonel Manners.

"Oh, quite sure, sir," she replied; "for I washed and whitened the steps with my own two hands, and cold work it was; and I must have seen steps if there had been any."

After this answer she was dismissed, courtesying low, and not ungracefully.

"I dare say he will soon come back," said Colonel Manners, when the woman was gone; "and, at all events, if he be with the person who gave me the letter, he is in no danger, I am sure."

Both Mrs. Falkland and her daughter perceived that Manners, at least, if not Marian, spoke with a slight touch of mystery concerning the letter and its sender, but, of course, they asked no questions; and Colonel Manners's assurance that his friend was in no danger served in some degree to tranquilize Marian. The breakfast, as may be supposed, passed over dully enough, for every one was more anxious than they chose to show, and their anxiety was, of course, increased by every minute as it flew. Each passing step that made itself heard in the breakfast-room, the sound of every opening door, caused Marian's heart to beat, and Isadore to look round, but still the person for whose return they were so anxious did not appear; and however slowly the minutes flew, so many of them passed away at length as to justify serious alarm.

The time had now lingered on till eleven had struck by the clock in the hall, and some very painful remembrances of all that had taken place at the death of her beloved brother were recalled to the mind of Mrs. Falkland by the unaccountable absence of her nephew. Isadore, with all her natural cheerfulness, was anxious and silent; but it was scarcely possible to express all the painful emotions that thrilled in the bosom of Marian de Vaux. Manners, for his part--though his feelings as a man were, of course, essentially different from those of the persons by whom he was now surrounded--was far more alarmed about his friend's absence than he liked to admit, and somewhat undecided in regard to what he should do himself, under existing circumstances. He wished much to go and seek his friend; but he did not like to do so till the length of time was sufficient to warrant the conclusion that some accident must have befallen him; and at the same time he reflected, that during his absence some news might arrive which would render his presence and assistance necessary at Morley House. At length, however, he could master his impatience no longer; and, ringing the bell, he said, with as much appearance of unconcern as he could command, "I think, my dear madam, that it may be as well for me to go and see if I can hear any thing of De Vaux, in the direction which his fair cousin imagines that he has taken. I do not, indeed, think that there is any cause for alarm; but it may quiet your mind."

"Oh yes, yes! pray do, Colonel Manners," cried Marian, starting up, and clasping her hands. "I beg your pardon for asking you such a thing; but, indeed, it will be a very great consolation."

"If it afford you the slightest comfort, my dear young lady," replied Colonel Manners, "it will be the greatest pleasure to me. Will you send my servant?" he added as the butler appeared. The servant came promptly: for the anxiety of the parlour soon finds its way, in a greater or less degree, to the servant's hall; and all the domestics at Morley House were as much on the alert as the garrison of a newly invested fort.

"Put my saddle on the gray directly," said Colonel Manners; "saddle Amherst for yourself, and bid Captain De Vaux's servant get a horse ready to come with me." The man retired. "I will just put myself in riding costume, and be down directly," Manners added; and leaving the ladies still gazing in melancholy guise from the windows of the breakfast-room, he retired to his own apartment.

Long before the horses could be ready, however, he had rejoined them, and was in the act of saying, "Now, I think, Mrs. Falkland, with three old soldiers upon the search, we must soon be able to bring you tidings of your nephew; and, I trust, perfectly satisfactory tidings too," when the butler again made his appearance. The terror expressed upon his countenance, and his first exclamation of, "Oh, ma'am!" instantly sent every drop of blood from Marian's cheek back to her heart. Colonel Manners would fain have stopped a communication which was evidently alarming, and which might not only be a confirmation of their worst fears, but be told in the most abrupt and most painful manner; but it was too late, and the old man went on, "Oh, madam, here is John Harwood, who has the cottage on t'other side of the point, come up to say, that last night, about one o'clock, he heard shots fired in the wood, and he's afraid there's been bad business there."

Marian dropped down where she stood, as if she had been struck with lightning, and for the time all attention was called towards her. Colonel Manners aided to carry the fair unhappy girl to her room; and then leaving her to the care of her female relations, he returned to question both the butler and the peasant, whose intelligence had so much increased their alarm. On inquiry, however, he found that old Gibson's taste for the sublime and horrible had given greater effect to John Harwood's tale than it deserved.

The man had simply heard shots fired, and his own natural conclusion had been, that poachers were busy in the wood, of which, as a dependent on Mrs. Falkland's family, he found himself bound to give information. Colonel Manners, however, sent another servant to the stables to hurry the horses, and then returning to the breakfast-room, wrote down a few words in pencil to inform Mrs. Falkland that the story had been exaggerated; but he was almost instantly joined by Isadore, who assured him that her cousin was better.

Moments of grief, anxiety, and danger are wonderfully powerful in breaking down all the cold and icy barriers which society places between us and those we like; and Isadore Falkland came forward, and laid her fair hand as familiarly upon Colonel Manners's arm as if she had known him from her infancy. There was an earnestness in her fine eyes, too, and an appealing softness in her whole look, that was very irresistible. "Colonel Manners," she said, "this state of apprehension and uncertainty is very dreadful, especially to us poor women, who, having but little knowledge of the world and its ways, have little means of judging whether our fears be reasonable or not. I can see that you have put a restraint upon yourself before Marian; but I beseech you to tell me, at least, if you have any friendship for a person you have known so short a time, what is your real opinion! Do you think there is any serious cause for apprehension?"

