The Gipsy Part 23

As he thought thus he drank a large gla.s.s of claret. There never yet was man who committed a great crime, and did not thenceforth feel that the predominant longing of his soul was, once more to be able to "sleep in spite of thunder." He drank another full gla.s.s; and then went on, determined to bring the struggle to an issue at once, now that he had all his preparations made, and was sure of the result.

"What we have just been speaking of, Sir Roger," he said, as the servant shut the door after setting down the claret, "brings to my mind our former acquaintance, Sir William Ryder. I should scarcely think that he proposes to come back again to this country, as you hinted this morning, considering that he left many a debt unpaid.

Among other things, you know he was your debtor in the transaction of which we but now spoke, as well as myself, though not to the same amount; and you are doubtless also aware that I paid the whole debt.

Pray, when did you hear from him?"

"I did not hear from him directly, my lord," replied the knight, "as we have, in fact, kept up no correspondence. I wrote to him, indeed, shortly after his departure, but he never answered my letter. But I saw a few days ago in an American paper, that the well-known Sir William Ryder was about to quit his dwelling at some strange named place in a few weeks, for the purpose of visiting England, in order to induce the government to take measures for the protection and instruction of the savage Indians."

A sneering smile curled the lip of the peer, but he made no observation upon the information he received. "Did you not go down with him to Holyhead, on his way to embark for America from some Irish port?" demanded Lord Dewry; "I think I have heard so."

"No, my lord, no," replied Sir Roger; "I met him at Holyhead by accident. I had just come over from Ireland, where I had been to settle a little affair with a man in Dublin. I lent Sir William one of my horses to go out to see some gipsies--what the devil business he had with them I could never tell--but the horse threw him and broke his ribs, and hurt himself into the bargain; but a gipsy fellow, the best farrier I ever saw, cured him in a week--the horse, I mean; but I believe they cured Sir William too, for I left him in their hands recovering fast; I myself being obliged to be at Newmarket before he could get out of his bed."

"I thought I remembered something of the transaction," said the peer.

"Sir William Ryder, with whom I was in some correspondence at that time, in regard to the very debt of which we were speaking, wrote to me that he had seen you there, and mentioned the accident your horse had met with. But now tell me, Sir Roger, did you not receive from the gipsy farrier a bank-note, in change for money given him in payment?"

"No, my lord, not that I remember," said the knight; "faith, I have forgot what I gave him, and all about it."

"Recollect yourself, Sir Roger," said Lord Dewry; "I think, if you remember right, you will find that he gave you in change a note, which you afterward gave to me when we last settled our accounts together, about six months after I succeeded to this property."

"Nay, nay, my lord," said the knight, "your lordship is not right there: it was you gave me the money; I gave you none. It was a round sum, you know, my lord."

Lord Dewry bit his lip, and Sir Roger Millington could hear his foot stamp upon the carpet under the table with impatience at his contradiction. In truth, the n.o.ble lord did not at all desire to be driven to explanations, though, in fact, the dark and fearful scheme which his mind had formed for the purpose of delivering himself from all fear for ever was too deep and intricate to be understood by him whom he intended for his tool in accomplishing it, without a much fuller knowledge of the subject than the knight possessed.

"You do not understand me," cried the peer, hastily; "you will not understand me, Sir Roger! Mark me, now!" and then, after thinking for a moment, he proceeded in a stern, determined tone, and with a dark, contracted brow:--"You remember my succeeding to this property, Sir Roger; and you remember the circ.u.mstances of my brother's unfortunate death? The only person who saw the--the business was a gipsy; and at the time some circ.u.mstances made it appear so strongly probable that that gipsy had been himself the--the murderer, that Mr. Arden--old Mr.

Arden, who is still living--wished to commit him. I, however, foolishly would believe nothing of the story, as this very gipsy had always been a protege of my brother's, and he was liberated. A number of small particulars, however, afterward appeared to make me regret my obstinacy, and to convince me that the villain was really the a.s.sa.s.sin of my poor brother. I had him sought for in vain; and all the news I could learn of him was, that he had sailed from Holyhead for Ireland.

