The Gipsy Part 34

"Without any conditions," answered Manners, "but such as your own heart shall lay upon you, when you have heard all that I have to say to you."

"Then you, too, are one of the few n.o.ble hearts," answered the gipsy, rising; "and I have done you injustice."

"There are more n.o.ble hearts in the world," Manners rejoined, "than you know of, my friend. But listen to me, and let me see if yours be a n.o.ble heart too. Edward de Vaux is, or was, my friend and my companion in arms. We have stood by each other in battle; we have attended each other in sickness; we have delivered each other in danger; and, had he been my brother, I could not have loved him better. I find that, the night before last, he left his home when all the family were at rest; that he went to visit one with whom he had no known acquaintance or business; and that he never returned to those he most loved. Was it not natural for me to search for him with all the rapidity in my power?"

"It was! it was!" answered the gipsy; "and I have judged you harshly."

"I did search for him," continued Manners; "and I found, by footmarks in the earth, that he had gone with the stranger whom he had visited to a lonely quarry, and that from that spot his footsteps are not to be traced. This afforded some cause for suspicion and apprehension; but when the place where his steps disappeared was all stained and dabbled with blood, what was I to think?--what was I to do?"

"To think that he was murdered, and to pursue the murderer," answered Pharold, boldly; "and I have done you wrong: but the habit of suffering injustice and indignity from your race irritates ours into believing that you are always unjust; and, in this instance, the consciousness of my own innocence, too, hid from my eyes one-half of the appearances against me."

"You judge wisely, and you judge well," answered Manners. "There were strong appearances against you; and there were also many minor facts which swelled those appearances into proof so positive of my friend's death and of your guilt, that I should have been unworthy of the name of his friend--unworthy of the name of a man--if I had not pursued you as I have done."

"You would!" answered the gipsy.

"And yet, notwithstanding all this," continued Manners, "I tell you, honestly, that I believe you innocent. I may be foolish to do so--the prepossession may be false--the motives for such belief may be slight; but yet that belief is strong. With powerful evidence against you I felt convinced of your innocence; and, with the power to take you, I let you go free."

Manners paused for a moment, and the gipsy, with his hands clasped and his eyes bent upon the ground, remained silent, buried, apparently, in deep thought. "Now," continued Manners, after suffering him to revolve what he had said for a few moments--"now, I have spoken to your understanding, and I have shown you that my conduct in pursuing you has been fully justifiable, and that I am not one of those unjust and ignorant fools who entertain a base prejudice against the whole of your race, which but serves to drive them on to acts of reckless evil.

I have treated you generously--I have not consulted even rigid duty; and leaving you free to act, I now speak to your heart."

"Speak on! speak on!" said the gipsy. "You speak language that I love to hear."

"I have told you," said Manners, "how I esteem Edward de Vaux; I have told you how intimate have been the bonds that united us--how dear the friendship that we felt; judge, then, of my feelings now, as I stand before you, not knowing whether he be dead or alive, well or ill, murdered or in safety. But hear me further.--There is every reason to believe him lost for ever; and in that belief, not only I, his friend, must remain, but all who loved him--all to whom he is bound by the dearest ties; and I leave you to conceive the agony of suspense which they now endure. Mrs. Falkland--her daughter, whose life you have so lately saved--De Vaux's father, Lord Dewry--"

The gipsy started, clenched his white teeth, and shaking his hand furiously towards the sky, exclaimed, "May the vengeance of G.o.d fall like a thunderbolt on his head, and wither his heart to ashes!"

"Well, well!" said Manners, seeing that he had struck a wrong chord, "pa.s.s him by; for there are others more interested than he, than I, than any of us. There is a young lady, fair, and gentle, and delicate, beloved by all who know her, blessed by the poor and the afflicted, the ornament of her house, the delight of her friends; and to her own immediate family, the cherished, the beloved relic of a n.o.ble, a generous, a feeling parent early s.n.a.t.c.hed away--of a parent whom I have heard that you yourself esteemed and loved--of the late Lord Dewry, I mean; for the lady I refer to is Miss De Vaux."

"What of her? what of her?" demanded the gipsy eagerly: "but I guess!

I guess!"