"You and your family, Miss Falkland," replied Manners, "have taught me how soon one can feel the deepest interest and friendship for those who deserve it; but in regard to De Vaux, I really see no cause for apprehension."

"Nay, nay, Colonel Manners," said Isadore, "I shall not think you have much regard for me if you try to sooth me by false hopes respecting my cousin. There is an anxiety in your look, which could not be there if there were no cause for alarm."

"Indeed, Miss Falkland," he replied, with a smile which was not of the gayest character in the world--"indeed, I have the deepest regard for you, and would not deceive you for a moment. De Vaux's absence is strange, undoubtedly. His never having gone to bed is strange. But in regard to these shots which have been heard--as the man himself believed till your old butler infected him with his own miraculous mood--they have been undoubtedly fired by poachers; and I see not the slightest reason for believing that they are in any way connected with your cousin's absence."

There had been a degree of earnestness in Manners's profession of regard that had called a slight glow into Isadore's cheek, and made her heart beat a little quicker, though Heaven knows he had not the slightest thought of making her heart beat with any but its ordinary pulse, and Isadore herself never suspected that he had. It was only one of those slight passing emotions which sometimes move the heart without our well knowing why, like the light ripple that will occasionally dimple the surface of a still, sheltered water from some breath of air too soft and gentle to be felt by those who watch it from the banks. Whatever caused the glow, it was all gone in an instant; and she answered, "Perhaps what makes us all the more uneasy is, that none of us can forget that my uncle, Marian's father, was murdered many years ago in this neighbourhood; and the first news of his death came upon mamma by surprise, in the same way that this has done upon poor Marian."

"I trust in Heaven, and believe most firmly, Miss Falkland, that you will find no further resemblance between the fate of your cousin and that of his uncle," replied Colonel Manners: "but, at all events, I will lose no time and spare no exertion in endeavouring to satisfy you as to his fate; and, if it should cost me my life, I will discover him before I give up the search."

"Nay, nay, you must take care of your life," said Isadore; "it must doubtless be valuable to many, and therefore must not be risked unadvisedly."

"It is valuable to none that I know of, Miss Falkland," said Manners, with a melancholy smile, "and to myself least of all; but, nevertheless, I never trifle with it, looking upon it but as a loan from that great Being who will demand it again when he himself thinks fit. But I anticipate no danger from my visit to the gipsies."

"Are you going, then, to the gipsies in search of Edward?" exclaimed Miss Falkland, in evident astonishment. "Good Heaven, I had no idea of that!"

"It was from one of them that I received the letter to which Miss de Vaux referred," replied Colonel Manners; "and I may add," he continued, "to you, Miss Falkland, that the impression that letter made upon your cousin was such as to induce me to believe that if news is to be heard of him anywhere, it will be from them that I shall obtain it."

"This is all very strange, indeed!" cried Isadore. "But tell me, Colonel Manners, do you know the contents of the letter?"

"Not in the least," he replied; "but certain it is, that whatever they were, they affected your cousin sensibly. I had it from a gipsy-man, certainly of a very superior stamp to the rest, although I found him consorting with a gang of as ruffianly fellows as ever I beheld."

"Oh, then, for Heaven's sake, take more men with you!" cried Isadore, eagerly: "you may get murdered, too, and then--"

"Nay, nay, I have no fear," answered Manners, "and there, you see, are the horses. Three strong men on horseback might surely contend with a whole legion of gipsies."

"Must I plead in vain, Colonel Manners?" said Isadore, really apprehensive for his safety, and desirous of persuading him, but blushing at the same time from feeling conscious that she was more apprehensive for him than she had often before felt for any one. "Must I plead in vain? or must I ask you for my sake, if you will not for Heaven's sake? But consider what we should do if we were to lose your aid and assistance at such a moment. Take two or three of our servants with you also."

"For your sake, Miss Falkland, I would do much more difficult things," replied Manners, earnestly; "but listen to my reasons. It would delay me long to wait till fresh horses are saddled, and longer to take men on foot with me. In many cases speed is everything: I have lost more time than I can well excuse already; and I can assure you, that with the two strong and trustworthy fellows who accompany me, there is nothing on earth to fear. Adieu! I doubt not soon, very soon, to bring you not only news, but good news."

Thus saying, he left the room, and sprang upon horseback, while Isadore returned to the apartment of her cousin, who was now in bed by the orders of the village apothecary, and in the act of taking such medicines as he judged most likely to calm and sooth the mind by their sedative effect upon the body. Here Isadore communicated in a low voice to her mother all that she had gathered from Colonel Manners; and placing herself at the window of her fair cousin's room, watched the dark edge of the hill where it cut upon the sky, till at length she saw the figures of three horses straining with their riders up the steep ascent. The next moment they came upon the level ground at the top, changed their pace into a quick gallop, were seen for a minute or two flying along against the clear blue behind, and then, passing on, were lost entirely to her sight.

CHAPTER XIV.

We must now beg leave to retrograde a little in regard to time: and, in order to bring every character in our story to the same point, must turn for a while to a personage of whom we have heard nothing since the day after Edward de Vaux's arrival at Morley House.

