LI B RAFLY 
 
 OF THE. 
 
 UNIVLRSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 . 
 
 V.I 
 
 Ci.^.S019 
 
THE GIPSY; 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 RICHELIEU," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 Ah ! what a tangled web we weave. 
 When first we venture to deceive." 
 
 Sir Walter Scorr. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. L 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, OUME, BROWN, GREEN. & LONGMAN 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 18S5. • 
 
London : 
 Printed by A. Spottiswoooe, 
 
 New-Street- Square. 
 
^Z3 
 
 4^5^; 
 
 ) ??3 5" 
 
 v.\ 
 
 TO 
 
 GEORGE HAMILTON SEYMOUR, Esq. 
 A.M, K.C.G. 
 
 HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY's MINISTER RESIDENT 
 
 AT THE COURT OF TUSCANY, 
 
 &C. &C. &C. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 After having found, on so many occa- 
 sions, that our Hterary tastes are the same, 
 ,^ I must not venture to speak of yours, lest 
 ^ I be led into indirectly praising my own. 
 ^ Permit me, however, to inscribe to your 
 
 A'; 
 
 c\ name a work which I could wish better 
 
 ^ than it is on eveiy account, but for no 
 
 . reason more than because it is dedicated 
 
 • to one whose judgment will not fail to 
 
IV 
 
 discover all the faults, though his kind- 
 ness may lead him to excuse them. 
 
 You will receive the book when I am 
 far away, bearing with me the same sense 
 of your courtesy and attention which 
 every one must entertain who has either 
 required your official assistance or enjoy- 
 ed your private friendship : but if you 
 give ** the Gipsy " even a small share of 
 that hospitable reception which you ex- 
 tend to all who have any claim on your 
 kindness, and to many who have none, 
 you will fully satisfy the expectations of, 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 G. E. R. JAMES. 
 
THE GIPSY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 At that time in the world's history when 
 watches, in their decline from the fat comeli- 
 ness of the turnip to the scanty meagrenes§ of 
 the half-crown, had arrived at the intermediate 
 form of a biifin — when the last remnant of a 
 chivalrous spirit instigated men to wear swords 
 every day, and to take purses on horseback — 
 when quadrupeds were preferred to steam, and 
 sails were necessary to a ship — when Chatham 
 and Blackstone appeared in the senate and at 
 the bar, and Goldsmith, Johnson, and Burke, 
 Cowper, Reynolds, Robertson, Hume, and 
 Smollett, were just beginning to cumber the 
 highways of arts and sciences — at that period 
 of the dark ages, the events which are about 
 to be related undoubtedly took place, in a 
 county which shall be nameless. 
 
 VOL, I. B 
 
It may be that the reader would rather have 
 the situation more precisely defined, in order, 
 as he goes along, to fix each particular incident 
 that this book may hereafter contain to the pre- 
 cise spot and person for which it was intended. 
 Nevertheless, such disclosures must not be ; in 
 the first place, because the story, being totally 
 and entirely a domestic one, depends little 
 upon locality ; and, in the next place, because 
 greater liberties can be taken with people and 
 things when their identity is left in doubt, 
 than when it is clearly ascertained ; for, al- 
 though — 
 
 " When caps into a crowd are thrown, 
 What each man fits he calls his own," 
 
 yet no one likes to have his name written upon 
 his fool's cap, and handed down, for the benefit 
 of posterity, attached to such an ornament. 
 
 It was, then, on an evening in the early 
 autumn, at that particular period of histor}^ 
 which we have described, that two persons on 
 horseback were seen riding through a part of 
 the country, the aspect of which was one 
 whereon we delight to dwell ; that is to say, it 
 was a purely English aspect. Now this cha- 
 racter is dififerent from all others, yet subject to 
 
a thousand varieties ; for although England, in 
 its extent, contains more, and more beautiful, 
 scenes, of different kinds and sorts of the pic- 
 turesque, than any other country under heaven, 
 nevertheless there is an aspect in them all that 
 proclaims them peculiarly English. It is not 
 a sameness — far, far from it ; but it is a har- 
 mony ; and whether the view be of a mountain 
 or a valley, a plain or a wood, a group of cot- 
 tages by the side of a clear still trout stream, 
 or a country tovni cheering the upland, there 
 is still to be seen in each a fresh green English- 
 ness, which — like the peculiar tone of a great 
 composer's mind, pervading all his music, from 
 his requiem to his lightest air — gives character 
 and identity to every object, and mingles our 
 country, and all its sweet associations, with the 
 individual scene. 
 
 The spot through which the travellers were 
 riding, and which was a wide piece of forest 
 ground, one might have supposed, from the 
 nature of the scenery, to be as common to all 
 lands as possible ; but no such thing ! and any 
 one who gazed upon it, required not to ask 
 themselves in what part of the world they were. 
 The road, which, though sandy, was smooth, 
 neat, and well tended, came down the slope of 
 B 2 
 
a long hill, exposing its course to the eye for 
 near a mile. There was a gentle rise on each 
 side, covered with wood ; but this rise, and its 
 forest burden, did not advance within a hun- 
 dred yards of the road on either hand, leaving 
 between — except where it was interrupted by 
 some old sand-pits — a space of open ground 
 covered mth short green turf, with here and 
 there an ancient oak standing forward before 
 the other trees, and spreading its branches to 
 the way-side. To the right was a little rivulet 
 gurgling along the deep bed it had worn for 
 itself amongst the short grass, in its way to- 
 wards a considerable river that flowed through 
 the valley at about two miles' distance ; and, 
 on the left, the eye might range far amidst the 
 tall separate trees — now, perhaps, lighting 
 upon a stag at gaze, or a fallow deer tripping 
 away over the dewy ground as light and grace- 
 fully as a lady in a ball-room — till sight be- 
 came lost in the green shade and the dim 
 wilderness of leaves and branches. 
 
 Amidst the scattered oaks in advance of the 
 wood, and nestled into the dry nooks of the 
 sand-pits, appeared about half a dozen dirty 
 brown shreds of canvas, none of which seemed 
 larger than a dinner napkin, yet which — spread 
 
over hoops, cross sticks, and other contrivances 
 — served as habitations to six or seven families 
 of that wild and dingy race, whose existence 
 and history is a phenomenon, not amongst the 
 least strange of all the wonderful things that 
 we pass by daily wdthout investigation or en- 
 quiry. At the mouths of one or two of these 
 little dwelling-places might be seen some gipsy 
 women, with their peculiar straw bonnets, red 
 cloaks, and silk handkerchiefs ; some, withered, 
 shrunk, and witchlike, bore evident the traces 
 of long years of wandering exposure and vicis- 
 situde ; while others, with the warm rose of 
 health and youth glowing through tlie golden 
 brovni of their skins, and their dark gem-like 
 eyes flashing undimmed by sorrow or infirmity, 
 gave the beau ideal of a beautiful nation long 
 passed away fi:om thrones and dignities, and 
 left but as the fragments of a wreck dashed to 
 atoms by the waves of the past. 
 
 At one point, amidst white wood ashes, and 
 many an unlawful feather from the plundered 
 cock and violated turkey, sparkled a fire and 
 boiled a caldron ; and, round about the ancient 
 beldame who presided over the pot, were placed, 
 in various easy attitudes, several of the male 
 members of the tribe — mostly covered with 
 B 3 
 
long loose great coats, whicli bespoke the 
 owners either changed or shrunk. A number 
 of half naked brats, engaged in many a sport, 
 filled up the scene, and promised a sturdy and 
 increasing race of rogues and vagabonds for 
 after years. 
 
 Over the whole — wood, and road, and stream- 
 let, and gipsy encampment — was pouring in 
 full stream the purple light of evening, with 
 the long shadows stretching across, and mark- 
 ing the distances all the way up the slope of 
 the hill. Where an undulation of the ground, 
 about half-way up the ascent, gave a wider 
 space of light than ordinary, were seen, as we 
 have before said, two strangers riding slowly 
 down the road, whose appearance soon called 
 the eyes of the gipsy fraternity upon their 
 movements ; for the laws in regard to vagabond- 
 ism * had lately been strained somewhat hard, 
 
 * At various times, very severe laws have been enacted 
 in all countries against gipsies. The very fact of being a 
 gipsy, or consorting with them for a certain length of 
 time, was, at one period, punishable by death in England. 
 The greater part of these laws, however, had been repealed 
 before the epoch at which the events recorded in this 
 book occurred ; and that wandering race were simply 
 subject to the regulations respecting rogues and vagabonds. 
 The old spu"it of the penal statutes, however, was not 
 
especially in that part of the country, and the 
 natural consequence was, that the gipsy and 
 the beggar looked upon almost every human 
 thing as an enemy. 
 
