The Gipsy Part 36

"Do not hurry yourself, my lord," answered Manners, calmly: "I have some inquiries to make concerning my poor friend, and the means that have been taken to discover anything of his fate; and therefore, as I sent my horse over to Morley House this morning, I will walk thither.

I wish you good-day."

As it was not the peer's wish or intention to deprive himself altogether of Colonel Manners's influence and support in his further measures against the gipsy--although he heartily desired his absence for the time--he changed his tone in some degree, and pressed Manners to stay; but took care, at the same time, to add such inducements as he knew were not very likely to have any weight with him, a.s.suring him that the distance was full five miles, and the road fatiguing and hilly.

Manners, however, as the peer expected, persisted in his design; and, taking leave, he walked out into the park, while Lord Dewry left the room, as if to proceed to the apartment of Sir Roger Millington.

Before following him, however, it may be as well to say, that Manners did not direct his steps, in the first instance, to Morley House; but thinking, "His lordship, in his concern for this Sir Roger Millington, seems entirely to have forgotten the poor keeper they talked of," he stopped at the gate, and inquired whither the wounded man had been carried. The old woman at the lodge gave him the necessary direction; and proceeding to the cottage which she described, Manners entered with that sort of frank good feeling that stands on no ceremonies where the object is humane.

He found the wounded keeper still suffering considerably; and he found also, as he had been inclined to suspect, that the attention of the surgeon having been hitherto occupied by the patient of higher rank, the keeper had been entirely neglected. He was consequently more ill and feverish than the nature of his wound would otherwise have accounted for; and Manners, knowing, from much experience in such occurrences, that if proper care were not taken, a slight injury might have a fatal termination, instantly despatched a messenger for the surgeon who was attending Miss De Vaux, and kindly waited his arrival.

In conversation with the keeper, he learned that Pharold had not been present when the guns were fired, and from him, also, he heard the particulars of the affray in Dimden Park, the wound the man had received not having been sufficiently severe to deprive him of the power of observing everything that occurred around him afterward. By the whole of his narrative the character of Pharold rose in Manners's opinion, and his hopes of De Vaux's safety were strengthened: but still he determined to act as if such hopes did not exist; and accompanying the surgeon on his late return to the village near Morley House, he prepared to pursue the search for the gipsy as ardently as ever. What followed his arrival we have already seen.

In the mean while Lord Dewry proceeded through the long and somewhat dreary galleries of Dimden House to a distant apartment, but not to the chamber in which the partic.i.p.ator in his dark schemes lay on a bed of agony and distress. The room he sought was solitary; and, ringing the bell, he ordered Harvey, the head keeper, to be sent to him. The man was already in the house, waiting his orders, and somewhat apprehensive of his lord's displeasure at the failure of his plans.

But as long as Pharold was alive and free, there was a demon of fear in the bosom of Lord Dewry that cowed the more violent pa.s.sions of his nature in the presence of those whom he used as his tools. The consciousness of the designs in which he employed them made him treat them gently, from vague but anxious surmises that, notwithstanding all his care, they might suspect the motives of the plans they mingled with.

Although, then, in his heart, he could have felled the keeper to the earth for letting Pharold escape him. In addressed him mildly when he presented himself. "Why, how is this, Harvey?" he said: "you have let the game escape us. There must have been a fault somewhere."

"The fault was in the cursed cowardice of the fellows that were with me, my lord," replied the keeper; "if they would but have followed me, we should have taken the blackfaced villain any how. Two or three of us might have got wounded, but no matter for that; we should have had him safe here, if they would but have come on. But one fell back, and another fell back; so that when I had got them up against the wall there were but two with me, and two could do nothing against a good dozen."

"Let me hear how the whole business took place," said the peer: "remember that I have no full account of it from any one; and we must try to remedy what has gone wrong."

The park-keeper was, of course, glad enough to tell his story in the way that best suited him; and he related the events which we already know according to his own particular version. The first error, he declared, was, that several of the men whom he had hired for the purpose of capturing the gipsies were too late at the rendezvous, and several did not come at all. These disappointments, and the delay they occasioned, had prevented his taking advantage of the moment when the gipsies' guns were discharged after the slaughter of the deer, and, as time lost is never regained, had caused the ultimate failure of his whole plan. He a.s.sured the peer, however, that Pharold had been one of the party engaged in the destruction of the game; and that he had been active in the affray wherein Sir Roger Millington and the keeper had been wounded. Some of the other men, he said, were not very clear about these facts, but he was ready to swear to it. He then related how the boy William had been seized by two of his party, who had been detached for that purpose; and he added a long account of the measures which he had taken in order to trace the gipsies in their flight.

"Is the keeper badly wounded?" demanded the peer, thoughtfully.