The beautiful world in which we live, the multitude of blessings by which we are surrounded, and that beneficent ordination by which the human mind in its natural state is rendered capable of resting satisfied with whatever portion is allotted to it, would make the earth that we inhabit an Eden indeed, if Satan had not supplied us with easy steps to lead us to misery. Our passions form the first round of the ladder; then come our follies close above them; then follow next our vices; these, with brief intervals, are succeeded by crimes; and all beyond is wretchedness. Every crime, too, is prolific in miseries--its legitimate children--who not only return to prey upon their proper parent, but ravage far and wide the hearts of thousands of others. Not only is it on the grand scale when the glory-seeking felon calls the dogs of war to tear the prostrate carcass of some peaceful country, and, by his individual fault, render millions wretched; but each petty individual crime, like the one small seed from which mighty forests spring, is but the germ of gigantic and incalculable consequences; and no one knows to what remote and unforeseen events each trifling action may ultimately lead: no one can tell to whose bosom the error he commits may not bring despair, or how many hearts may be laid desolate by the sin or the folly of the moment.

The father of Edward de Vaux--for to him we must now turn--had gone on in the usual road by which small errors grow into great crimes. He had committed follies, and yielded to passions. Passions had hardened into vices, and vices had ultimately hurried him beyond what he would at first have dreamed possible for a reasonable creature to perpetrate. In the story we have heard told by the gipsy, the part that he had acted was in no degree overdrawn by the narrator, though there were some secrets in Lord Dewry's breast alone, which neither, indeed, justified nor even palliated his crime--for such deeds admit not of palliation,--but which showed, at least, that the crowning act itself was not accompanied by many of the circumstances which seemed to aggravate it. Overwhelmed by a debt that he could not pay, disappointed of relief from a source that had never before failed, Mr. De Vaux had set out from London to meet his brother in a state of mind which approached insanity, and was, in fact, despair. Hardened by many years of vice, he had retained very few of those Christian principles which had not been wanting in his early education; and there remained, certainly, not sufficient virtue of any kind to make him view an escape from disgrace, by an act of suicide, as any thing unmanly or infamous in itself. He had determined, then, either to obtain from his brother the full sum he demanded, by whatever means might suggest themselves at the moment--threats, supplications, or remonstrances--or to terminate his own existence on the spot,--principally with a view to avoid the shame he anticipated in London if he could not discharge his obligations, but partly, also, with a savage desire of inflicting bitter regrets upon his brother for the obduracy of his refusal.

As the most retired spot for executing this purpose, he had chosen the point where we have seen that he had waited his brother's coming; and there a busy devil, that had been stirring at his heart all the way down, renewed its suggestions with tenfold importunity. He saw before him some of the rich lands of Lord Dewry; he saw them smiling with the promise of abundance; all seemed happy in the world but his own heart; all seemed prosperous but himself. His brother, notwithstanding his late loss, appeared in his eyes peculiarly blessed; and again and again the fiend within asked him what right by nature had his brother, because he was the elder, to the sole possession of all those advantages which, the same evil spirit lyingly told him, would have kept him from vice and misery, had they been equally divided between them? His brother arrived while he was in this mood. The first means he employed to obtain what he wanted were entreaty and persuasion; and when these failed, he had recourse to threats and violence. Lord Dewry retorted with reproach and reprehension; and his brother, in a moment of frantic passion, brought the curse of Cain upon his own head.

The agony of remorse was the first thing that succeeded; but self-preservation and the enjoyment of that which he had so dearly purchased, became the next considerations, and he bent all the energies of a keen and daring mind to that purpose. He mastered his own feelings, both bodily and mental; and, after returning to London with a degree of speed and perseverance that killed the horse which bore him, he overcame both personal fatigue and anguish of heart, and showed himself on the evening of his return at two private parties and one public place; and, what is more, he showed himself with a smiling countenance and an unembarrassed air. But when it was all over--the examination of the facts, the taking possession of the property, and the removal of those who could betray him--the excitement which had been caused by danger passed away; that bubble, the hope of happiness without virtue, burst under his rude touch, and left his heart to remorse for ever.

Knowing that he must often see his brother's child, though at first the sight was full of agony, he forced himself, by a great effort, to endure it, till he had overcome the pain by habit; and at the same time the lingering remains of some better feelings in his heart made him look upon every generous or kindly thing that he could do towards her as an act of atonement for the crime he had committed.

Such were some of the motives, or, rather, such were some of the facts, which had influenced Lord Dewry in all his actions for the last twenty years. For a time, indeed, he had affected gayety which he did not feel, and mingled in society which had lost all charm for him; but the revellings of the never-dying worm upon his heart's inmost core would make themselves felt, and gradually he drew back from the world, gave himself up to solitude and stately reclusion, forgot what it was to smile, and only mingled with his fellow-men to pour forth upon them the gall and bitterness that welled from an everlasting source in his own bosom.

Remorse, however, was not the only fiend that preyed upon his heart: fear, too, had its share. We have said, and said truly, that he was corporeally as brave a man as ever lived: he knew not what bodily fear is; but that is a very, very different affection of the complicated being, man, from the mental terrors, the daily doubts, the hourly apprehensions, that crowded upon him in solitude and retirement. Corporal pain, the simple act of dying, he feared not, and there yet lingered in his mind some faint traces of his early faith, suggesting vague ideas of atonement made for man's crimes, which led him to believe that the anguish which he suffered below might be received in place of repentance, and procure him pardon hereafter; so that, on ordinary occasions, he felt no tangible dread even of the awful separation of soul and body. But this was not all: the torturing uncertainty of his fate was a bitter portion of his curse. He knew that there were two men in the world who could, at any time, doom him to disgrace and death; or at least, if, by the precautions he had taken, their success in any attempt of the kind had been rendered doubtful, yet their knowledge of the dreadful secret of his state rendered all that he possessed--honour, fortune, rank, even existence itself--precarious; and he felt, as he looked around him, that he was living in a gilded dream, which the next moment might vanish, and leave him to misery and despair.