 With their usual quick perception, however, 
 they soon gathered that the travellers were not 
 of that cast from whom they had any thing to 
 fear; and, indeed, there was nothing of the 
 swaggering bailiif or bullying constable in the 
 aspect of either. The one was a man of about 
 six and twenty years of age, vsdth fine features, 
 a slight but well made person, and a brown 
 but somewhat pale complexion. His eyes were 
 remarkably fine, and his mouth and chin beau- 
 tifully cut ; he rode his horse, too, with skill and 
 grace ; and vdthal he had that air of consequence, 
 which is at any time worth the riband of the 
 Bath. His companion was older, taller, stronger. 
 In age he might be thirty-two or three, in 
 height he was fully six feet, and seldom was there 
 ever a form which excelled his in all those points 
 
 forgotten, and the gipsies were often visited with bitter 
 persecution long after those statutes had ceased to exist. 
 It is not unworthy of remark, that in Scotland they have 
 been, at various times, not only treated with great lenity, 
 but that their leaders have been recognised by law as 
 sovereign princes, exercising capital jurisdiction over their 
 own race. 
 
 B 4 
 
8 
 
 where great strength is afforded without any 
 appearance of clumsiness. He rode his horse, 
 which was a powerful dark-brown gelding, as 
 if half his life were spent on horseback ; and 
 as he came down the hill with the peculiar 
 appearance of ease and power which great bo- 
 dily strength and activity usually give, one 
 might well have concluded that he was as fine- 
 looking a man as one had ever beheld. But 
 when he approached so as to allow his features 
 to be seen, all one's prepossessions were dis- 
 pelled, and one perceived that, notwithstanding 
 this fine person, he was, in some respects, as 
 ugly a man as it was possible to conceive. 
 
 Thanks to Jenner and vaccination, we, the 
 Enghsh, are now-a-days as handsome a people 
 as any, perhaps, in Europe, with smooth skins 
 and features as Nature made them ; but in the 
 times I talk of, vaccination, alas ! was unknown ; 
 and whatever the traveller we speak of might 
 have been before he had been attacked by the 
 small-pox, the traces which that horrible malady 
 had left upon his face, had deprived it of every 
 vestige of beauty — if, indeed, we except his 
 eyes and eyelashes, which had been spared, as 
 if just to redeem his countenance from the 
 frightful. They — his eyes and eyelashes — were 
 
9 
 
 certainly fine, very fine ; but they were like the 
 beauty of Tadmor in the wilderness, for all was 
 ugliness around them. However, his counte- 
 nance had a good-humoured expression, which 
 made up for much ; neither was it of that vul- 
 gar ugliness, which robes and ermine but serve 
 to render more low and unprepossessing. But 
 still, when first you saw him, you could not but 
 feel that he was excessively plain, and yet there 
 was always something at the heart which made 
 one — as the ravages of the disease struck the 
 eye — think, if not say, ^* What a pity ! " 
 
 The dress of the two strangers was alike, and 
 it was military ; but although an officer of those 
 days did not feel it at all scandalous or wrong 
 to show himself in his regimentals, yet such 
 was not the case in the present instance, and 
 the habiliments of the two horsemen consisted, 
 as far as could be seen, of a blue riding-coat, 
 bound round the waist by a crimson scarf, with 
 a pair of heavy boots, of that form which after- 
 wards obtained the name of Pendragon. Swords 
 were at their sides, and — as was usual in those 
 days, even for the most pacific travellers — large 
 fur-covered holsters were at their saddle bows ; 
 so that — although they had no servants with 
 them, and were evidently of that class of society 
 
10 
 
 upon wHcli the more liberal-minded prey, and 
 have preyed in all ages — there was about them 
 *^ something dangerous," to attack which would 
 have implied great necessity, or a very comba- 
 tive disposition. 
 
 As the travellers rode on, the gipsy men, 
 without moving from the places they had before 
 occupied, eyed them from under their bent 
 brows, affecting withal hardly to see them ; 
 while the urchins ran like young apes by the 
 side of their horses, performing all sorts of 
 antics, and begging hard for hal^ence ; and at 
 length a girl of about fifteen or sixteen — not- 
 withstanding some forcible injunctions to forbear 
 on the part of the old woman who was tending 
 the caldron — sprang up the bank, beseeching 
 the gentlemen in the usual singsong of her 
 tribe, to cross her hand with silver, and have 
 their fortunes told ; promising them, at the 
 same time, a golden future, and, like Launcelot, 
 *' a pretty trifle of wives." 
 
 In regard to her chiromantic science the gen- 
 tlemen were obdurate, though each of them 
 gave her one of those flat polished pieces of 
 silver, which were sixpences in our young days ; 
 and having done this, they rode on, turning, for 
 a moment or two, their conversation — which had 
 
11 
 
 been flomng in a very different channel — to the 
 subject of the gipsies they had just passed, mo- 
 ralising deeply on their strange history and 
 wayward fate, and wondering that no philan- 
 thropic government had ever endeavoured to 
 give them *^ a local habitation and a name" 
 amongst the sons and daughters of honest in- 
 dustry. 
 
 '' I am afraid that the attempt would be in 
 vain," answered the younger of the two to his 
 companion. ** And besides, it would be doing 
 a notable injustice to the profession of petty 
 larceny, to deprive it of its only avowed and 
 honourable professors, while we have too many 
 of its amateur practitioners in the very best 
 society already." 
 
 ** Nay, nay ! Society is not as bad as that 
 would argue it," rejoined the other. *' Thank 
 God, there are few thieves or pilferers within 
 the circle of my acquaintance, which is not 
 small." 
 
 Indeed ! " said his companion. ' ' Think for 
 a moment, my dear Colonel, how many of your 
 dearly beloved friends are there, who, for but a 
 small gratification, would pilfer from you those 
 things that you value most highly ! How many 
 would steal from one the affection of one's mis- 
 B 6 
 
12 
 
 tress or wife ! How many, for some flimsy 
 honour, some dignity of riband or of place, 
 would pocket the reputation of deeds they had 
 never done ! How many, for some party in- 
 terest or poKtical rancour, would deprive you 
 of your rightful renown, strip you of your credit 
 and your fame, and * filch from you your good 
 name ! ' Good God ! those gipsies are princes 
 of honesty compared %vith the great majority 
 of our dear friends and worldly companions." 
 
 His fellow traveller rephed nothing for a mo- 
 ment or two ; unless a smile, partly gay, partly 
 bitter, could pass for answer. The next mi- 
 nute, however, he read his own comment upon 
 it, saying, ^' I thought, De Vaux, you were to 
 forget your misanthropy when you returned to 
 England." 
 
 '^ Oh, so I have," replied the other, in a gayer 
 tone ; "it was only a single seed of the worm- 
 wood sprouting up again. But, as you must 
 have seen throughout our journey, my heart is 
 all expansion at coming back again to my native 
 land, and at the prospect of seeing so many 
 beings that I love : though God knows," — 
 he added, somewhat gloomily — *' God knows 
 whether the love be as fully returned. How- 
 ever, imagination serves me for Prince All's 
 
13 
 
 perspective glass ; and I can see them all, even 
 now, at their wonted occupations, while my 
 Aanity dresses up their faces in smiles when 
 they think of my near approach." 
 
 His companion sighed ; and, as he did not 
 at all explain why he did so, we must take 
 the liberty of asking the worthy reader to walk 
 into the tabernacle of his bosom, and examine 
 which of the mind's gods it was that gave 
 forth that oracular sigh, so that the officiating 
 priest may afford the clear interpretation there- 
 of. But, to leave an ill-conceived figure of 
 speech, the simple fact was, that the picture of 
 home, and friends, and smiling welcome, and 
 happy love, which his companion's speech had 
 displayed, had excited somewhat like envy in 
 the breast of Colonel Manners. Envy, indeed, 
 properly so called, it was not ; for the breast of 
 Colonel Manners was swept out and garnished 
 every day by a body of kindly spirits, who left 
 not a stain of envy, hatred, or malice in any 
 corner thereof. The proper word would have 
 been regret ; for regret it certainly was that he 
 felt, when he reflected that, though he had many 
 of what the world calls friends, and a milky 
 way of acquaintances — though he was honoured 
 and esteemed wherever he came, and felt a 
 
14 
 
 proud consciousness that he deserved to be so— 
 yet that on all the wide surface of the earth 
 there was no sweet individual spot, where dearer 
 love, and brighter smiles, and outstretched 
 arms, glad voices, and sparkling eyes, waited to 
 welcome the wanderer home from battle, and 
 danger, and privation, and fatigue. He felt 
 that there was a vacancy to him in all things — 
 that the magic chain of life's associations wanted 
 a link ; and he sighed — not with envy, but with 
 regret. That it was so, was partly owing to events 
 over which he had no control. Left an orphan 
 at an early age, the father's mansion and the 
 mother's bosom he had never known; and 
 neither brother nor sister had accompanied his 
 pilgrimage through life. His relations were all 
 distant ones ; and though, being the last of a 
 long line, great care had been bestowed upon 
 his infancy and youth, yet all the sweet ties and 
 kindred fellowship, which gather thickly round 
 us in a large family, were wanting to him. 
 