"He did not seem bad at first, my lord," replied the man; "but they say he is much worse this afternoon, and his wife is afraid he will die."

The peer muttered something between his teeth, which might be, "So much the better;" but this sound reached Harvey's ears but imperfectly, and Lord Dewry went on in a louder tone, "Poor fellow!

have you seen him, Harvey?"

"Not myself, my lord," answered the keeper; "but his wife came up to see if the doctor could go down, and I spoke with her for a minute."

"Poor fellow!" said the peer; "but we must take care that his murderer does not escape, Harvey. Have you thought of no way by which we can catch him?"

"Why, he is a keen hand, that Pharold, my lord," replied the keeper; "but I do think we can manage it, if your lordship likes to try."

"Try!" said Lord Dewry: "I will make him a rich and happy man, Harvey, who brings that villain to justice. But how do you think it can be managed?"

"Why, I scarcely know as yet, my lord," answered the keeper; "I have had sure eyes upon some of the gipsy folks, and think I can make out whereabouts they have gone to; but Pharold knows better than to go with them. Besides, he was in the park there, not many hours ago, in the broad daylight."

"Impudent villain!" cried the peer; "but what in the name of Heaven could bring him there? Are you sure it was he?"

"I saw him with my own eyes, my lord," replied the keeper; "and had nearly caught him with my own hands; for we had him pinned in between seven and eight of us and the river: but without minding us more than if we had been rabbits, he took to the water like a hard-run fox, and swam the river outright."

Lord Dewry paused; for there was something in the daring hardihood of the gipsy congenial to the bold and fearless spirit which had animated himself in early years; and he felt a sort of stern admiration which even hatred could not quell. At length, however, he repeated, "But what could bring him here? He could not be fool enough to come for the sole purpose of daring his pursuers."

"No, no, my lord," answered Harvey. "He came after this boy that we caught, I dare say. The boy may be a bit of a relation, or, at all events, a friend; and they did not know what had become of him, for he was taken apart. Now, my lord, I was thinking--if, might be so bold--that one might, perhaps, turn this boy to some account, and get him--do you see, my lord?"

The mind of the peer had been so long habituated to revolve dark and tortuous schemes, that it was apt and ready to comprehend the significant word, or half-spoken hint, which often forms the language of those who are afraid to give their purposes full utterance. Thus he gained an instant insight into the nature of the plan which the keeper had conceived, although he saw not the details; and he answered, "I do see, Harvey, I do see! That is to say, I see what you mean; but I do not see how it is to be managed. If the boy had any means of communicating with his own gang, he might, perhaps, lure the chief villain of the whole into our net; but we know not where they are, and he, in all probability, is still more ignorant."

"I know well enough where a part of them are," answered the keeper.

"Some went down towards the water, and I cannot trace them: but some, for a certainty, went across the common to the Dingley wood, where they are still, I am sure; and I should not wonder if the others soon joined them, for it is uncommon what a fancy those gipsies have for sticking to each other, especially in misfortune; and I should not wonder if they were to hang about here till they hear what becomes of this lad. He may be Pharold's son, for any thing I know."

"Would that he were! would that he were!" cried the peer, vehemently, the memory of his own son crossing the confused crowd of other thoughts that pressed upon his brain. "Would that he were! I would find the means to wring his heart. But still," he added, after pausing for some moments on the pleasant thoughts of revenge--"but still the boy is cut off from all communication with them."

"But we can let him have some, if your lordship pleases," said the keeper. "If your lordship remembers, I told you of a man named Harry Saxon, who always has a good deal to do with poachers and such like, and who put these gipsies up to the deer-stealing. Now we could let him get speech of the boy; and if any one heard of it, we would say it was only to see whether he could swear to the youth, and he would soon take any message to his people for him."

"But will he undertake the task? and can we depend upon him?" asked the peer.

"Why, ye--s, my lord, I think we may," answered Harvey, thoughtfully.

"He's a good sort of a man enough; and besides, I rather think I could send him across the water to Botany, if I liked, for something I saw him do one day, and he knows it too; and so he is always very civil and obliging to me."

"Well may he be so," replied the peer, with a curling lip. "But can you get at him soon? There's no time to be lost in such a business."

"I can get at him in a minute," answered the keeper; "for he came up to my house about an hour ago; and he is in a bit of a fright about all this bad business of the shooting. So I told him to stay there till I had seen your lordship, and I would tell him how things went when I came back."

"Go and bring him then," said the peer quickly--"go and bring him--yet stay a moment, Harvey. Let me consider what is to be done when he does come. He is to be admitted to speech of this gipsy lad; and what then?"

"Why, my lord, I dare say the boy can be frightened into sending a message to Pharold to come down and help him out."

"No, no, no," said the peer, "it must be better arranged than that.

