The Gipsy Part 42

Manners did not endeavour to carry on the conversation; for, in all such matters, it was his rule to let people go on just as far as they liked, but to press them no further; and although he certainly was not without some feeling of curiosity in regard to the connection between Sir William Ryder and the father of his friend De Vaux, yet he well knew that the only way to come honestly at a secret is to be totally careless about it. The bell was now rung, and Manners was conducted to a room which the servant who had given him admission, and who was an old acquaintance, had with laudable foresight prepared for his use, looking upon it as certain that a visiter who arrived at twelve o'clock at night was not likely to depart before the next morning.

Everything had been carefully provided that he could want or desire; and Colonel Manners, who enjoyed, perhaps more than most men, that inestimable blessing of a heart at ease in itself, lay down to rest, and was soon in a deep slumber.

His repose was not disturbed till the gray of the next morning, when he was roused with the intelligence that Captain De Vaux was awake, and would be very glad to see him. He was not long in obeying the summons; and, after a soldier's toilet hastily made, he rang for the servant, and was conducted to the apartment where his wounded friend lay.

There is something always melancholy in entering a sick-room in the early morning, even when it is to see returning health coming back into a cheek we love. The cheerful light of the young day, finding its way through the c.h.i.n.ks of the shutters, and mingling with the faint but inextinguishable glare of the night-lamp, the pale and sleepy guardian of the sick, the book with which she has striven to while away the hours of watching, and scare off sleep, half-open on a table loaded with drugs and fever-cooling drinks, the warm, close atmosphere, and the drawn curtains, all bring home to our own hearts that painful conviction of our weak and fragile tenure upon health and comfort, and all that makes life pleasant, which we forget in the bright and hopeful light of day.

In the small dressing-room, through which Manners ducted to the chamber of his friend, he found a surgeon who had been brought from London, and who had pa.s.sed the preceding night in close attendance upon the patient. He was luckily one of those men who can form an opinion, and will venture to speak it; and in answer to Colonel Manners's inquiries respecting De Vaux's real situation he replied at once, "There is no danger, sir. He will do perfectly well. I should advise, however, as little conversation as possible, and that of as cheerful a kind as may be, for it may r.e.t.a.r.d recovery, if it do not produce more serious evil."

Manners promised to observe his caution, and entered the room. De Vaux smiled faintly when he saw him, and held out his hand, though he moved with evident pain.

"This is a sad accident, indeed, De Vaux," said Manners, sitting down by his bedside; "but I am delighted to hear from the surgeon that it is likely to have no bad consequences, and to be speedily remedied."

"I should be ungrateful to say that I am sorry he thinks so," answered De Vaux, in a melancholy tone; "and yet I can hardly make up my mind to rejoice."

"Nay, nay," said Manners, "I will not hear you say so, my friend. You can have heard no tidings, you can be placed in no situation, De Vaux, which should make you forget that you are surrounded by people who love you for yourself, and are worthy of your love--who would love you still, under all or any circ.u.mstances--that you have friends, relations, ties of every dear and intimate character that can make health and life a blessing, if you are willing to receive it as such.

Nor should you forget that there are others who may well be dear to your heart, and whose whole happiness for life is staked upon yours."

"Oh yes, poor Marian," said De Vaux: "I am, indeed, ungrateful; for such a treasure as that should compensate for everything. But tell me how she is. Tell me all about her, Manners. When did she hear of this accident? and how has she borne it?"

Manners, though it can scarcely be said that he was puzzled how to answer, yet felt that, with a man of De Vaux's character, it was somewhat a delicate task, especially as, from what the surgeon had said, it might be expedient not to tell his friend the full extent of what Marian had suffered. He was too well aware of De Vaux's fastidiousness not to let him know that Marian had felt as deeply on his account as he could possibly think she ought to have done; and yet Manners did not wish to pain and alarm him by telling him how much she really had undergone.

"You ask me to tell you a long story, De Vaux," he answered, after a moment's thought, "longer, I am afraid, than your worthy surgeon will consent to your hearing at present; but the truth is, in consequence of some other accident or mistake, we never did hear of what had occurred to you at all."

"Good G.o.d!" cried De Vaux, "when with my own hand I wrote to Marian as much as I could write. I do think that servants and messengers were made for the very purpose of breaking people's hearts, or teasing them to death by carelessness."

"In this instance, however," said Manners, "it seems that there were various causes which prevented the delivery of your note; and the consequence was, that, from your unexplained absence, and several other accidental facts which came to our knowledge, we were led to conclude that you had been murdered. I, of course, instantly took arms to avenge you, as in duty bound, and, backed by warrants and gentlemen of the quorum, I have been galloping about the country ever since; so that, in fact, I have seen scarcely any thing of the family at Morley House, and less than all of your fair cousin Miss De Vaux, whose very first apprehensions rendered her so unwell that she has kept her room almost ever since."