 So far his isolated situation depended upon 
 circumstances which he could neither alter nor 
 avoid ; but that he had not created for himself 
 a home, and ties as dear as those which fortune 
 had at first denied him, depended on himself; 
 or, rather, on what in vulgar parlance is called a 
 
15 
 
 crotchet, which was quite sufficiently identified 
 with his whole nature, to be considered as part 
 of himself, though it was mingled intimately — 
 woven in and out — with qualities of a very dif- 
 ferent character. 
 
 This crotchet — for that is the only term fitted 
 for it, as it was certainly neither a whim nor a 
 caprice — this crotchet may be considered as a 
 matter of history — of his history I mean ; for it 
 depended upon foregone facts, which must be 
 here explained. It is sad to overturn all 
 that imagination may have already done for 
 the reader, on the very first news that Colonel 
 Manners had a foregone history at all. He 
 had not been crossed in love, as may be sup- 
 posed, nor had he seen the object of his affec- 
 tions swept away by a torrent, burned in a 
 house on fire, killed by an unruly horse, or die 
 by any of those means usually employed for 
 such a purpose. No ; he had neither to bewail 
 the coldness nor the loss of her he loved, be- 
 cause, up to the moment when we have set him 
 before the reader, he had unfortunately never 
 been in love at all. 
 
 The fact is, that, during his youth. Colonel 
 Manners had possessed one of the finest faces 
 in the world, and every one of his judicious 
 
16 
 
 friends had taken care to impress deeply upon 
 his inind, that it was the best portion of all 
 his present possessions or future expectations. 
 By nature he was quite the reverse of a vain 
 man; but when he saw that the great ma- 
 jority of those by whom he was surrounded 
 admired the beauties of his face far more than 
 the beauties of his mind, and loved him for 
 the symmetry of his external person more than 
 for the qualities of his heart, of course the 
 conviction that, however much esteem and re- 
 spect might be gained by mental perfections, 
 aifection was only given to beauty, became an 
 integral part of that fine texture of memories 
 and ideas, which, though I do not think it, as 
 some have done, the mind itself, I yet look 
 upon as the mind's innermost garment. Such 
 was the case when, at the age of about 
 twenty, he was attacked by the small-pox. For 
 a length of time he was not allowed to see a 
 looking-glass, the physicians mildly telHng him 
 that his appearance would improve, that they 
 trusted no great traces would remain : but when 
 he did see a looking-glass, he certainly saw the 
 reflection of somebody he had never seen before. 
 In the mean while, his relations had too much 
 regard for their own persons to come near him ; 
 
17 
 
 and when, after having purified in the country, 
 he went to visit an antique female cousin, who 
 had been a card-playing belle in the reign of 
 his Majesty of blessed memory. King George the 
 First, the old lady first made him a profound 
 courtesy, taking him for a stranger ; and when 
 she discovered who he was, burst forth with 
 — ** Good God, Charles, you are perfectly 
 frightful I " 
 
 To the same conclusion Charles Manners 
 had by this time come himself; and the very 
 modesty of his original nature now leagued with 
 one of the deceptions of vanity, and made him 
 believe that he could never, by any circum- 
 stances or events, obtain love. Nevertheless 
 he made up liis mind to his fate entirely, and 
 determined neither to seek for, nor to think of, 
 a good that could not be his. Indeed, at first, 
 according to the usual extravagance of man's 
 nature, he flew to the very far extreme, and 
 beheved that — putting woman's love out of 
 the question — even the more intimate friend- 
 ship and affection of his fellow men might be 
 influenced by his changed appearance, and that 
 he would be always more or less an object of 
 that pity which touches upon scorn. These 
 ideas his conunerce with the world soon showed 
 
18 
 
 him to be fallacious ; but in the mean time they 
 had a certain ejffect upon his conduct. Pos- 
 sessing a consciousness of great powers of mind 
 and fine qualities of the heart, he determined 
 to cultivate and employ them to the utmost, 
 and compel esteem and respect, if love and 
 affection v^ere not to be obtained. In his 
 course through the army, too, the sort of ani- 
 mosity v^hich he felt against his ow^n ugliness, — 
 which had cut him off from happiness, of a sort 
 that he was well calculated to enjoy, — together 
 with that mental and corporeal complexion 
 which did not suffer him to know what fear is, 
 led him to be somewhat careless of his own per- 
 son ; and during his earlier years of service he 
 acquired the name of rash Charles Manners. 
 But it was soon found that, wherever the con- 
 duct of any enterprise was intrusted to his 
 judgment, its success was almost certain ; and 
 that skill and intrepidity with him went hand 
 in hand. 
 
 Gradually he found that, with men at least, 
 and with soldiers especially, personal beauty 
 formed no necessary ingredient in friendship ; 
 and with a warm heart and noble feelings — 
 guarded, however, by wisdom and discretion — 
 he soon rendered himself universally liked and 
 
19 
 
 esteemed in the different corps with which he 
 served, and had an opportunity of selecting one 
 or two of his fellow officers for more intimate 
 regard. Unfortunately, however, he saw no 
 reason to change his opinion in respect to 
 woman's love. Indeed, he sought not to change 
 it ; for, as we have already said, the belief that 
 female affection could only be won by personal 
 beauty, was one of those intimate convictions 
 which were interwoven vsdth all the fabric of 
 his ideas. He ceased to think of it ; he devoted 
 himself entirely to his profession — he won 
 honour and the highest renown — he found 
 himself liked and esteemed by his military com- 
 panions, courted and admired in general society; 
 and he was content. At least, if he was not 
 content, the regrets which would not wholly be 
 smothered — the yearnings for nearer ties and 
 dearer affections which are principles, not 
 thoughts — only found vent occasionally in such 
 a sigh as that which we have just described. 
 
 His companion, though he remarked it, made 
 no comment on his sigh ; for notwithstanding 
 the most intimate relationships of friendship 
 which existed between himself and his fellow 
 traveller, and which had arisen in mutual ser- 
 vices that may hereafter be more fully men- 
 
20 
 
 tioned, he felt that the length of then- ac- 
 quaintance had not been such as to warrant his 
 enquiring more curiously into those private 
 intricacies of the bosom, from which sudh signs 
 of feehng issued forth. He saw, however, that 
 the proximate cause of the slight shadow that 
 came over his friend, lay in something that he 
 hnnself had said in picturing the happy dreams 
 that chequered his misanthropy ; and, putting 
 his horse into a quicker pace as they got upon 
 the level ground, he changed the subject while 
 they rode on. 
 
 The time, as we have said, was evening, and as 
 the strangers passed by the gipsy encampment, a 
 flood of purple light, pouring from as splendid 
 a heaven as ever held out the promise of bright 
 after days, was streaming over the road ; but 
 as the travellers reached the flat and turned 
 the angle of the wood where the road wound 
 round the bases of the hills, the sky was already 
 waxing grey, and a small twinkling spot of gold, 
 here and there, told that darkness was coming 
 fast. At the distance of about half a mile 
 farther, the river was first seen flowing broad 
 and silvery through the valley ; and a quarter 
 of an hour more brought the travellers to a spot 
 where the water, taking an abrupt turn round a 
 
21 
 
 salient promontory thrown out from the main 
 body of the liills, left hardly room for the road 
 between the margin and the wood. On the 
 other side of the river, which might be a 
 hundred yards broad, was a narrow green 
 meadow, backed by some young fir plantings ; 
 and just beyond the first turn of the bank, a 
 deep sombre dell led away to the right ; while 
 the shadows of the trees over the water, the 
 darkening hue of the sky, and the wild unin- 
 habited aspect of the whole scene, gave a sens- 
 ation of gloom, which was not diminished by 
 a large raven flapping heavily up from the edge 
 of the water, and hovering with a hoarse croak 
 over some carrion it had found amongst the 
 reeds. 
 
 " This is a murderous-looking spot enough !" 
 said Colonel Manners, tm-ning slightly towards 
 De Vaux, who had been silent for some mi- 
 nutes : ^' this is a murderous-looking spot 
 enough ! " 
 
 *' "Well may it be so!" answered his com- 
 panion abruptly : " well may it be so ; for on 
 this very spot my uncle was murdered twenty 
 years ago." 
 