There I lost sight of him, till a few days ago, when I suddenly met him in the park; and I have since learned that he is lingering about in the neighbourhood of my other place at Dimden. I have laid a trap for him: we shall catch him this very night; and, if it cost me half my fortune, I will bring him to justice."

"Your lordship is right, very right," exclaimed Sir Roger Millington; "but I do not see--"

"Listen to me, Sir Roger, and you shall see," replied the peer: "I doubt not that I shall be able to convict him; but if my recollections are right, and can be supported by yours, his conviction is certain.

My brother at his death had a large sum of money on his person. One of those notes, marked with his name, in his own handwriting, has since come into my possession; and _I am sure that I received it from you, while I feel almost sure that you received it from the gipsy!_" He spoke the last words slowly and emphatically, and then added, rapidly and sternly, "Now, what I want you to do, Sir Roger, is to recollect yourself, and--if you can remember the facts of your having received the note and given it to me--to be prepared to swear to those facts, should it be necessary."

Sir Roger Millington turned very pale. A light--a fearful light--had broken in upon him, and how far it served to guide his suspicions aright matters little. He was a man of few scruples, and vice and misery had both contributed to harden his heart; for though the uses of adversity maybe sweet when acting on a virtuous disposition, yet I am afraid that in this good world of ours the back of that great felon Vice only gets callous under the lash of affliction. Sir Roger Millington, however, had, as we have said, but few scruples of any kind; yet this thing that Lord Dewry now proposed to him was a step beyond the point at which he had arrived in all the course of evil and of folly that he had hitherto pursued. He had fought and had slain men in another man's quarrel, but in doing so he had perilled his own life, and the corporal risk had seemed in some degree to balance the moral culpability; but now he was asked to say and do things which, without any danger to himself, would conduct another to an ignominious death,--one against whom he had no enmity, whom he had never, perhaps, beheld, and of whose real guilt there was in his bosom many a terrible doubt. He felt that it was a fearful and an awful thing that he was called upon to do, and, in despite of the absence of all moral principle--of twenty years' hardening in vice, and of a long training in degradation and dishonour--he turned pale, he hesitated; and, forgetting all restraint, rose from his seat and walked once or twice up and down the room in evident agitation.

Lord Dewry saw how far he had committed himself. He saw that, notwithstanding all his caution, his words, having been spoken to one whom habitual vice had rendered familiar with all the wiles of crime, might have put his suspicions on a track from which they could never be withdrawn, and that although Sir Roger had him not, indeed, in his power, as the gipsy had, yet that no sacrifice would be too great to force him on to acts which would make his co-operation irretrievable.

He suffered him then to pace the room for a single minute; and then rising, he placed himself opposite to him, and laid his hand on that of the knight. "Sir Roger," he said, "I am inclined to do much for you, but you know service must have service in return."

"But tell me, tell me, my lord," exclaimed the other, with some vehemence, "do you really believe that the note you speak of was ever in the possession of the gipsy?"

"I not only believe it, but I am sure of it," replied the peer. "Hear me, Sir Roger; I pledge you my honour, my soul, my word, this note which you now see, and which is marked with my brother's own hand, must have been in possession of the gipsy after my brother's death; and if it did not come to me from you, it must at all events have come through some one who received it of the gipsy." Nor in this a.s.sertion did he speak falsely; for the note was one of those which he had sent to the gipsy by Sir William Ryder, and which had accidentally returned to his own possession.

It is wonderful how easily men can sometimes satisfy their conscience.

Sir Roger did not pause to ask any very minute explanation: the vehemence with which his n.o.ble entertainer spoke convinced him that in some sense he spoke sincerely; and he would have been very sorry, by any indiscreet question, to have discovered that there was any thing like a double meaning in the words. "Well, well," he said, "I think I do remember something of the transaction, my lord; and I doubt not that a few moments' thought will bring it all back clearly to my memory."