"Good G.o.d!" cried De Vaux: "how she must have suffered! Poor dear Marian! Would to G.o.d that I could go to her--but I am afraid that I could not ride."

"Ride! Do not think of it for an instant," cried Manners, "and make yourself easy about Miss De Vaux. Last night, I, for the first time, obtained news of your safety, which did her more good than all that the G.o.d of medicine himself could have done. Nay, I do believe that she would have walked over here with me in the middle of last night, if it had not been that her own ideas of propriety, or, perhaps, her fears of your notions thereof, prevented her from undertaking such a task under such an escort."

De Vaux smiled. "You are severe upon my fastidiousness, Manners," he said; "but that is one bad quality which, I trust, I shall be able to cast away with many others. I have had some hard lessons lately, Manners, enough to bow down the pride of him of the morning star; and, perhaps, I may have more yet to undergo: but, at all events, my vain fastidiousness is gone for ever; so that one good is gained by misfortune."

"As it often is, my friend," answered Manners: "nevertheless, I think Miss De Vaux was very right to stay where she was; especially as she herself was far from strong, and I did not know whither I was about to go; for my friend the gipsy, who conducted me hither, is a man of mysteries. However, you owe him thanks for one service that he has rendered to another fair cousin of yours, Miss Falkland, whom he saved from drowning, at the risk of his own life."

De Vaux had drawn his hand over his eyes when first Manners mentioned the gipsy; but he removed it again, and looked up with pleasure at the tidings of Isadore's escape, though he asked no account of the accident. "Poor Isadore," he said, "and poor Marian, too, for G.o.d knows what we may both be called upon to suffer. Manners, my brain is in such a whirl, with various doubts, and fears, and anxieties, which I can neither explain to others nor unravel myself, that I must, indeed, endeavour to banish all thought of my own situation, and of my future prospects, if I wish to recover."

"Well, then, by all means banish all thought," answered Manners. "It is seldom that I can be accused of giving such advice; but for a man in your situation I think it absolutely a duty to cast from him every memory, and every reflection, which may tend to impede his recovery, trusting and believing that, in those circ.u.mstances where we have no power to deliver ourselves, the Almighty Disposer of all things will act for us far better than we could act for ourselves."

"I must e'en think so," answered De Vaux, in whom corporal weakness and exhaustion had deadened the first sense of misfortune. "Sir William Ryder, indeed, bids me hope, and tells me that things must and will go better than I antic.i.p.ate: but we speak to each other in enigmas; and till my mind and body are capable of clearer thought and greater exertion, I must, I suppose, rest satisfied with a.s.surances, the foundation for which I can in no degree perceive."

Manners, now anxious to lead his thoughts away from any more painful subject, gave him a brief, light sketch of his own proceeding in search of him, and all that had occurred since he had left Morley House: but, warned by what had already pa.s.sed concerning the gipsy, he kept a watchful and a friendly eye upon the countenance of his friend, skilfully turning to some other part of the same subject as soon as he perceived that what he said was beginning to produce the slightest uneasiness. He was surprised to find, however, on how many points De Vaux was susceptible of pain. The mention of his own father affected him as strongly as the mention of the gipsy; and many a casual word, which seemed in itself to be innocent or kind, made him shrink as if some one had laid a rough hand upon his wound. Beginning at length to fear that his conversation was doing his friend more harm than good, Manners rose, adding, "And now, my dear De Vaux, I think I have remained as long with you as friendship can require, or gallantry permit, considering that there is a fair lady, very dear to you, watching anxiously till I shall return and tell her that I have seen you with my own eyes, and that you are living, not dead; recovering, not dying. The good people here, for various reasons, will not hear of her coming to you to-day, but they a.s.sure me that to-morrow you will be able to see her: so that I think I can then promise you a visit; and hope to find that you have in the interval regained much of the health and strength that you have lost."

"I will not ask you to stay longer, Manners," said De Vaux; "for I am too confident of my dear Marian's affection not to feel sure that the tidings of my probable recovery will be the best consolation she can receive; and tell her, Manners, I beg, that the only happiness I antic.i.p.ate in life and health is that of seeing her again."

"I will tell her how happy it will make you," answered Manners; "but without any of the melancholy adjuncts, if you please, De Vaux. I will not spoil the best tidings I have had to tell for some time by such a number of unpleasant negatives as you attach to them; and so, fare you well for the present."

"Manners, Manners," said the voice of De Vaux, ere his friend reached the door, "there is one thing which I had forgot. Do not on any account let Marian think that this wound which I have received was the consequence of any intentional act of my own hand. Bid her be sure that, whatever may have occurred, I was not fool enough or cruel enough to her to think of such a thing. Explain to her the accident as I dare say you must have heard it, and tell her that though they say the pistol must have been c.o.c.ked when I put it in my bosom, I have not the slightest remembrance of its having been so."