 " Indeed!" exclaimed his fellow traveller: 
 "indeed — but on reflection," he added, "I 
 
remember having heard something of it, though 
 I was then a boy, and have forgotten all the 
 circumstances." 
 
 He spoke as if he would willingly have heard 
 them again detailed ; but, for a moment or two, 
 De Vaux made no reply ; and the next instant, 
 the sound of a horse's feet at a quick trot sud- 
 denly broke upon the ear, and called the at- 
 tention of both. In a minute more, a horse- 
 man wrapped in a large roquelaure passed 
 them rapidly ; and though he neither spoke nor 
 bowed, his sudden appearance was enough to 
 break off the thread of their discourse. When 
 he was gone. Colonel Manners felt that, 
 though De Vaux might take it up again if he 
 would, he himself could not in propriety do so. 
 De Vaux, however, was silent ; for he was not 
 one of those men to whom the accidents and 
 misfortunes of their friends and relations fur- 
 nish matter for pleasant discourse ; and the 
 topic of course dropped there. Perhaps, in- 
 deed, the younger traveller showed some in- 
 clination even to avoid the subject, for he led 
 the conversation almost immediately into an- 
 other channel, pointing out to his friend the 
 various hills and landmarks which distinguished 
 the grounds of his father from those of his aunt. 
 
23 
 
 and dwelling with enthusiasm upon the pleasures 
 that his boyhood had there known, and the 
 hopes which his return had re-awakened in his 
 bosom : and yet there was mingled with the 
 whole a touch of fastidiousness which contrast- 
 ed strangely enough with the warmth of feel- 
 ing and expression to which he gave way in 
 other respects. He seemed to doubt the very 
 love the happiness of which he pictured so 
 brightly; he seemed to distrust the joys to 
 which he was so sensitively alive ; he even 
 seemed, in some degree, to sneer at himself for 
 giving the credence that he did to those things 
 which he most desu'ed to believe true. 
 
 But Edward de Vaux had been brought up 
 in a fastidious school. He had lived at the 
 acme of fortune and trod upon circumstances 
 all his life, and this we hold to be the true way 
 of becoming misanthropical. It is nonsense 
 to suppose that a man turns misanthrope in 
 consequence of great misfortunes. No such 
 thing 1 it is by being fortunate ter et amplius. 
 The spoilt children of the bhnd goddess are 
 those that kick at her wheel ; and those on 
 whom she showers nothing but misfortunes, 
 cling tight to the tire, in hopes of a better 
 
24 
 
 turn, till the next whirl casts them off into the 
 wide hereafter. 
 
 Edward de Vaux stood at the climax of 
 fortune. Never in his life had he known what 
 a serious reverse or great misfortune is ; and 
 consequently he had gathered together all the 
 petty vexations and minor disappointments 
 that he had met with, and, to use the term of 
 Napoleon Buonaparte, had nearly stung him- 
 self to death with wasps. Perhaps, too, he 
 might be fastidious by inheritance, for his 
 father was so in a still higher degree than him- 
 self; though in the father it showed itself in 
 irritable 'impatience, and a sort of contempt 
 both tyrannical and insulting towards those 
 whom he disliked ; while in the son, mingled 
 with, if not springing from, finer feelings : pass- 
 ing, too, through the purifying medium of a 
 gentler heart, and corrected by a high sense of 
 what is gentlemanly, his fastidiousness seldom 
 showed itself except in a passing sneer at any 
 thing that is false, affected, or absurd, in an 
 indignant sarcasm at that which is base or evil, 
 or in petulant irritability at that which is weak. 
 
 As he now rode onwards to rejoin those 
 friends whom he had not seen for nearly three 
 years, accompanied by a companion who had 
 
25 
 
 never seen them at all, the little world of his 
 heart was in a strange commotion. All the 
 joy which an affectionate disposition can feel 
 was rising up at every point against the sway 
 of cold propriety, and yet he tormented himself 
 with a thousand imaginary annoyances. Now 
 he fancied that the delight he felt and ex- 
 pressed was undignified, and might lower him 
 in the eyes of his companion ; now he chose to 
 doubt that his reception from those he had left 
 behind would be warm enough to justify the 
 exuberant pleasure that he himself experienced; 
 while, keenly aHve to the slightest ridicule, he 
 shrunk from the idea of exposing, even to his 
 dearest friend, one single spot in his heart to 
 which the lash could be applied. 
 
 '' I was fooKsh," he thought, ** not to leave 
 Manners in London for a day, and get all the 
 joyful absurdities of a first welcome over 
 before he came down. However, my aunt 
 would have it so ; and it cannot be avoided 
 now." 
 
 As they proceeded, the purple of the evening 
 died entirely away, and a grey dimness fell 
 over tree, and stream, and hill. Star by star 
 looked out, grew brighter and brighter, as the 
 wandering ball on which we travel through the 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
26 
 
 inconceivable depth turned our liemisphere 
 from the superior light, and at length all was 
 night. 
 
 In the lapse of ten minutes more, the road 
 — which, winding about between the hills and 
 the stream, was forced often out of its true 
 direction — had conducted them to a steep 
 bank overhanging a wider part of the valley, 
 and here Colonel Manners divined — for he 
 could scarcely be said to see — that a scattered 
 but considerable village lay before them. Up 
 and down the sides of the hill, a hundred 
 tmnkling lights in cottage windows were 
 sprinkled like glow-worms amongst the darker 
 masses of orchard and copsewood ; and now 
 and then, as the travellers advanced, a bright 
 glare suddenly flashed forth from some opening 
 door ; and then again was as speedily extin- 
 guished, when the entrance or the exit of the 
 visiter was accomplished. Some watchful dog, 
 too, caught the sound of horses' feet, and, after 
 one or two desultory barks, set up his tongue 
 into a continual peal. His neighbours of the 
 canine race took the signal, and — not at all 
 unlike the human species — ever inchned to 
 clamour, yelped forth in concert, whether they 
 had heard or not the noise that roused their 
 
27 
 
 comrade's indignation, so that the village was 
 soon one continued roar with the efforts of 
 various hairy throats. 
 
 The salutation, however, was sweet to Ed- 
 ward de Vaux, for it spoke of home — or at 
 least of a dwelKng that was dearer than any 
 other home he might possess ; and, pausing a 
 moment, he pointed onward to a spot where, 
 on the edge of the hill beyond the village, 
 might be seen, cutting sharp upon the pale 
 silvery grey of the western sky, the dark out- 
 line of a large house, with a plentiful supply of 
 chimneys, of an architecture somewhat less 
 light and fanciful than that of Palladio, but 
 very well suited to a dwelling in the land of 
 peace and comfort. 
 
 " That is my aunt's house," said De Vaux, 
 " and, though it is nearly three miles by the 
 road from the spot where that horseman passed 
 us, it is not much more than three quarters of 
 a mile by the path over the hill. But that 
 path," he added, '* is impracticable for horses, 
 or I should certainly have risked breaking your 
 neck, Manners, rather than take this long 
 tedious round." 
 
 Now, strange to say, the round that they had 
 taken seemed longer and more tedious to Ed- 
 c 2 
 
28 
 
 ward de Vaux, when he came within sight of 
 the mansion which was to end his journey, 
 than it had done at any other moment of the 
 ride. But so it was; and without inquiring 
 into things with which we have nothing to do, 
 we may conclude that he felt some of those 
 vague, unreasonable doubts and apprehen- 
 sions, which almost every one experiences on the 
 first view of one's home after a long absence '— 
 those fears which are the very children of our 
 hopes — that anxiety which the uncertainty of 
 human fate impresses upon our minds, till we 
 are sure that all is well. Who is there that 
 has not gazed up at his own dwelling place as 
 he returned from far, and asked himself, with a 
 sudden consciousness of the instability of all 
 things, " Shall I find nothing gone amiss? 
 Has no misfortune trod that threshold ? Has 
 disease or sorrow never visited it ? Has death 
 turned his steps aside ? " 
 
 Whatever it was that Edward de Vaux felt, 
 although the round seemed a long one, and the 
 time tedious that it had consumed, he yet drew 
 in his rein, not so as to bring his horse quite 
 up, but to check him into a walk ; while he 
 pointed out the house to his companion, and 
 gazed at its dark and distant mass himself. At 
 
29 
 
 that very moment, a single ray glimmered in 
 one of the windows, passed on into another, 
 and then three windows suddenly streamed 
 forth with light. It looked like a welcome ; it 
 looked like a beacon to say that all was well ; 
 and though no man in the present day cares a 
 straw for things that in other years, when skil- 
 fully applied, have won battles and overthrown 
 dynasties — I mean omens — yet every man 
 has a silent, unacknowledged, foolish little 
 system of augury of his own ; and Edward de 
 Vaux and his companion, at the sight of this 
 dexter omen, set spurs to their horses, and rode 
 merrily on their way. 
 
 c S 
 
so 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The reader, who loves variety, will not be dis- 
 pleased, perhaps, to find that this story, leaving 
 the two horsemen whom we have conducted a 
 short stage on their way, now turns to another 
 of our characters not less important to our 
 tale. 
 