Let me see. The windows of the strong room look out into the close wood, and any one from the outside could saw away the iron bars. Yes, that will do. But the lad himself must be tutored in the first place.

Quick, then, Harvey, go and bring your friend; and in the meantime I will see the boy alone. Do not come in till you hear that I have sent for you."

The keeper retired, and the peer again rang the bell, to direct that the young gipsy should be brought before him once more. His orders were promptly obeyed, and two stout fellows appeared, with the prisoner between them.

"Leave him with me," said the peer, as soon as they had brought him two or three steps forward in the room. The men, who had calculated on enjoying all the pleasures of a cross-examination, and who had even in their hearts formed the aspiration that they hoped his lordship would pump him well, stared with some mortification at being excluded from witnessing the mental torture of their fellow-creature; but Lord Dewry, who read something of the kind in their countenances, not only repeated his command, but bade them wait at the end of the adjoining pa.s.sage till they were joined by Harvey, the head keeper. There was no resource; and therefore they obeyed, shutting the door, and leaving the peer face to face with the captive.

The gipsy youth might be eighteen or nineteen years of age; that season of life when enjoyment is in its first freshness; when all the world is as bright, and as sweet, and as sparkling as a summer morning; when imagination and pa.s.sion are setting out hand in hand upon the ardent race that soon wearies them, and when memory follows them quick, gathering up the flowers that they pluck and cast away as they go, but not as yet burdened with any of the cares, or sorrows, or disappointments which they are destined to encounter in the end: he was, in fact, at that age when life is the sweetest. His form was full of nascent vigour, and his face was fine; but his whole countenance, though speaking, by its variety and play of feature, active imagination, and perhaps a degree of enterprise, betrayed a sort of uncertain, undecided expression, which is never to be seen in the face of the firm and the determined. The peer gazed on him for a moment, seeing all, and calculating all, in order to work upon his prisoner's mind by both his circ.u.mstances and his weaknesses.

"You are very young," he said at length, in a tone of stern gravity--"you are very young to be engaged in crimes like these. What is your age?"

That sort of dogged sullenness, half shyness, half hatred, which a contemned and separate race are from their infancy taught by nature to display towards their oppressors, was the only source of resistance in the character of the young gipsy, whose powers of resolution were naturally small, and whose mind was unfortified by firm and vigorous principles of any kind. It was sufficient in the present instance, however, to keep him silent; and he stood, with his dark eyes fixed upon the ground, and his arms hanging by his side, apparently as unmoved as if the peer had addressed him in a language that he did not comprehend.

"You are very young," repeated Lord Dewry, after waiting some time in vain for an answer--"you are very young to be engaged in crimes like these. Life must be sweet to you: there must be a thousand pleasures that you are just beginning to enjoy, a thousand hopes of greater pleasures hereafter; there must be many friends that you grieve to part with--and some," he added, seeing the youth's lip quiver--"and some that, doubtless, you love beyond anything on earth."

A tear rolled over the rich brown cheek of the gipsy boy, and betrayed that he not only understood what was said to him, but felt every word at his heart's core, as the peer, with barbarous skill, sought out every fresh wound in his bosom, and tearing them open one by one, poured in the rankling poison of insincere commiseration. "Ah!"

continued Lord Dewry, "it is sad and terrible, indeed, to think of being--at the very moment when one is the happiest--at the very moment when one loves one's friends the best--at the very moment, perhaps, when all our hopes are about to be fulfilled--to think of being cut off from them all, and to die a horrid and painful death! and yet such must be your fate, my poor boy; such must be inevitably your fate, as a punishment for the murder committed in my park last night."

"I murdered no one," cried the youth, with a convulsive sob, that nearly rendered what he said unintelligible. "I murdered no one."

"But your companions did," answered the peer, glad to have forced him into breaking silence. "You were not present, it is true; but you trespa.s.sed on my park for evil purposes with those who did commit murder, and are therefore an accessary to the deed. Banish all hope, poor boy; for to-morrow I must certainly commit you to the county jail, from which you will only go to trial and to execution. I am sorry for you, I grieve for you, to think that you must never see again those you love; that you must be cut off in the prime of youth and happiness--I grieve for you, indeed."

"Then why do you not let me out?" cried the lad. "If you grieve for me, let me run away."

"That is impossible," answered the peer; "but perhaps I may do something to make your fate less bitter. Death you must undergo; but in the mean time I may soften the strictness of your imprisonment. Is there any one whom you would wish to see--any of your friends and companions who might comfort you by coming to visit you?"

"What is the use, if I must die?" said the gipsy, sullenly, dropping his tearful eyes to the ground, and clenching tighter his clasped hands together; but Lord Dewry saw that there was something more working in his mind, and warily held his peace. "There is none I should like to see but Lena," said the gipsy at length, with a deep sigh; "and Pharold would not let her come, even if I were to ask."