"I will tell her all," answered Manners; "but do not fancy that she will ever dream that you did do it intentionally. If you were a forlorn and solitary being like myself, destined to go through life in single unblessedness, people might suspect you; but with so many ties at present, and so much happiness to look forward to, you would be worse than a madman to throw away, not only the crown of life, but all the jewels with which fate has adorned it for you."

De Vaux gave him a melancholy look, but only added, "You do not know all, Manners!" and suffered him to depart. As he was crossing the hall in search of some one who could inform him whether Sir William Ryder was yet awake, he met the object of his search, booted and spurred, as if returned from riding. "You keep your old habits, I see, Sir William," said Manners, as they met. "You must have been up and out full early, indeed."

"Mr. Harley; remember, my dear colonel, Mr. Harley I am for the present," replied the other. "I never sleep before one, nor after five--a habit which was acquired in sorrow and in bitterness, but which I would not now lose for half an empire. But have you seen our poor friend?"

"Yes, I have," answered Manners; "and find him better in body, at least, than I had even hoped. In mind, however, he is very much depressed; and without inquiring, or wishing to inquire, my dear sir, into the connection which may exist between your affairs and his, allow me to say, as some connection does certainly exist, that I am sure whatever will sooth and quiet his mind will tend more than anything to restore him to health. Whatever, on the contrary, depresses him, as he now is, will not only greatly r.e.t.a.r.d his recovery, but may, I am afraid, have, remotely, very bad results upon his const.i.tution. I hope that I do not take too great a liberty with your friendship," he added, seeing a cloud come upon his auditor's brow.

"Not in the least, Manners, not in the least," answered Sir William: "I was only thinking what I could do to relieve the poor youth's mind.

I am afraid I somewhat mistook him, Manners, when I saw him with you in America; I am afraid I did not half see the n.o.bler and finer qualities of his mind, concealed, as they were, under an exterior of frivolous fastidiousness. But I can a.s.sure you, that anything on earth I can do to set his mind at ease I will do; and I will go and a.s.sure him thereof directly and solemnly."

Manners detained him for a single moment, to borrow a horse, and to explain the motives of his early departure for Morley House; and then suffering him to proceed, in order to sooth and calm the mind of his wounded friend, he himself took his way to Mrs. Falkland's, glad to bear tidings to those who stood so much in need of them.

Marian was watching at the window as he galloped up; and there was something in the rapid pace at which he came, in the light and agile motion with which he sprang to the ground, and flung the rein to the servant, which spoke joyful tidings. Manners was soon in the drawing-room; and the news he bore was not long in telling. He related all that he had seen, and all that he had heard of her cousin's accident and situation; and although we cannot deny that he softened a little the pain he suffered, and the grief which seemed to oppress him, Manners told her the truth, though he told it kindly.

Marian's face was alternately the abode of smiles and tears during his narrative, and during the manifold answers which he gave to her questions, and again and again she thanked him for all his energetic interest and feeling kindness, and prayed Heaven sincerely that De Vaux and herself might have some opportunity of returning it as he deserved.

Manners only interrupted a conversation which was not without interest to himself, and was so deeply interesting to her, in order to inquire for her cousin, and to put many a question concerning Miss Falkland's health, after the accident of the preceding night. He was still in full career, when she herself entered, somewhat paler but not less gay than ever; and although she declared, and persisted in the declaration, that she was bound by every rule of propriety to fall in love with the gipsy who had rescued her, and to tender him her hand and heart, Manners felt sincerely rejoiced that Pharold had been the person to come so opportunely to her aid. Isadore, indeed, as she recollected one or two words which had been spoken on the preceding evening, coloured more than once when Manners addressed her; but she knew him to be a generous man, and she determined to trust to his generosity for the result.

Mrs. Falkland soon after joined the party; and the house of mourning was changed into a house of joy. Nothing more remained but to write to Lord Dewry, informing him of his son's safety; and this Manners undertook and executed, keeping in mind the engagement he had come under to Sir William Ryder, regarding the concealment of his name. A servant was instantly despatched to Dewry Hall with the note: but on reaching that place he found that the peer had returned early that morning to Dimden, and thither he then bent his steps; but arrived too late to give Lord Dewry even the option of visiting his son that night.

CHAPTER IX.

Dimden Park--a spot which had been hated and avoided by Lord Dewry ever since it fell into his possession, on account of its many memories--some painful in themselves, some painful in their a.s.sociations--had, by this time, not alone been revisited by its master, but had been occupied by him, with a part of his general household, as if for the purpose of longer residence. Such a state of things had been in no degree contemplated by the peer, either when Manners left him, or when he himself terminated his conversation with the gipsy boy who had become his prisoner; but another conversation had succeeded with another person, to whose chamber we must now follow.