 In the same wood, which we have already 
 described as clotliing the hills and skirting the 
 road over which De Vaux and his companion 
 were travelling, but in a far more intricate part 
 thereof than that into which the reader's eye 
 has hitherto penetrated, might be seen, at the 
 hour which we have chosen for the commence^ 
 ment of our tale, the figure of a man creeping 
 quietly, but quickly, along a path so covered 
 by the long branches of the underwood, that it 
 could only be followed out by one who knew 
 well the deepest recesses of the forest. 
 
 This personage was spare in form, and Avithout 
 being tall as compared with other men, he was 
 
31 
 
 certainly tall in reference to liis other propor- 
 tions. His arms were long and sinewy, his feet 
 small, his ankles well turned, and his whole body 
 giving the promise of great activity, though at a 
 time of life when the agile pliancy of youth is 
 generally past and gone. He was dressed in an 
 old brown long coat, " a world too wide" for 
 his spare form, so that, as he crept along with a 
 quiet, serpentine turning of his body, he looked 
 hke an eel in a great coat, if the reader's im- 
 agination be vivid enough to call up such an 
 image. A hat, which had seen other days, and 
 many of them, covered his brows ; but under 
 that hat was a countenance which, however 
 ordinary might be the rest of his appearance, 
 redeemed the whole from the common herd. 
 The complexion spoke his race: it was of a 
 pale, greenish tint, without any rosier hue in 
 the cheeks to enliven the pure gipsy colour 
 of his skin. His nose was small, and slightly 
 aquiline, though of a peculiar bend, forming, 
 from the forehead to the tip, what Hogarth 
 drew for the line of beauty. The eyebrows 
 were small, and pencilled like a Circassian's, 
 and the eyes themselves, sliining through their 
 long, thick, black eyelashes, were full of deep 
 c 4i 
 
S2 
 
 xight, and — to use a very anomalous crowd of 
 words — of wild, dark, melancholy fire. His 
 forehead was broad and high; and the long, 
 soft, glossy, black hair, that fell in untrimmed 
 profusion round his face, had hardly suffered 
 from the blanching hand of time, although his 
 age could not be less than fifty-five or fifty-six, 
 and might be more. His teeth, too, were un- 
 impaired, and of as dazzling a whiteness as if 
 beetle and recca had all possessed the properties 
 their venders assert, and had all been tried on 
 them in turn. 
 
 Such was his appearance, as, creeping along 
 tlirough the brushwood with a stealthy motion, 
 which would hardly have disturbed the deer 
 from their lair, he made his way towards the 
 spot where we have seen that his fellows were 
 encamped. He was still far distant from it, 
 however ; and although it was evident that he 
 was, or had been, well acquainted with the 
 intricacies of the wood, yet it appeared that 
 some leading marks were necessary to guide 
 him surely on his way; for ever and anon, 
 when he could find a round knob of earth 
 raising itself above the rest of the gromid, he 
 would climb it, and gaze for several moments 
 
S3 
 
 oyer the world of wood below him, rich in all 
 the splendid hues of autumn, and flooded by the 
 purple light of the evening. 
 
 Ever, as he thus looked out, there might be 
 seen a column of bluish white smoke rising from 
 a spot at a mile's distance ; and, — after tower- 
 ing up solemnly in the still air for several hun- 
 dred feet — spreading into light rolling clouds, 
 and drifting amongst the wood. Thitherward, 
 again, he always turned his course ; and any 
 one who has remarked the fondness of gipsies 
 for a fire, even when they have no apparent 
 necessity for it, will little doubt that the smoke, 
 or the flame, serves them, on many occasions, 
 for a signal or a guide. 
 
 As progression through thick bushes can 
 never be very rapid, the evening had faded 
 nearly into twilight ere the gipsy reached 
 the encampment of his companions. The 
 hearing of those whose safety often depends 
 upon the sharpness of their ears, is, of course, 
 sufficiently acuminated by habit ; and although 
 his steps were, as we have shown, stealthy 
 enough, his approach did not escape the at- 
 tention of the party round the fire. We 
 have seen that they had taken but Httle ap- 
 c 5 
 
34 
 
 parent notice of the two travellers, who had 
 passed them about a quarter of an hour before ; 
 but the sound of quiet footsteps from the side 
 of the wood, the moving of the branches, 
 and the slight rustle of the autumn leaves, 
 caused a far greater sensation. Two or tl^ee 
 of the stoutest started instantly on their feet, 
 and watched the spot whence those sounds pro- 
 ceeded, as if not quite sure what species of 
 visiter the trees might conceal. The moment 
 after, however, the figure we have described, 
 emerging into the more open part of the wood, 
 seemed to satisfy his comrades that there was 
 no cause for apprehension ; and those who had 
 risen, turned towards the others, saying, ^* It 
 is Pharold," in a tone which, without express- 
 ing much pleasure, at all events announced no 
 alarm. 
 
 Several of the young gipsies sprang up, 
 shaking their many-coloured rags — for, like 
 the goddess of the painted bow, their clothing 
 was somewhat motley — and ran on to meet 
 the new comer; while the elder members of 
 the respectable assemblage congregated under 
 the oaks, though they did not show the same 
 alacrity, perhaps, as the younger and more 
 
S5 
 
 volatile of the party, received him with an air 
 in which reverence was mingled with a slight 
 touch of sullenness. 
 
 '* Who has past since I left you, William ? " 
 was the first question of the gipsy on his 
 retjprn, addressing one of the young men who 
 had been lying nearer than the others to the 
 high road, and by whose side appeared, as he 
 rose, a most portentous cudgel. 
 
 ** A woman with eggs from the market ; 
 tln'ee labourers from the fields ; a gamekeeper, 
 who damned us all, and said, if he had his will, 
 he would rid the country of us ; and two gen- 
 tlemen on horseback, who gave Leena a shil- 
 ling ; " was the accurate reply of the young 
 gipsy, whose face, we must remark, assumed 
 not the most amiable expression that ever 
 face put on, as he recorded the comments of 
 the gamekeeper upon his race and profession. 
 The other, who has been called Pharold, at 
 first, paid no attention to any part of the 
 account, except the apparition of the two gen- 
 tlemen on horseback ; but in regard to them, 
 he asked many a question — were they old or 
 young — what was their appearance — their 
 size — their apparent profession ? 
 
 To all these inquiries he received such cor- 
 c 6 
 
rect and minute replies, as showed tliat tlie 
 seeming indifference with which the gipsy 
 had regarded the two travellers was any thing 
 but real; and that every particular of their 
 dress and circumstances, which eye could reach 
 or inference arrive at, had been carefully 
 marked, and, as it were, written down on me- 
 mory. 
 
 The language which the gipsies spoke 
 amongst themselves was a barbarous compound 
 of some foreign tongue, the origin and structure 
 of which has, and most likely ever will, baffle 
 inquiry, and of English, mingled with many a 
 choice phrase from the very expressive jargon 
 called slang. Thus when the gipsy spoke of the 
 gentlemen he called them raye, when he spoke 
 of the peasant he termed him gazo ; but as the 
 gipsy tongue may, probably, not be very edi- 
 ij'ing to the reader, the conversation of our 
 characters shall continue to be carried on in a 
 language which is more generally intelligible. 
 
 The account rendered by the young man, 
 however, did not seem satisfactory to the elder, 
 who twice asked if that were all; and then 
 made some more particular inquiries concern- 
 ing the gamekeeper, who had expressed such 
 friendly sentiments towards his tribe. 
 
37 
 
 '* Keep a good watch, my boys," lie said, 
 after musing for a moment or two on the 
 answers he received. " Keep a good watch. 
 There is danger stu'ring abroad ; and I fear that 
 we shall be obliged to lift our tents, and quit 
 this pleasant nook." 
 
 " The sooner we quit it the better, I say," 
 cried the beldame, who had been tending the 
 pot. " What the devil we do here at all, I 
 don't know. Why, we are well nigh four miles 
 from a farm-yard, and five from the village; 
 and how you expect us to get food I don't un- 
 derstand." 
 
 " Are there not plenty of rabbits and hares 
 in the wood ? " said the other, in reply ; ^* I saw, 
 at least, a hundred run as I crossed just now ?" 
 
 '* But one cannot eat brown meat for ever," 
 rejoined the dame ; and tiny Dick was obliged 
 to go five miles for the turkey in the pot ; and 
 then had very near been caught in nimming it 
 ofi*the edge of the common." 
 