At first, when, perhaps, it might have been in his power to implicate the gipsy as the murderer of his brother, and, by pursuing him as such, to have crushed one strong source of evidence against himself, two powerful causes had operated to deter him from such a course. He knew that Sir William Ryder, though implicated by accidental circumstances in his crime, was of too generous a nature to connive at any further evil to which the desire of concealing it might lead him. But it would be doing him injustice not to say that he himself had shrunk from the very thought. His heart was not hardened enough for that: he felt that there was too much blood upon his hand already; and although the idea did cross his mind, yet at that time remorse was stronger than fear, and even had Sir William Ryder not existed, he would have chosen rather to bear apprehension than a greater load of regret.

Time, however, had now altered such feelings; he was accustomed to remorse, but no time can harden the heart to fear; and the first imagination which crossed his mind, when, at the end of twenty years, he again saw the gipsy, was to destroy him. The reader may recollect a conversation in the beginning of this work, wherein Pharold detailed the particulars of an interview he had had with the peer; and it may easily be conceived, that from that interview Lord Dewry perceived at once that the moment was come when he must try his strength with those who had the power to injure him, and silence them for ever, or yield for ever to his fate; and with a strong determination, but a mind fearfully agitated, he instantly resolved to crush those he feared, if human ingenuity, backed by wealth, and power, and a daring disposition, could accomplish such an object.

Such had been the state of his mind when he so unexpectedly visited the house of Mrs. Falkland, and found new cause for apprehension in the conversation of Colonel Manners. But his coming thither had not for its sole object to meet and welcome his newly-returned son. He had learned, by instant and close inquiry after the gipsy had left him, that parties of his race had been seen lying in the neighbourhood of Morley Wood, with the view, it was supposed, of poaching on the open and ill-protected grounds in that district; and suspecting, from his conversation with Pharold, that on the refusal he had given, Sir William Ryder himself might return to England, he hastened over to his sister's house, which lay within a few miles of his property of Dimden, in order, if possible, to pursue means of destroying the actual witness of his crime, before the arrival of the only other person who even suspected it.

Let it not be supposed--although there were in reality no means at which Lord Dewry would now have hesitated to effect his purpose--that he deliberately, and boldly, and undisguisedly proposed to his own heart to bring about the gipsy's death. No, no: the great power of evil is too well aware how horrible his naked suggestions are, not to furnish them with a veil, flimsy enough, it is true, but still sufficient to cover some part of their deformity. No! Lord Dewry only proposed--at least, he cheated himself into thinking so--to detect the gipsy or his comrades in some unlawful exploit, which might give an excuse for removing them for ever from the country, and at the same time might render any evidence they might tender against himself, not only suspicious, but almost inadmissible.

The severe laws in regard to poaching, and the loose and lawless habits of the gipsies themselves, he doubted not would furnish the means; and his great object was to discover an offence of such magnitude, and to obtain proofs so clear, that great severity would be warranted and the justice of the accusation undeniable. It might cross his mind that, in the pursuit of these views, a gipsy or a keeper might be killed, that the charge of murder might be added to that of poaching, and that a felony might rid him of the enemy of his repose for ever. Such a thing might cross his mind, and be viewed with no great dissatisfaction; but, at the same time, he denied to himself that such was his object. "No: God forbid! But, if it did happen, he should of course take advantage of it to silence for ever the voice of one who had been witness to the unfortunate accident by which, in a moment of hasty passion, his brother had been deprived of life, and who seemed disposed to abuse the knowledge he unhappily possessed."

Such had been the thoughts of Lord Dewry as he travelled over to Mrs. Falkland's house on the night of his son's arrival, and such were the thoughts that again took possession of him as soon as the passion in which he had left her subsided on the following morning.

"With Sir William Ryder," he thought, as the carriage rolled rapidly on towards Dimden--"with Sir William Ryder I shall easily be able to deal single-handed, if once I can remove his confederate. He used to be a simple, frank-hearted, foolish fellow; but I must, by some means, keep him from any further meeting with Edward. I have already remarked that the boy sees there is some mystery; and a bare hint would awaken suspicions that I would rather die than he should even dream of. But this man--this Pharold--must be my first care; and my next must be to procure such proofs of my having been in London at the time of my brother's death that suspicion itself shall be silenced, if either of the villains dare to open his lips."

The manner in which this latter object was to be accomplished became the next consideration; but ere Lord Dewry could come to any determination upon the subject, the lodge of Dimden Park, and the old woman who opened the gates, courtesying to the ground as the carriage rolled through, met his eyes, and told him that he must reserve that matter for after-thought.

The place that he was now entering had been the favourite habitation of his brother, where his days of happiness and sunshine had been passed, and whence his virtues had made themselves felt and beloved through all the country round. There were many recollections and associations then connected with that spot which, as it may easily be conceived, were not a little painful to the man who now entered it: and although he sometimes visited the house, and had once or twice in twenty years spent a day within its walls, yet he had never been able to vanquish the distress that the sight occasioned him so far as to live in it for any length of time. He now beheld it in a state which added to the pain whereof other circumstances had rendered it fruitful. It was not exactly going to ruin, for he had given strict orders, and paid large annual sums, for the express purpose of keeping the grounds in order and the house in repair; but those orders had been given from a distance, and had been received with a conviction that the master's eye would never inspect their execution very minutely. There were long tufts of grass in the walks and on the roads, though here and there was to be seen a faint and lazy effort to clear away, by the exertions of a few hours, the shameful negligence of many a day. Some of the trees, which had been felled years before, were rotting in the long dank grass; and the fences which had been placed to keep the deer within their proper bounds lay flat upon the ground, overturned and broken. The road over which the carriage rolled was channelled with deep unmended ruts; and the fine old house, with its closed windows and smokeless chimneys, stood in its wide, open esplanade, like the palace of damp and desertion. Lord Dewry bit his lip, and muttered audibly, "This must be amended. The scoundrels did not expect me to visit the place, and have been shamefully negligent. I will send them away."