The peer pressed his hand. "Well, then, Sir Roger," he said, "so much for my affairs when they are all settled: hear what I wish to do for you. I propose to give you apartments in my house at Dimden, where you shall undertake to superintend all my improvements and works of taste, for which you will favour me by receiving a deed of annuity for one thousand per annum _during my life_. I am sorry that I cannot make it permanent, but I have not the power; all I can do can only last as long as my life lasts."

Bright, bright grew the eyes of Sir Roger Millington; and, bowing low before the peer, he uttered a few words of thanks, and cast himself back into his chair to enjoy the glad transition from a state of beggary and despair to the prospect of affluence and luxury such as he had never hoped to see again. All scruples were swallowed up in satisfaction; not even a shadow of them remained; and he was now only anxious to prove his zeal in those services which were to merit so n.o.ble a reward.

The peer had seated himself, also, with the note of which he spoke laid on the table before him; and it was not difficult for him to see that the feelings of the serviceable Sir Roger Millington were undergoing the exact sort of transition which he desired. He accordingly entered into further explanations; and Sir Roger, in his eagerness to merit the favour of so generous a patron, proposed of his own free will to write his name upon the note in such a manner as to give every apparent veracity to the recollections to which he was to swear.

"You will find the butler's pen and ink in the buffet," said the peer, in reply; "dip your pen first in the claret, Sir Roger, to make the ink look faint and old. Only put your name; no date--no date; never be too precise. Thank you--thank you: now he cannot escape me."

"But, my lord," said Sir Roger, "as I am to swear to the person of the gipsy from whom I received the note, will it not be better that I should see him first before he is taken up; so that I may identify him at once without any appearance of connivance?"

"That is, I am afraid, impossible," replied the peer; "for we have found out that he and his fellows have a design upon the deer in Dimden Park this very night, and a large party of keepers have been a.s.sembled to arrest them, so that between twelve and one they will all be prisoners. Otherwise it might have been better as you say."

"But there is time before that," said Sir Roger, looking at his watch, which--as the dinner hours of that day were very, very different from those of the present time--only pointed at seven even after this long conversation with the peer,--"there is time before that, my lord: how far is it to Dimden?"

"Fourteen miles at least," replied the peer.

"Lend me a strong horse, and I will be over by half-past eight,"

answered Sir Roger. "If I cannot get a sight of him by any other means, I will join the keepers privately, and as soon as ever the business is over, come back here; so that I may point out the fellow at once, if there should be twenty of them. What is his name, my lord?

do you know?"

"Pharold, he is called," answered the peer, thoughtfully. "Your plan is good, but I am afraid it is too late. Let us take care that by trying to do too much we do not spoil all."

"Oh, no fear, no fear, my lord," replied Sir Roger, who was not without hopes of getting a private conversation with the gipsy before his arrest, and who had an object of his own in wishing to do so; for although rogues often trust each other in a manner which--with the knowledge of each other's character that they must possess--is little less than a miracle, no man covenants with another whom he knows to be a villain without seeking some check upon him; and Sir Roger was not a little desirous of having the peer more fully in his power, as some security for the fulfilment of his promises. "No fear, no fear, my lord; and remember, it would never do if I were to point out the wrong man by any chance."

This argument was conclusive with Lord Dewry. The bell was rung, a swift horse was ordered to be saddled immediately, Sir Roger equipped himself for riding, received minute directions as to the way to Dimden, and the peer and his guest were standing before the fireplace, waiting for the horse, each occupied with his own thoughts, and each rejoicing at the event of a meeting which had seemed at first so inauspicious--Sir Roger Millington indulging in dreams of future luxury and ease, and the baron triumphing in the hope that the means he had employed, the dark and dreadful scheme which he was prepared to execute, would bid defiance to accusation, and sweep from his path for ever the man that he most feared on earth--when the sound of more horses' feet than one was heard without, the bell was rung violently, and the servant, entering, announced that a gentleman on horseback was at the door, urging important business with his lordship.

"Did he give his name?" demanded Lord Dewry.

"Yes, my lord," replied the man: "he bade me say that it was Colonel Manners!"