 ** Well, give me the brown meat for my 
 share," answered Pharold ; ** I will eat none 
 of the white things that they have fattened, 
 and fed up vdth their hoarded corn, and have 
 watched early and late, like a sick child. Give 
 me the free beast that runs wild, and by na- 
 
as 
 
 ture's law belongs to no one but him who 
 catches it." 
 
 " No, no, Pharold, you must have your shate 
 of turkey too," cried the old lady ; for although 
 it may appear strange, yet as there is honour 
 amongst thieves, so there may be sometimes 
 that sort of generosity amongst gipsies, which 
 led the good dame, who, on the present occa- 
 sion, presided over the pot — though, to judge 
 by her size and proportions, and to gauge her 
 appetite by the Lavater standard of her mouth, 
 she could have eaten the whole turkey of which 
 she spoke, herself. — which led her, I say, to 
 press Pharold to his food with hospitable care, 
 declaring that he was a " king of a fellow, 
 though somewhat whimsical." 
 
 The gipsies now drew round their fire, and 
 scouts being thrown out on either side to guard 
 against interruption, the pot was unswung from 
 the cross bars that sustained it, trenchers and 
 knives were produced, and with nature's green 
 robe for their table-cloth, a plentiful supper of 
 manifold good things was spread before the 
 race of wanderers. Nor was the meal unjoy- 
 ous, nor were their figures — at all times pic- 
 turesque — without an appearance of loftier 
 beauty and more symmetrical grace, as, reclin- 
 
ing on triclinia of nature's providing, with the 
 fire and the evening twilight casting strange 
 lights upon them, they fell into those free and 
 easy attitudes which none but the children of 
 wild activity can assume. The women of the 
 party had all come forth from their huts, and 
 amongst them were two or three lovely crea- 
 tures as any race ever produced, from the 
 chosen Hebrew to the beauty-dreaming Greek. 
 In truth, there seemed more women than men 
 of the tribe, and there were certainly more 
 children than either; but due subordination 
 was not wanting; and the urchins who were 
 ranged behind the backs of the rest, though 
 they wanted not sufficient food, intruded not 
 upon the circle of their elders. 
 
 Scarcely, however, had the first mouthfuls 
 been swallowed, and the cup passed its round, 
 when the farthest scout — a boy of about twelve 
 years of age — ran in, and whispered the mys- 
 tical words, " A horse's feet ! " 
 
 ** One — or more than one ?" was the instant 
 question of Pharold, while his companions busied 
 themselves in shovelling away the principal por- 
 tions of their supper, and leaving nothing but 
 what might pass for very frugal fare indeed. 
 ** Only one ! " replied the boy, running back 
 
40 
 
 to his post ; and the next instant another re- 
 port was made to the effect, that a single horse- 
 man was coming up the road at full speed, 
 together with such personal marks and appear- 
 ances as the dim obscurity of the hour per- 
 mitted the scouts to observe. All this, be it 
 remarked, was carried on \vith both speed and 
 quietude. The motions of the scouts were 
 all as stealthy as those of a cat over a dewy 
 green, and their words were all whispered ; but 
 their steps were quick, and their words were 
 few and rapid. 
 
 The motions of the horseman, however, were 
 not less speedy ; and ere much counsel could be 
 taken, he was upon the road, exactly abreast 
 of the spot where the gipsies' fire was lighted. 
 There he drew in his reins at once ; and, spring- 
 ing to the ground, called aloud to one of the 
 boys, who was acting sentinel, bidding him hold 
 llis horse. 
 
 *« It is he !" said Pharold, " it is he !" and, 
 rising from the turf, he turned to meet the 
 stranger, who on his part approached directly to 
 the fire, and at once held out his hand to the 
 gipsy. Pharold took it, and wrung it hard, 
 and then stood gazing upon the countenance 
 of the stranger, as the fitful firelight flashed 
 
41 
 
 upon it, while his visiter fixed his eyes with 
 equal intensity upon the dark features of the 
 gipsy; and each might be supposed to con- 
 template the efiect of time's blighting touch 
 upon the face of the other, and apply the chill- 
 ing tidings such an examination always yields 
 to his own heart. 
 
 It is probable, indeed, that such was really 
 the case ; for the first words of the gipsy were, 
 ** Ay, we are both changed indeed I " 
 
 " We are so, truly, Pharold," replied the 
 stranger ; " so many years cannot pass without 
 change. But did my last letter reach you ? " 
 
 " It did," replied the gipsy, " and I have 
 done all that you required." 
 
 " Did you obtain a sight of him?" demanded 
 the other, eagerly. 
 
 " I did," answered the gipsy, *' in the park, as 
 he walked alone — I leaped the wall, and " 
 
 Hitherto, all those first hurried feelings which 
 crowd upon us when, after a long lapse of years, 
 we meet again with some one whom circum- 
 stances have connected closely with us in the 
 past, had prevented the gipsy and his com- 
 panion from remarking — or rather fi:om remem- 
 bering — the presence of so many witnesses. In 
 the midst of what he was sajdng, however, the 
 
eye of Pharold glanced for a moment from the 
 face of his companion to the circle by the fire, 
 and he suddenly stopped. The other under- 
 stood his motive at once, and replied, '^ True, 
 true ; let us come away for a moment, for I must 
 hear it all." 
 
 " Of course," answered Pharold, " though 
 you will hear much, perhaps, that you would 
 rather not hear. But come, let us go into the 
 road ; we shall be farther there from human ears 
 than any where else." 
 
 As they walked towards the highway both 
 were silent ; for there is not such a dumb thing 
 on the face of the earth as deep emotion ; and 
 for some reason, which may or may not be 
 explained hereafter, both the stranger and the 
 gipsy were more moved by their meeting in 
 that spot than many less firm spirits have been 
 on occasions of more apparent importance. 
 
 After thus walking on without a word for 
 two or three hundred yards, the gipsy abruptly 
 resumed his speech. " Well, well," he said, 
 " when we are young we think of the future, 
 and when we are old we think of the past ; and, 
 by my fathers, there is no use of thinking of 
 either ! We cannot change what is coming, nor 
 mend what is gone ; but, as I was saying, I 
 
48 
 
 have seen him : I found that he walked every 
 day in the park by himself, and I watched his 
 hour from behind the wall, and saw him come 
 up the long avenue that leads to the west gate 
 -—you remember it ? " 
 
 «' Well, well," answered the other; "but how 
 did he look? — Tell me, Pharold, how did he 
 look?" 
 
 '* Dark enough, and gloomy," answered the 
 gipsy: " he came with his hands behind his 
 back, and his hat over his brows, and his eyes 
 bent upon the ground ; and ever as he walked 
 onward his white teeth — for he has fine teeth 
 still — gnawed his under lip ; and, for my part, 
 if my solitary walk were every day to be like 
 that, I would not walk at all ; but would rather 
 lie me down by the roadside and die at once. 
 Well, then, often too as he came, he would stop 
 and fix his eyes upon one particular pebble in 
 the gravel, and stare at it, as if it had been en- 
 chanted) and then, with a great start, would 
 look behind him to see if there was any one 
 watching his gloomy ways ; or would suddenly 
 whistle, as if for his dogs, though he had no dog 
 with him." 
 
 His companion drew a deep sigh, and then 
 asked, " But how seemed he in health, Pharold? 
 Is he much changed ? He was once as strong a 
 
44 
 
 man as any one could see — does he still seem 
 vigorous and weU ? " 
 
 *^ You would not know him," replied the 
 gipsy, and was going on, but the other broke 
 in vehemently. 
 
 "Not know him? That I would!" he ex- 
 claimed, " though age might have whitened his 
 hair, and dimmed his eye — though suffering 
 might have shrivelled his flesh, and bowed his 
 stature — though death itself, and corruption in 
 its train, might have wrought for days upon him, 
 I would know him, so long as the dust held to- 
 gether. — What, Pharold, not know him?— 
 / not know him ? " 
 
 " WeU, well," answered the gipsy, " I meant 
 that he was changed — far, far more changed 
 than you are — you were a young man when 
 last we met, at least in your prime of strength, 
 and now you are an old one, that is all. But 
 he — he does not seem aged, but blighted. It 
 is not like a flower that has blown, and bloomed, 
 and withered, but one that with a worm in its 
 heart has shrunk, and shrivelled, and faded. He 
 is yellower than I am, though I gain my colour 
 from a long race who brought it centuries ago 
 from a land of sunshine, and he has got it in 
 less th^-n twenty years from the scorching of a 
 
45 
 
 heart on fire. He is bent, too ; and his features 
 are as thin as a heron's bill." 
 