But as he thought thus, his other purposes crossed his mind, and brought with it one of those annoying and degrading convictions which so often follow evil actions and crooked policy. He felt that when he was about to engage his park-keepers in an action which his own heart told him was base, he could not dare to treat them severely for the faults they had themselves committed; and to a proud and violent man the restraint which he was obliged to put upon his passions was bitter enough. As the carriage approached the house, hasty symptoms of opening windows and unbarring doors showed that his coming had been remarked; and as he had no ambiguous commands to lay upon the old servants who had been left to keep the mansion in order, upon them fell the full weight of his indignation. When the first angry burst was over, he ordered the old man to call the principal park-keeper; and while he was absent upon that errand, strode gloomily through the dreary chambers, feeling his heart more dark and comfortless than even the long-deserted apartments amid which he stood. He then called for pen and ink, which, after some difficulty, he obtained, and wrote and despatched the note which we have seen delivered to Marian de Vaux.

At length the park-keeper appeared, a bold and sturdy fellow, with no inconsiderable portion of shrewd cunning in his countenance, to which had been superadded at present an air of dogged preparation, occasioned by the tidings of Lord Dewry's anger, which the old man had given him as they walked along towards the house.

"Harvey," said the peer, as the man presented himself, "you have suffered the park to get into a terrible state. I must have all this changed. Those fences must be put up; those trees cleared away: speak to Wilson about the road, and tell him if ever I see it in that state again I shall discharge him; and--do not answer me, but listen; for I came over to speak to you upon matters of more importance.--What are you waiting for, John?"

"I thought your lordship might want me," said the old man, who had lingered in the room.

"No, no, not I," replied the peer: "retire, and shut the door; but take care what you are about, for in future I shall come over at least every month; and if I find the house is not properly attended to after this warning, you and your wife go out of it without another word.--Now, Harvey, tell me," he continued, as the old man withdrew with a low and deprecating bow, "have you many poachers here?"

"Why, no, my lord," replied the park-keeper, his face brightening up to find that the anticipated storm had blown away; "we have not had much of that work doing lately, though I dare say we soon shall have."

"And why so?" demanded Lord Dewry. "I am glad to hear that poaching is on the decrease. What makes you think it will revive again?"

"As to revive, my lord, why, I don't know," replied the man; "but I doubt we shall soon have more of it--so I think. It's just the time, you see, my lord--long moonlight nights, and a good deal of the out-door work over."

The man paused; but these were not the reasons the peer had hoped to hear him assign for his apprehensions of more extended poaching, and found that he must bring him nearer to the point by some direct course. "We have a great deal of poaching near the hall," he said: "Wise tells me that there are a number of bad characters continually in the woods, gipsies and thieves of all descriptions."

"Ay, for the matter of that we have gipsies enough just now, too," replied the keeper; "and that's the reason, my lord, why I said I thought we should soon hear of more poaching: but I did not like to mention it, you see. Why, there, I saw no longer ago than yesterday, up in Morley Wood, I dare say a score of them--lazy beggars! D--n them, I hate those fellows, and so I told 'em--beg your lordship's pardon."

Lord Dewry found that he was now on the right course; but, afraid of pursuing the matter so eagerly as to cause suspicions which might perhaps tell against himself hereafter, he replied with a tranquil countenance, "It would not surprise me if these were the same that have been plundering and poaching in a most desperate manner near the hall."

"O, no doubt they are the same, my lord," replied the keeper; "and as to poaching, they were at it last night, or I have no ears: I heard a gun--I am sure I heard a gun--though I got up, and went all over the grounds without finding them. But I heard a gun--I am sure enough of that, anyhow."

"Oh, if that be the case," said Lord Dewry, "we must really take serious measures for their apprehension and conviction. They once murdered a gamekeeper, those gipsies, not far from here; and it is dangerous to honest men to let them be in the country."

"Ay, that it is, my lord," said the keeper; "they'd murder any one as soon as look at him. They nearly murdered me once. I wish we could get rid of them, that I do, anyhow."

"And so do I, too," replied Lord Dewry, solemnly; "I do not like men's lives risked continually, nor their property plundered at every turn, solely because these gipsies are suffered to continue in the kingdom. I declare I would give fifty guineas to any one who could convict them in such a manner as to ensure their being sent out of the country without fail. I do not like my people continually exposed to their attacks."

"Your lordship is very kind and very generous," said the keeper; "and if your lordship would really give the fifty guineas, I dare say we could find some young fellows that would join in and take a hand in catching them."

"But we must first be able to prove that they have committed some offence," replied Lord Dewry, thoughtfully.

"Oh, they have committed offences enough, my lord," answered the keeper; "and if your lordship give fifty guineas, we shall soon have plenty to help in catching them."