"Ho, ho!" said the peer, his lip curling with a haughty smile: "take him into the saloon. This is a business of no importance, Sir Roger; do not let it detain you. Fare you well, my good friend, and may success attend you!"

"I give your lordship back your wish," replied Sir Roger, "and will wait on you to-morrow at breakfast with all my tidings."

Thus saying, they parted, Sir Roger proceeding to hasten the arrival of the horse, and the peer walking with a haughty step towards the saloon, where he was waited by Colonel Manners.

CHAPTER XVI.

We must now turn to follow the course of Colonel Manners, from the time we last left him at Morley House to the moment of his visit to Lord Dewry, comprising in all a s.p.a.ce of about eight hours. While waiting for his horse he had, as we have already seen, examined quickly, but not the less accurately, into the story of the peasant who had heard shots fired in the neighbouring wood during the night before; and he had thus satisfied himself that there was very little probability of there being any connection whatever between those shots and the absence of his friend, except such as the marvel-loving mood of the old butler and the natural fears of De Vaux's relations had supplied from the stores of imagination. The shots had been fired, it seemed, in a direction different from that in which there were many reasons for believing that De Vaux had gone; and the man himself acknowledged, not only that he had originally supposed the sounds to be occasioned by poachers, but that he had heard the report of one gun on the preceding night.

Convinced, from what he himself suspected, as well as from what Marian had said, that De Vaux had gone to visit the gipsies on the hill, Colonel Manners at once determined to turn his horse's head thither, before he made any examination in the wood where the shots had been heard; and in this resolution he was strongly confirmed by a short conversation with the head-gardener, whom he met as he was just pa.s.sing the gates.

As soon as Manners saw him he checked his horse, and demanded, "Pray, in coming through the garden this morning, did you see any marks of steps in the direction of the small door leading towards Morley Down?"

"No, sir," replied the man; "but I found the key in the outside of the door this morning, so that anybody might have got into the garden that liked; but, however, I cannot see that any of the fruit is gone. Did you hear of any one having got in last night, sir?"

"No, no," answered Manners: "I did not mean to imply that," and spurring on his horse, he rode forward more than ever determined to address his first inquiries to the gipsies. Now Colonel Manners was not a man to pause and wonder what could be the connection between the Honourable Edward de Vaux and the king of shreds and patches from whom he had received the letter, till the time was past for rendering effectual service. Nevertheless, as he rode on, he did wonder much at that connection, revolving in his mind every thing probable and improbable which could account for circ.u.mstances with regard to which the reader wants no explanations; but keeping his horse's chest all the time steadily against the hill, and his spurs to its flanks, to prevent its resisting a method of progression to which he never subjected it except on occasions of necessity. The beast panted, but still Manners, feeling that perhaps too much time had been lost already, kept it up to the same pace, saying, internally, "You would have gone unflinching at the heels of the hounds, my good gray, and the matter is more important now."

The early rays of the sun had licked up the h.o.a.r-frost of a clear autumnal morning, but had left the roads, in consequence, and especially the road up which Manners's course lay, heavy and difficult. The sunshine, too, of the autumn--as we often see with the sunshine of life--had been too early bright to continue unclouded to the close of the day; and now, even as he rode on, a thin brownish film of dull vapour began to creep up from the verge of the horizon, promising rain ere long. Manners spurred on all the faster, not that, as far as his own person was concerned, he cared whether it rained or not, but he had served long enough with nations who follow their enemies by the lightest traces in the dew or in the sand to know that a heavy rain was often destruction itself to the hopes of a pursuing party.

At length he reached the level at the top of the ascent; and, pointing with his hand to the tumulus, he said, turning to those who followed him, "You, William, ride up as far as you can upon the mound, and keep a keen eye upon the whole plain. If you see any one skulking about or watching, give instant notice, and gallop up if you hear me call. You come with me," he added, to his own man; and, taking the shortest cut towards the sandpit, he spurred on towards the spot where he had last seen the gipsies. The bushes, however, were now directly between him and the bank that had sheltered their encampment, so that he could see nothing till he was nearly upon the pit.