The first object of Lord Dewry being to get the gipsy Pharold into his power--trusting to his previously arranged schemes to work his will with him when he had him there--it was natural that he should turn his whole efforts to accomplish his capture before he attended to anything else. The moment, however, that all the means had been employed for that purpose which circ.u.mstances permitted, his attention instantly returned to the plans which he had concerted in order to prove the object of his hatred and his fear guilty of the crime imputed to him, when he should be ultimately taken. The execution of these plans materially depended upon Sir Roger Millington; and for his safety and recovery the peer's next aspirations were consequently raised. As soon, then, as he had dismissed the affair of the boy, and had seen the treacherous scoundrel he thought fit to employ for the purpose of inveigling the gipsy to his destruction set out upon his errand, Lord Dewry turned his steps towards the chamber of the wounded man, sincerely grieved for the accident which had happened to him, and most anxious concerning its ultimate result. Calculating, however, with nice ac.u.men, the irritable selfishness of sick people, he trusted not to the personal vexation which he really felt to give his air and countenance the appearance of grief and sympathy; but as he walked slowly up the stairs, he thought over every point of the part he was to play, in order to cover his individual motives from the eye of the wounded man, and make him believe that sincere interest in his fate and sufferings was the sole emotion which affected his friend and benefactor.

At the door of the chamber to which Sir Roger had been conveyed, the peer paused for a moment; and then laying his hand upon the lock, turned it, and entered with as noiseless a step as possible. The windows were darkened; but there was still enough light in the room for the eye to distinguish the table covered with surgical instruments and b.l.o.o.d.y bandages, and all those appliances and means for saving life which man so strangely combines with the most skilful and persevering activity in taking it. There was the bed, too, and the half-drawn curtains, and the gentleman in black, sitting by the bolster, while a young prim a.s.sistant walked about on tiptoe, for the soothing dose or the cooling drink. A deep groan was sounding through the room as the peer entered; and although he was, and always had been, a man of nerve, without any corporal terror at the thought either of pain or death, there was something in that sound, and all the accessory circ.u.mstances around, that made a sort of shudder pa.s.s over his frame. It were difficult to guess in what feelings that shudder took its rise. It might be, alone, the natural repugnance of the human heart to anguish and dissolution--it might be that he thought of his son--it might be that he remembered his brother, for there were chords of a.s.sociation between the fate of each, and the situation of the man he came to visit, which, like the strings of the Eolian harp, might well be moved to a thousand vague and melancholy sounds by the slightest breath that stirred them.

He advanced, however, lightly towards the bed, and stood by the chair, whence the surgeon rose as he approached, ere the wounded man was aware of his presence. Sir Roger Millington was lying on his left side, with his face turned away, and his right hand cast over the bed-clothes; and it was not difficult, from the slow clenching of his hand, and the rocking motion of his head, to see the intense agony he suffered. The peer paused, and gazed for a moment with some emotion--not, indeed, without a mingling of better feelings--compa.s.sion, and sympathy, and disinterested grief, such as he had not known for many years. It was better than all the acting in the world; and when Sir Roger, whom no persuasion of the surgeon could induce to lie still, turned round with the quick and irritable movement of high fever and excessive pain, he saw the peer standing by him, with an expression of sincere sorrow which could not be mistaken.

A groan and a fearful contortion followed the change of position; but when the first agony was over, he looked pleased to see the countenance of Lord Dewry; and said, in a voice wonderfully strong and firm, considering his situation, "Your lordship is very kind--I am badly hurt, I am afraid--those accursed gipsies took too good an aim--d.a.m.n me, if I do not think the shot must have been red hot, it gives one such torture. I have been wounded before, but never felt anything like this. Do you think I shall die, my lord, ey?"

"Heaven forbid," cried the peer, sitting down; "on the contrary, I trust the very pain you suffer evinces that you are in no danger; for I have always heard that mortal wounds are generally the least painful. Is it not so, Mr. Swainstone?"

"Yes, exactly so, my lord," replied the surgeon, who would probably have confirmed anything on earth that the peer said to sooth his patient. "I had told the gentleman so before your lordship arrived."

"You never told me so," cried Sir Roger, looking up at him angrily.

"Yes, indeed, sir, I told you that I hoped and trusted you would recover," answered the surgeon; "and one of my reasons for thinking so was the very pain you suffer; for, as his lordship very justly and wisely observes, wounds which--"

"But that d.a.m.ned parson," cried Sir Roger, "told me I should certainly die--a foul-mouthed, old, hooded crow!"

"What parson?" demanded the peer, in some surprise and dismay at the very idea of Sir Roger Millington being brought in contact in his dying hours with any one who might lead him on to dangerous disclosures; "what parson does he mean?"