The peer paused for a moment or two without any direct reply; but he then answered, "What I have said I mean, Harvey: the fifty guineas I would give of course to the man by whose means they were principally brought to justice; but I would do more, and pay handsomely every one concerned in actually taking them. Do you think they have ever shot any of the deer?" he added after a short pause.

"No, my lord, no!" answered the keeper, fearful that blame might fall upon himself; "I will answer for it they have not done that."

"I am sorry for it," said Lord Dewry, dryly. The man stared, and the peer proceeded:--"I am sorry for it; because, you see, Harvey, the offence would be the heavier, and we might get rid of them for ever if we could prove such a thing against them; whereas this poaching, especially if it be a first offence, will only take them out of the way for a time, and then turn them back upon us more enraged against us than ever."

"That's true, my lord, that's true," replied the keeper, whose perceptions were sufficiently acute, and who began to see that his master had a very potent distaste to the race of gipsies, although his mind, proceeding in its habitual train, did not fail to conclude that the peer's motives for hating them were the same which would have actuated himself had he been in the peer's situation, namely, wrath at their having destroyed the peculiar objects of his veneration, game, and anger at their having outwitted him in his endeavours to preserve it. He went no further in his investigations of his lord's designs, though he himself had peculiar motives of his own; but, possessing goodly powers of detestation himself, he easily conceived that the baron would not scruple at any plausible stratagem for the purpose of obtaining his object. "That's true, my lord, that's true," replied he; "but do you know, I should not wonder if they did some night shoot a fat buck upon his moonlight walk; and I dare say, for the matter of that, we could get them to do it very soon."

"Nay, nay," cried the peer in a tone of moderation, "take care what you are about, Harvey; for if any one were to discover that you instigated them, you might get transported; and though of course I would take care that none of my servants was a loser by his zeal in my service, yet I should not like you to get into any scrape."

"Your lordship is very kind," said the man; "but I will take care that I get into no scrape; and as to any one hearing me say any thing about it, no fear of that, for I will never say a word to any one but your lordship; and but little will I say even now. But I know how to manage the matter; and if I can get some stout hands to help me and the two under-keepers in taking the fellows, when once we have found out when they are about the job, I'll rid the country of them soon enough--a set of lazy, thieving beggars."

"Why, Harvey," said the peer, with a complacent smile, "you do not seem fond of these gipsies, I think."

"I fond of them, my lord!" said the man. "No, no! I owe them an old grudge, which I have long thought to pay. One of them nearly killed me once when I was a younker, now near twenty years ago, just for being a little over-civil to one of their women. I might have had my revenge at the time; but I was weak and sick with the bruises, and I was spoony enough to let him get off; but he'll not do so again if I catch hold of him."

"But pray, Harvey," said the peer, "how do you propose to obtain such information in regard to when and where these men are to be caught--for they must be caught in the fact, remark--as to enable you to seize them with any certainty? Do you know any of their gang personally?"

"Not I, my lord," replied the man; "but, do you see, my lord, I know a man up in the village, called Harry Saxon, who hears a good deal about all those sorts of people, and I will get him just to put it into their heads to--"

"Hush, hush, Harvey!" interrupted the nobleman, but a tone as to express much disapprobation. "Do not tell me what you intend to do, but merely how you are to learn when and where to catch them."

"Why, he will tell me all that, to be sure, my lord," replied the keeper. "He's a good sort of man, and won't disoblige me, I'll warrant."

"And pray what is his usual occupation?" demanded the peer in a casual way.

"Oh, he sells venison to the dealers in London," replied the keeper; and then suddenly perceiving that he was on the edge of a precipice, he added, "that is, when any of the gentlemen in the neighbourhood want to kill off some of their bucks, he buys them and sends them up to London. I have heard, too," he continued, seeing that his lord listened with an unmoved countenance, as if to something of course--"I have heard, too, that he sends up many a good brace of partridges, and many a pheasant and a hare: but he is a good sort of man, upon the whole; and when he knows a keeper, like, he will not let the people poach and that upon the grounds that he keeps, and that's what makes us have so much game here. I'll warrant the game is better preserved here than anywhere else in the country."

The peer made no observations upon these disjointed pieces of information; but in his own mind concluded, and not without reason, that his keeper was a very great scoundrel. He took care, however, neither by word, look, nor action, to suffer the man he was making use of to perceive what sort of a character he was establishing in his opinion; being fully resolved in his own mind, however, to discharge him as soon after he had served the present purpose as might be found convenient.

Deceit, like every other art, has been wonderfully perfected and refined since first it took its origin in the rude, uncultivated human breast. There can be no doubt whatever that when one man entertains an opinion which he wishes to conceal from another, the first natural effort of his mind would be to tell him the direct contrary; and much refinement and experience in the art must have been acquired before the necessity was ascertained of doing things more delicately, and implying, rather than saying, that one believes another to be an honest man, when one is sure he is a great rogue. As the world proceeded, however, and the liberal science of deceit became so thoroughly studied as to force one, with very few exceptions, to say, as said the Psalmist, "All men are liars," a new refinement was introduced, and it became necessary to know when to cover one's own opinion by a skilful implication of the reverse, when, returning to the original and simple mode, in plain terms to announce the direct contrary of what one feels, and to deceive the most thoroughly by the appearance of the utmost candour.

In the present instance Lord Dewry chose the latter means, and ended the conversation with the keeper by saying, "Well, Harvey, well! I believe you are a very honest fellow. There are ten guineas for you to give the men you are obliged to employ, an earnest of their reward; and if you succeed in catching these gipsies, so as to convict them either of deer-stealing or aggravated poaching, you may count upon fifty guineas and my favour, besides having all your bonâ fide expenses paid."