"It is easy for you to imagine what she must feel," said Manners. "She has been, as probably you know, engaged to her cousin De Vaux for several years, and they have loved each other through life. Their affection has grown up with them from childhood, and has been strengthened by every tie, till at length their marriage, which was appointed to take place in a few weeks, was to have united them for ever. Judge, then--judge what must be her feelings now; but I will not attempt to tell you what those feelings are--I will only tell you in what situation she now is, and leave you to judge for yourself. This very evening, the medical man who is attending her, a.s.sured me that the anxiety and apprehension which she has suffered on account of her cousin, have already seriously impaired her health; and that great fears, even for her life itself, are to be entertained, if this state of mental agony is not soon put an end to by certainty of some kind."

"That alters the whole," cried the gipsy--"that alters the whole! But let me think a moment--let me think!"

"Yes!" said Manners; "think of it,--and think well!--think what must be the feelings of a young and affectionate heart, which, early deprived of the sweet relationships of parent and child, had fixed all its best and warmest affections upon one who well deserved its love,--had concentrated upon him alone all those feelings of tenderness and regard which are generally divided among a thousand other objects; and which had so lately seen him return from scenes of danger and strife to peace and quietness, and, as all fancied, to love and domestic happiness;--think what must be the feelings of such a heart, when the object of all her thoughts and hopes is suddenly and strangely torn from her--when every trace of him is lost, but such as naturally and strongly lead the mind to conclude that death of a b.l.o.o.d.y and violent nature is the cause of his prolonged and extraordinary absence.--Think--think well what must be the feelings of Miss De Vaux, his promised bride--think what must be my feelings, as his companion and friend; and, if your heart be other than of stone, sure I am that you will instantly afford the means--if you possess them--of removing all these cruel doubts and fears, and relieving our anxiety, at least by certainty of our friend's fate."

"You need say no more!" said the gipsy--"you need say no more! I will remove your fears upon easy conditions.--I had not foreseen all this.

Like a fool, I had not remembered that events, which seemed to me all simple and clear, because I was an actor in them and saw them all, would produce such anxiety and fear to those who saw no more than the result; but I have been moved by many another feeling, and occupied by many another event. I have seen men bring ruin on their own heads and mine, by following their own wilful follies rather than my counsel and command; and I have seen a thoughtless and innocent boy entrapped into becoming the sacrifice for the guilty and the obstinate. I have been called upon to punish the offenders, and to endeavour to rescue the innocent; and I have been hunted through this livelong day like a wild beast;--so that I may well have forgot that circ.u.mstances, very simple in themselves, might fill others that knew not all, with strange fears and suspicions; but besides that--besides that--I had other motives for not telling what I knew.--Those motives are now shaken by stronger ones; and for the sake of Marian de Vaux, I will say what I would not have said for the sake of my own life; but it must be on certain conditions."

"Name them," said Manners; "and if they be not very hard to fulfil, doubt not that I will undertake them."

The gipsy paused, and thought for several minutes, and he then replied, "I will, as I have said, put you in the way of finding your friend, Edward de Vaux; and you will find him--if not well--at least in kindly hands. But now mark me. The person with whom he is has lately come over from America with private views and purposes of his own, yet doubtful and unresolved whether he will proceed with them or not. Were his residence in England known to any one, it might force him either to execute the designs with which he came sooner than he intended, or perhaps prevent him from changing those designs, though other circ.u.mstances may render such a change necessary; or still further--"

"In short," said Manners, "he is desirous of remaining concealed; and, as far as I know, has every right to do so, without my inquiring at all into his motives. But you forget, my good friend, that there is as little chance of my knowing this person of whom you speak, as of my betraying him if I did."

"You are wrong," said the gipsy; "there is every chance of your knowing him; you have seen him I know, and esteem him I am sure; and, what I have to require is this, if, by my means, you find Edward de Vaux, and recognise the person now kindly tending him, you shall not, upon any pretence, or to any person whatsoever, reveal his real name and character. You shall recognise him merely as the person that he chooses to call himself, and speak of him as none other."

"Of course! of course!" answered Manners; "he shall keep the incognito, for anything that I may do to the contrary, as long and as strictly as he likes."

"But, one thing more," said the gipsy, "one thing more,--you shall, on no account whatever, lead--or give such information as may lead--the father of Edward de Vaux to the place where his son is."

"That is somewhat extraordinary," said Manners; "but I suppose, of course, that this person to whom you allude is Lord Dewry's enemy."