 '' Sad — sad — sad," said his companion; " but 
 how could it be otherwise? — Well, what more? 
 — Tell me what happened when you met him ? 
 Did he know you ? " 
 
 " At once," answered the gipsy ; " no, no ; 
 I have seen one of my tribe with a hot iron and 
 an oaken board make paintings of men's faces 
 that no water would wash out; and none should 
 know better than you, that my face has 
 been burnt in upon his heart in such a way 
 that it would take a river of tears to sweep 
 away the marks of it. But let me tell my tale. 
 When I saw that he was near, I sprang over the 
 wall into the walk, and stood before him at once. 
 When first he saw me he started back, as if it 
 had been a snake that crossed him: but the 
 moment after, I could see him recollect himself; 
 and I knew that he was calculating whether to 
 own he know me, or to afiect forge tfulness. He 
 chose the first, and asked mildly enough what I 
 did there. * I thought you were out of the 
 kingdom,' he said, ' and had promised Sir 
 William Ryder never to return.' I repHed that 
 he said true, and that I had not returned tiE 
 Sir William Ryder had told me to do so." 
 
46 
 
 "Wliat said lie then?" asked the other, 
 eagerly; " what said he to that?" 
 
 " He started," replied the gipsy, " and then 
 muttered something about a \illain and betray- 
 ing him ; but the moment after, as you must 
 have seen him do long ago, he gathered himself 
 up, and looking as proud and stern as if the 
 lives of a whole world were at his disposal, he 
 asked, what was Sir William Ryder's motive in 
 bidding me return. ' Some motive, of course, 
 he has,' he added, looking at -me bitterly. 
 * Does he intend to play villain, or fool, or both, 
 — for whatever folly his knavery may tempt 
 him to commit, he will only injure himself; for 
 at this time of day it is somewhat too late 
 to try to injure me ; ' and as he spoke," continued 
 the gipsy, " he nodded his head gravely but 
 meaningly, as if he would have said, ' You know 
 that I speak truth.' " 
 
 The lip of the stranger curled as his com- 
 panion related this part of a conversation in 
 which he seemed to take no slight interest ; but 
 as we do not choose to know any thing of what 
 was passing in his bosom, we must leave that 
 somewhat bitter smile to interpret itself. 
 
 " I told him," continued the gipsy, '^ as you 
 directed me, that his friend stood in some need 
 
47 
 
 of ^ve thousand pounds, and trusting to his 
 Lordship's kindness and generosity, had directed 
 me to come back and apply to him for that sum. 
 So when he heard that, his face grew very dark; 
 and, after thinking for a minute or two, he 
 looked up two of the walks, for we stood in the 
 crossing, to see if he could see any of the park- 
 keepers, to give me into their hands — I know 
 that was what he wanted. However, there was 
 no one there ; and he answered, looking at me 
 as if he would have withered me into dust, 
 * Tell Sir William Ryder, wherever he is, that 
 he shall wring no more from me. I have sent 
 him his thousand a year regularly, and if any of 
 the packets missed him, he should have let me 
 know ; but I will be no sponge to be squeezed 
 for any man's pleasure ; nor do I care,' he went 
 on, ' who conspires to bring any false accusation 
 against me. I am prepared to meet every charge 
 boldly, and to prove my innocence before the 
 whole world, if any one dare accuse me.' He 
 spoke very firmly," added the gipsy ; ^' and as 
 long as he continued speaking I kept my eyes 
 upon the ground, though I felt that his were 
 bent upon me : but the moment he had done, I 
 raised mine and looked full upon his face, and 
 his lip quivered and his eye fell in a moment." 
 
48 
 
 ** Did lie hold his resolution of refusing ? " 
 demanded the other, over whose countenance, 
 as he listened, had been passing emotions as 
 various as those which the gipsy had depicted : 
 ** did he hold his resolution to the end?" 
 
 " Firmly!" replied Pharold, " though he 
 softened his tone a great deal towards me. He 
 said he was only angry with Sir "William Ryder, 
 not with me, and asked where I had been during 
 so many years ; and when I told him, in Ire- 
 land, he replied, that it was a poor country : I 
 could not have made much money there ; and 
 then he talked of other days, when the old lord 
 took me to the hall because I was a handsome 
 boy, and kept me for two years and more, and 
 would have had me educated ; and he vowed I 
 did mighty wrong to run away and join my own 
 people again, and he took out his purse and 
 gave me all that it contained, and was sorry 
 that it was no more ; but if I would tell him, 
 he said, where we were lying, he would send 
 me more, for old acquaintance sake ; and all the 
 while he talked to me he looked up the walks 
 to see if he could see the park-keepers, to have 
 me taken up, and to accuse me of robbing him, 
 or of some such thing. I could see it all in his 
 eye ; and so I told him that we were lying five 
 
49 
 
 miles to the east; and took leave of him ci- 
 villy, and came away, laughing that he should 
 think I was fool enough to fancy he and I 
 could ever do any thing but hate each other, to 
 our dying day." 
 
 His companion mused for several minutes ; 
 and even when he did speak, he took no notice 
 either of the gipsy's suspicions or of the news 
 he gave him, but rather, — as one sometimes 
 does when one wishes any thing just heard to 
 mature itself in the mind, ere farther com- 
 ment be made upon it, — he linked on what he 
 next said, to that part of Pharold's speech 
 which might have seemed the least interesting, 
 namely, the gipsy's own history ; and yet, al- 
 though he certainly did this, in order to avoid, 
 for the time, the more important parts of his 
 narrative, he did not do it vdth the common- 
 place tone of one who speaks of feehngs with 
 which he has no sympathy : on the contrary, he 
 spoke with warmth, and kindness, and enthu- 
 siasm ; and expressed profound regret that the 
 gipsy had, in his boyhood, thrown away ad- 
 vantages so seldom held out to one of his tribe. 
 
 "Why? why?" cried the gipsy, "why 
 should you grieve ? I did but what you have 
 done yourself. I quitted a life of sloth, ef- 
 
 VOL. T. D 
 
50 
 
 feminacy, and bondage, for one of ease, free- 
 dom, and activity. I left false forms, unnatural 
 restraints, enfeebling babits — ay ! and sickness, 
 too, for tbe customs of my fathers, for man's 
 native mode of life, for a continual existence in 
 tlie bosom of beautiful nature, and for blessed 
 health. We know no sickness but that which 
 carries us to our grave ; we feel no vapours ; 
 we know no nerves. Go, ask the multitude 
 of doctors, — a curse which man's own luxurious 
 habits have brought upon him, — go, ask your 
 doctors, vfhether a gipsy be not to be envied, 
 for his exemption from the plagues that punish 
 other men's effeminate habits." 
 
 "True, Pharold! true!" repHed his com- 
 panion ; " but still, even the short time that 
 you lived in other scenes, must have given your 
 mind a taste for very different enjoyments from 
 those that you can now find. You must have 
 seen the beauty of law and order ; you must 
 have learned to delight in mental pleasures ; 
 you must long for the society of those of equal 
 intellect and knowledge vdth yourself." 
 
 " And do I not find them ?" cried the gipsy, 
 warming in defence of his race ; *' to be sure, I 
 do. Think not that we have none among us as 
 learned and as thoughtful as yourselves, thougb 
 
51 
 
 in another way. But you cannot understand us. 
 You think that it is in our habits alone that we 
 are different; but, remember, that when you 
 speak to a true gipsy, who follows exactly the 
 path of his fathers, you speak to one different 
 in race, and creed, and mind, and feeling, and 
 law, and philosophy, from you and yours. You 
 think us all ignorant, and either bound as 
 drudges to some low rejected trade, or plundering 
 others, because we do not comprehend the ex- 
 cellence of laws. But, let me tell you again, 
 that there are men amongst us deeply read in 
 sciences which jou know not ; speaking well a 
 language, for a hundred words of which your 
 schools have laboured long years in vain. 
 Have we not laws, too, of our own, — laws bet- 
 ter observed than your boasted codes ? But you 
 choose to doubt that we have them, because 
 we put you beyond our code, as you put us 
 beyond yours. When was ever justice shown 
 to a gipsy ? and, therefore, we look upon you 
 as things to pillage. You speak, too, of the 
 pleasures of the mind. Do you think my mind 
 finds no exercise in scenes like these ? I walk, 
 hand in hand, with the seasons, through the 
 world. Winter, your enemy, is my friend and 
 companion. Gladly do I see him come, with 
 D 2 
 