The man made a low bow, though he did not understand at all what bonâ fide meant; and the peer with a slow step walked to his carriage. The old man and woman who kept the house followed half a step behind, troubling him all the way by questions concerning the superintendence of the place, in regard to which their directions had been full and explicit years before, but by re-demanding which they meant, as usual on such occasions, to insinuate a justification of their late negligence, implying that if they had been properly instructed they would have behaved better. Short and severe were the replies of the baron; and when the carriage-door was at length closed, and the vehicle rolled away, he sunk into thought, feeling that at least one part of his plan was in a fair way for execution, but feeling, likewise, deep, deep in his heart's core, the melancholy conviction--not the less poignant because he strove not to see it--that one crime was lashing him on with a fiery scourge to the commission of many more.

The house he had just visited, and the scenes through which he was passing, had not been without their effect. They had recalled to his mind his brother, who had there lived so long the object of his envy, and now of his deep regret. That brother's virtues, his kindness, his noble generosity, tried to the very utmost by his excesses and demands, often, often returned reproachfully to his mind. All the good and affectionate acts which had seemed as nothing while his own passions and interests existed in opposition, and while his brother lived, had been estimated with terrible exactness as soon as his own hand had placed the impassable barrier of death between them; and the sight of that house now, as it always did, recalled every memory that could aggravate remorse, and stir into an intenser blaze the unquenchable fire that burned his heart.

There, too, he had himself been educated from infancy to manhood; over those lawns and walks he had played in the guileless innocence of youth; under those trees he had sat a thousand times with the dead, in the sweet and hopeful summer-days of boyhood. Their arms clasped round each other's necks, or their hands locked in each other, they had wandered in their hours of play through the calm green shades of the park, or sat beneath the stately oak, reading some lighter book than that appointed for their daily studies. He remembered it all well; and many an individual day, too, would come forward from the crowd of early memories, and stand before his eyes bright and distinct as if it were hardly yet numbered with the past. He could call back even the feelings of those times, the noble and enthusiastic glow of their bosoms when they had read together some great actions, some generous self-devotion, some pious act of friendship, some deed of mighty patriotism; and now, what had those feelings become? In his brother they were extinct in death, or, rather, glorifying him in a brighter world; and with him himself they were but memories; with him it was the feelings that were dead, while he himself lived but to remember them. Nor was his a heart to scoff at their memory as some men might have done. Perhaps, indeed, had his crimes been lighter--had they but reached the grade of vices--had they been of that character which man's blind selfishness can dress up in other garbs, and cover beneath a light robe of wit, or of what we call philosophy, he might have sneered at the sweet and innocent days that forced themselves upon his recollection, and have parried all that was painful in them by a jest. But the terrible, irrevocable, awful deed that he had committed had been weighty enough, not only to break the elastic spring of gayety in his heart for ever, but to leave those sweet early hours of guileless happiness and noble feeling which still flattered him with the thought that he had not always been base, or cruel, or depraved, the least painful of all that series of painful things whereof his memory was alone composed. And yet remorse mingled its poison even with them, and perhaps rendered the agony they produced on the present occasion more poignant, because on that point his heart was not hardened to the lash.

He cast the memories from him as the vehicle rolled on, for he found not only that they were painful, but that other thoughts of the imperious present must have way; and that though he trusted by a new crime to remove some part of the danger of his situation, yet that it was necessary to contemplate his position in every point of view, in order to guard against all that might happen. But here, perhaps, his feelings were even less enviable than those from which he turned. Personal danger, not abstract and distinct, but accompanied by shame, and scorn, and detection, was the first image that presented itself to his mind. To meet the hatred and contempt of the whole world, to be exposed in a court of justice, and on a public scaffold to be pointed and hooted at by the rude populace--to be called the fratricide, the murderer--to undergo the horrors of imprisonment, suspense, trial, condemnation, and execution--and to plunge, loaded with a brother's blood and many another sin, into the wide, dim, terrible hereafter--such were the only objects of his anticipation, if his present schemes should fail.

Nor was it at all strange that he should feel them now much more poignantly than at the time which immediately followed his brother's death, though, perhaps, the years which had elapsed might have rendered his safety less in danger now than then. But at that period he had little time to reflect; and his whole mind had been occupied in acting. He had seen and felt the immediate peril, and had apprehended many a vague horror; but imagination had not had time to act--she had not had time to call up and particularize, as she had since done with terrible minuteness, all the awful and agonizing scenes that await the detected murderer.

As he leaned back in his carriage, and with closed eyes thought of all the past and all the future, the mingling emotions that agitated his breast were dreadful indeed. Bitter, bitter remorse--strong, lasting, never-sleeping remorse--was for the moment paramount; and could he have seen any way of avoiding shame and death but by new evil, he would have resigned much, he would have resigned all, to follow it. But there was no means before him of escaping all the horrors that threatened, but either to destroy those he feared or to destroy himself: he had but the choice of two great crimes; and the terrors of the endless future, aggravated by the condemnation of self-destruction, were too great for him to think of attempting his own life. As we have before said, it was not that he feared death; for often in his moods of deepest despondency he thought that if some one were to take away his life as he had taken that of his brother, it might be received, together with his long remorse, as some atonement for the past; but he feared to make it his own act, and to double, instead of diminishing, the load upon his own head; and in the desperate choice which was before him he yielded to the common weakness of human nature, and chose that crime of which punishment was most remote.