"He was once his friend," said the gipsy, "and, perhaps, now that lord may speak of him as such, for there is no knowing by what terms his deep and crafty spirit may designate the people whom he most hates.

Not a week ago he gave me gold, and would fain have made me think he loved me; but I knew him to the heart, and I saw the serpent in his eye."

Whatever Manners might think of the evident hatred, strong and reciprocal, which existed between the peer and the singular person with whom he now stood, he did not judge it expedient to risk the advantages he had gained by defending Lord Dewry, especially as circ.u.mstances placed the power of dictating the conditions in the hands of the gipsy. "My acquaintance with De Vaux's father," he said, "has been too short to acquire any knowledge of his real character."

"It would require years, long years," said the gipsy, "to know his character as I know it--long, long years!--or one of those lightning flashes of nature that sometimes, whether men will or not, burst from the darkness in which they shroud themselves, and show at once the deep secrets of their spirit."

"At all events," said Manners, "common humanity leads me to wish much to inform the unhappy father of his son's safety, and doubtless your conditions do not imply that I should refrain from such proceeding, as soon as I have, with my own eyes, seen my poor friend's condition."

"In that respect, you shall be guided by him to whom I send you,"

answered Pharold. "It is sufficient for me to ensure, that the confidence he has placed in me will be betrayed by no fault of mine--that compa.s.sion for a gentle and innocent girl does not lead me to risk defeating the plans of a man who trusts me. I know that when you have pledged your word, you will hold it sacred. Your actions have spoken for you! Will you accept the conditions?"

"I will!" answered Manners; "and only beg of you to conclude the matter as fast as possible."

"Well, then!" said the gipsy, pointing through the valley towards the line of the distant hills; "you see yon moon, just raising her golden round behind the thin trees upon the upland. When she has risen ten palms breadths upon the sky, you shall find me here again, and I will lead you to him you seek."

"Nay, but," said Manners, "I thought you were about to conduct me thither now."

"Doubt me not," said the gipsy, sternly, discovering at once that suspicions, slight indeed, but newly awakened by the proposed delay, were coming over the mind of his companion. "Doubt me not. By the G.o.d that I worship, by the heavens his handiwork, by the life he gave me, by the liberty I value more, I will not fail you. You have spared me when you might have thrust me into a dungeon, and I would not deceive you even by a thought."

"I believe you," answered Manners; "I believe you--only this, I am very anxious, ere I return to Morley House, to be enabled to give some account of him I seek; to be enabled, in short, to afford some comfort to Edward de Vaux's family. Can we not proceed then at once?"

"No!" answered the gipsy. "I must think of my own race too. By the unhappy occurrences of last night, my people have been scattered and have fled for concealment, while I remained to see whether I could find, or could deliver, the unfortunate prey, which those who laid the trap for us had found in the snare. My companions know not yet where I am; and I know not whether they are safe. Thus, ere I go farther, I must see what have been the events of this day to those whom I am bound to protect and guide."

"Be it so then," answered Manners; "but, at all events, you will allow me to give De Vaux's family the a.s.surance that he is living and is safe."

"As far," said the gipsy, "as you dare to trust to my most solemn a.s.surance, he is living, and safe also, if you mean by that word that he is free from restraint, and from any risk of injury; but that he is well, you must not say; for he is ill in body and sick at heart; and it may be long ere he is cured of either."

"That is bad enough, indeed," answered Manners; "but it is so much better than the events, which we had reason to believe had occurred, that the bare fact of his being in a state of security will be an infinite relief to those who love him. I will trust to your word entirely, and both give the consolation which you have afforded to those who will feel it most deeply, and be here at the time you name, though I am not very much accustomed to calculate hours by hands-breadths of the sky; and you must remember that, from Morley House, the moon is seen in a different position from that in which she appears here." The gipsy smiled, with a slight touch of contempt at Manners's inexpertness in a mode of calculating the time, which was to him familiar. "Well, well," he said, "be here in just two hours, and you shall find me waiting you. In the meantime, rest at ease regarding your friend, and speak securely the words of hope and comfort to his family; and G.o.d be with you in your errand of peace. You have acted a n.o.ble part to-night, and there is one that blesses those who do so."