Such were some of the emotions which agitated his mind as the carriage rolled on towards his usual residence; but still the picture of them is but faint and imperfect, as every picture of agitated feelings must be. There were a thousand shades that escape the pen, a thousand sudden changes for which it would be difficult to account. Nevertheless, it must not be supposed that this varying and uncertain mood was the general state of his mind, when no outward circumstance had served to awaken antagonist feelings. On the contrary, he was generally firm in his despair, with remorse for the predominant tone of his whole sensations; but at the same time, with a stern determination to hold all that for which he had paid so deep a price, and to defend his own safety at any risk. It was only when some association connected with other days touched a tenderer point in his heart, and aroused some better feelings from their sleep of years, that the winds and the tempests dashed against the dark dwelling-place of his spirit, and threatened to level it with its foundation in the sand. The mood seldom lasted long, however, and, indeed, could not have done so without driving him to phrensy; and now, as he came within sight of the plantations that skirted his other property, he put on a firmer frame of mind, cast doubt, and fear, and hesitation behind him, and called up those powers of quick, decisive thought and vigorous action which had often in former days carried him through many a scene of difficulty and danger.

"I have been as weak as a child," he said, when he looked back on all the feelings to which he had given way--"I have been as weak as a child; and that at a moment when I most need manly firmness: but it is past, and I will not easily forget myself again!"

On the next day but one, at a very early hour, Lord Dewry again drove over to Dimden, and had the pleasure of learning, by implications and hints from his head park-keeper, that the plan which had been shadowed out for entangling the gipsies was in a fair way for execution; and yet his spirit was ill at rest, for he felt that his plan was an imperfect one, and that at a thousand points it might fail. The gipsies might be too wary; and, at all events, Pharold was not likely to take part himself in such a scheme. If his companions were implicated, and he were to escape, the natural consequence would be, that his roused-up vengeance would take the ready means of sating itself by betraying the fearful secret that he possessed; and thus the attempt to remove him would but bring about more certainly the danger that was apprehended. Yet what could he do? the peer asked himself. If he could add one other link to the chain in which he had sought to entangle the gipsy, it might render it complete, and prevent the possibility of his escape. But what was that link to be? He could not tell, and yet it served him as food for stern and eager meditation as the carriage bore him rapidly home again, after having satisfied himself that his scheme, as far as it went, was already in progress towards its completion.

As he drove up to the door of the house, he remarked that one of his grooms was walking a hard-ridden horse up and down upon the gravel, while the dirty condition of the animal bespoke a long journey. As such sights, however, were not at all uncommon, and the horse might either belong to the steward, or to some stranger come on a visit of curiosity to the house, it excited but little notice on the part of the peer, who was entering without inquiry, when one of the servants informed him that a gentleman was waiting his lordship's return in the small library. Lord Dewry turned a little pale; for there was a consciousness of danger and of the uncertainty of his condition at the heart of the peer, that caused the blood to forsake his cheek at any announcement of a visit, the import of which he did not know. He rebuked the servant, however, for admitting any one to wait for him during his absence; and ordered him never to do so again, adding, that when he expected or wished to see any one, he would always give intimation of his will.

The servant excused himself on account of the stranger's pressing and determined manner, motives which did not in the least reconcile the peer to his admission; but, without any further appearance of distrust, he walked with slow and stately steps to the library, and throwing open the door advanced towards a table, determined not to afford his unwished-for guest a pretext for sitting down by even approaching a chair himself.

The stranger's person merits some slight description, and even a more detailed account of his clothing than is required on ordinary occasions. He was a man perhaps four or five years younger than the peer himself, thin, light, active, with a twinkling gray eye, somewhat too full of moisture, and a number of those long radiating wrinkles which, I believe, are called crows' feet, decorating the corners of the eyelids. His general complexion was white, of that dry and somewhat withered appearance which long habits of dissipation leave behind, when dissipation is not combined with drunkenness. In every glance there was a quick, sharp, prying expression, joined to a somewhat subservient smile, which was strangely enough displayed upon a cast of countenance, the natural expression of which was pertinacious effrontery.

His dress was well worn, and had not apparently been formed originally of any very costly materials; but it had withal a smart cut, and a smart look, which prevented the eye from detecting either the long services it had rendered, or the coarseness of the stuff. It was of a rather anomalous description, too, consisting of what was then called a marone frock with a silver lace, a pair of buckskin breeches for riding in, thunder and lightning silk stockings, just showing their junction with the breeches above, and a pair of heavy boots; while ruffles, and a frill of that species of lace which, seeming all darns together, admits the most frequently of being mended, decorated his wrists and his bosom.

Lord Dewry gazed at him as he rose from the chair in which he had been sitting with a look which, if it did not absolutely express the stare of utter strangeness, had very few signs of recognition in it. But the other was neither to be abashed nor discomposed; and his manners, which were those of a gentleman, softened down a good deal of the effrontery which his demeanour displayed. Had he not been a gentleman, and in the habit of mingling with gentlemen, his determined impudence would have been insufferable; and even as things were, that impudence, together with a certain affected swagger in tone and language, which was very generally assumed by the puppies of the day, and which the visiter caricatured, were quite sufficiently annoying, especially to such a man as Lord Dewry. Conceiving at once that the peer was not peculiarly delighted with his visit, the stranger advanced round the table, and with a low bow addressed him ere he had time to speak.