Thus saying, he sprang down the bank to the spot where the sword, which Manners's superior skill and strength had wrenched from his grasp, was lying under a low bush. Pharold s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, and was about to return it to the sheath; but some sudden thought seemed to cross his mind, and holding it up, he gazed upon it for a moment or two in silence. "Accursed be thou!" he cried at length, in a bitter tone. "Accursed be thou, false friend and faithless servant! to leave thy master's hand at the moment of need!" and breaking the blade across his knee, he cast the fragments down the hill, and strode away, scarcely appearing to notice that Colonel Manners still stood gazing at his wild and vehement behaviour.

Manners smiled as he turned to retread his steps; and perhaps that smile might be occasioned by seeing the gipsy wreak his indignation at the failure he had met with in their struggle upon the senseless object which his hand had not been able to retain. Perhaps, too, he might remark how all uncultivated people resemble children; but, at all events, the tidings that he had heard of his friend's safety, and his conviction that those tidings were true, had certainly given him a much greater inclination to smile than he had felt when he came to that spot.

As he thought, however, over all the circ.u.mstances, while bending his way back once more to Morley House, he did not certainly find that his situation was, in every respect, a very pleasant one. He had to remember that the gipsy, Pharold, was charged with two other crimes besides the a.s.sumed death of Edward de Vaux. In regard to the first of these two, that of having been an accessary, or princ.i.p.al, in the murder of the late Lord Dewry, Manners had but Mrs. Falkland's opinion upon the subject to support his own doubts of the man's guilt. In regard to the second, that of having partic.i.p.ated in the outrage at Dimden Park, and having fired the gun by which Sir Roger Millington was wounded, Manners, after leaving the peer at Dimden, as we shall almost immediately have occasion to show more particularly, had visited the keeper who had been wounded in the affray, and from him had learned sufficient to satisfy his mind that Pharold was guiltless of any share in that unfortunate transaction. On that point, therefore, his mind was satisfied; but, in regard to the other charge, he did not feel at all sure that he was not liable to severe animadversion for the lenity he had shown towards the gipsy.

"I do not know the laws of the land," he thought, with a half smile, "quite well enough to be sure whether they may not make me out an accessary after the fact, if ever this Pharold should be found guilty of slaying his benefactor; but, at all events, if the good gossiping world were to get hold of my having taken two or three moonlight walks with him, and having let him escape when I had the power to apprehend him, it would make a pretty story of it." However. Colonel Manners was a man who had too much confidence in his own motives, and too much reliance on what he called his good fortune, though others named it his good judgment, to care much what the world said; and this was probably one of the reasons why that world was well satisfied to load him with praise and honour. He took his way back to Morley House, therefore, tolerably satisfied with what he had done, thinking, "I must now, however, try to soften down Mrs. Falkland's wrath and indignation at my persevering rudeness this evening; but, doubtless, the tidings I bring will prove no small propitiation."

To these thoughts he endeavoured to limit himself, though imagination strove hard to lead him into a thousand rambling fancies concerning the causes of De Vaux's disappearance. Manners, however, had a habit of keeping his thoughts under proper discipline, and always prepared to repel whatever force might attack them. Thus, as he knew, or at least trusted, that a few hours would give him a thorough insight into the real situation of Edward de Vaux, he would not give way on that point, and tried to think of something else. But the light brigades of fancy are like a troop of Cossacks, and the moment they are beaten off at one spot, they wheel and attack another. When imagination found, then, that Manners would not be drawn from his intrenchments by the thoughts of De Vaux, she tried what she could do with the image of Isadore Falkland; but Manners was prepared there, too, and had reproached himself so bitterly with some slight beatings of his heart, which had occurred during his last meeting with that fair lady, that he resisted all thought upon the subject with the heroism of Leonidas.

Having thus reached Morley House in safety, Manners's first inquiry was for Mr. Arden; but the old butler, with a look of solemn importance, informed him that the magistrate had been gone about half an hour, leaving a message, however, for Colonel Manners, to the effect that, having some other business of much importance awaiting his return, he could not have the honour of staying till Colonel Manners arrived, but would come back early the following morning.

"That will do quite as well," answered Manners; and seeing that the cloud of self-importance upon the old man's brow had not as yet quite disgorged itself of its contents, he paused in order to hear what next, and the butler proceeded: "Please, sir, Miss Marian--that is to say, Miss De Vaux, but we always call her Miss Marian, to distinguish from Miss Isadore--but Miss Marian sent her maid down just now to say, that when you come back she wishes very much to see you herself, for she desires to speak with you."