 0. OF ILL LIB. 
 
52 
 
 his white mantle, through the bare woods and 
 over the brown hills. I watch the budding 
 forth of spring, too, and her light airs and 
 changing skies, as I would the sports of a be- 
 loved child. I hail the majestic summer, as if 
 the God of my own land had come to visit our 
 race, even here ; and in the yellow autumn, 
 too, with the rich fruit and the fading leaf, I 
 have a conu'ade full of calmer thoughts. The 
 sunrise, and the sunset, and the midday, to me, 
 are all eloquence. The storm, the stream, the 
 clouds, the wind, for me have each a voice. I 
 talk with the bright stars as they wander 
 through the deep sky, and I listen to the sun 
 and moon, as they sing along their lonely pil- 
 grimage. Is not this enough ? What need I 
 more than nature ? " 
 
 Perhaps his companion, whose mind was in 
 no degree wanting in acuteness, might imagine 
 that, in all the very enjoyments which the gipsy 
 enumerated, as well as in the tone he used, 
 were to be traced some remains of a better edu- 
 cation than that of his race in general ; and might 
 beheve, that, had that education been continued, 
 every pleasure that he felt would have been 
 doubled by refinement. But all this came upon 
 his mind as impression rather than as thought ; 
 
— and the reader woQ please to observe, that 
 there is an immense difference between the two. 
 The truth was, that, ever since the conversation 
 had tiu'ned to the gipsy himself, his companion 
 had been doing what is oftener done than the 
 world imagines ; that is to sav, talking without 
 thinking, and listening ^^dthout attending. In 
 short, he was thinking of other things ; and yet, 
 as we have said, he spoke with kindness, and zeal, 
 and real feehng ; but the fact is, that the lan- 
 guage he was talking was memory. Years be- 
 fore he had come to the same conclusions, and 
 held the same arguments in liis own mind, re- 
 garding the very person in whose company he 
 was now once more ; so that — having, in all 
 the news he had heard, greater calls upon pre- 
 sent thought than he could well satisfy, — as 
 soon as the gipsy began to speak of gipsy life, he 
 turned that topic over to memory, well know- 
 ing that she had a plentiful stock of ideas pre- 
 pared to supply any demand upon such a subject ; 
 while intellect went on, quietly thinking of 
 himself and of the present. This plan, when 
 skilfully executed, has a collateral advantage, 
 which, by the way, is often turned into a prin- 
 cipal one ; namely, that \7hile you let memory 
 go on with the conversation — unless she trips, 
 D 3 
 
54 
 
 or something of that kind — your companion 
 does not perceive that you are thinking at all ; 
 and thus the stranger, apparently, Kstened to, 
 and took part in the gipsy's conversation about 
 liimself, while his inner soul was busy, most 
 busy, with the other tidings which he had re- 
 ceived. By the time that the enumeration of 
 wild pleasures, afforded by a wandering life, was 
 over, he had settled his plans in his own mind ; 
 and, breaking off the subject there, demanded 
 abruptly, — 
 
 " When, Pharold — tell me, when did you 
 see him?" 
 
 He mentioned no name ; and the gipsy, at 
 once dropping the high and enthusiastic tone in 
 which he had been speaking, answered, as to a 
 common question, '* It was but to-day — not 
 four hours ago, or you had not found me here." 
 
 " And why not ? " demanded the other. 
 ** Whither would you go ?" 
 
 " Far away," answered the gipsy, " far away ! 
 I love not his neighbourhood ; nor is it safe for 
 me and mine. He thinks evil against us, and 
 he wdll not be long ere he tries to bring his 
 thoughts to pass." 
 
 " But he cannot injure you," repHed the 
 other ; " in all the things wherein you and he 
 
55 
 
 kave borne a part, lie has more cause to fear 
 you than you have to fear him," 
 
 '* True ! true ! " said the gipsy, '' and yet I 
 love not his neighbourhood. I may have done 
 things in this land, in my youth, v^hen passion 
 and revenge were strong, and wdsdom and for- 
 bearance weak, that I should little like to have 
 investigated in my middle age. Not that I 
 fear for myself; for, from the dark leap that 
 all men must take, I have never shrunk through 
 life. But I fear the sorrow of those that would 
 weep for me, and the unjust mingling of the in- 
 nocent \vith the guilty, for which your laws are 
 infamous," 
 
 His companion mused for a moment; and 
 then, laying his hand upon the arm of the 
 gipsy, he rephed, in a tone where kindness 
 mingled with authority : " Mark me, Pharold! " 
 he said, ^' you know that I nm not one eithei 
 to counsel you amiss, or to fall from you at a 
 moment of need: base, indeed, should I be^ 
 were I to do so, after all you have done for me. 
 But my resolutions are not yet fixed — my 
 mind is not yet made up ; and I must hear 
 more, and examine deeply, ere I execute my 
 half-formed purpose. Still you have no cause 
 to fear j call upon me whenever you need 
 D 4 
 
56 
 
 me ; and, in the meantime, if you please, you 
 can remove from the spot where you now are, 
 but not so far that I cannot find you, for you 
 must help me to the end of all this." 
 
 ** To the common, at the back of Mrs. Falk- 
 land's woods?" asked the gipsy: " they will 
 hardly seek us there." 
 
 *' As good a spot as any," replied his com- 
 panion ; " and in case of necessity, Pharold, 
 here, I have written down where you may al- 
 ways find me in this immediate neighbourhood ; 
 remembering, in the meantime, all that you 
 have promised." 
 
 " I have prx)mised — I have promised!" re- 
 plied the gipsy ; ^' and you never knew me 
 break my word. But what is this you give me 
 with the paper ? I want not gold — and from 
 you, William." 
 
 " But your people may," replied the other ; 
 " take it, take it, Pharold, it is never useless in 
 such a life as yours." 
 
 " I will take it," answered the gipsy, " because 
 it may give me more control over my people ; 
 for although amongst our nation there are men 
 whose minds you little dream of, yet these I have 
 here are not, perhaps, of the best, — not that 
 they are evil either ; but wild, and headstrong, 
 and rash — as I was myself, when I was young. 
 
57 
 
 They had abeady turned in their walk, and 
 were now re-approaching the fire, round which 
 the gipsies were gathered. Their conversation 
 had not been mthout its share of interest to 
 either, and each had much matter for reflection: 
 so that — as thought is not that which makes a 
 man speak, but that which keeps him silent — 
 they advanced, without another word, to the 
 spot where the stranger's horse stood. It was a 
 fine powerful animal, of great bone and blood ; 
 but it was standing like a lamb, in the hands of 
 a little boy, while the beautiful girl, whom we 
 have mentioned as accosting the other travel- 
 lers, now stood stroking his proud neck, and ex- 
 amining the accoutrements with a care that 
 some people might have thought suspicious. 
 As Pharold and his companion returned, how- 
 ever, she sprung away to the rest of her tribe, 
 with a step as light as the moonshine on the sea. 
 
 " She is very beautiful," said the stranger, 
 whose eye had rested on her for a moment; 
 ''who is she, Pharold?" 
 
 " She is my wife!" replied the gipsy ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 His companion shook his head with a sigh, 
 and putting his foot in the stirrup, mounted his 
 horse, and rode away. 
 
 D 5 
 
58 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 While such events, as have just been de- 
 scribed, were passing in the vrood, the tw^o 
 travellers whom we first brought before the 
 reader, and to whom we must now return, rode 
 on; but begging leave to pass over all their 
 farther journey, as it did not consist of more 
 than half a mile, we may bring them safe to 
 the gate of the very house, whose lights and 
 shadows they had seen from the slope above 
 the -village. 
 
 By this time it was as dark as could well be 
 desired. It was not exactly Egyptian dark- 
 ness, for there was nothing in it that could be 
 felt, but the sun was gone entirely ; and the 
 last fringe of his golden robe had swept the 
 sky some time. The moon was not yet up, so 
 that the stars had the sky all to themselves ; 
 but though they were shining as brightly as 
 they did many a thousand years ago, when they 
 were first sent glittering into the depths of space, 
 they did very little to show the travellers their 
 way. 
 
59 
 
 Edward de Vaux, indeed, had taken it into 
 his head to go to the back entrance of his aunt's 
 house. But the truth is, he had worked him- 
 self up, as he came along, into . a belief that 
 there might be some fuss made upon his return ; 
 and had conjured up before his imagination 
 every thing that might or could possibly occur, in 
 which there was the least smack of ridicule, — 
 although all the time he knew perfectly well, 
 that his companion was of too generous and feel- 
 ing a disposition, even to dream that any thing 
 was ridiculous which sprung from the heart. 
 He well knew, also, that those he was about to 
 meet were, by education, and habit, and natural 
 character, the last persons in the world to do 
 or say any thing that was not graceful and 
 hienseant. But still, as his imagination was 
 not the most tractable imagination in the world, 
 but roved hither and thither, whether he liked 
 it or not, on all occasions, he could not get 
 the better of her in the present instance ; and, 
 therefore, in order that every thing in the way 
 of reception might pass as quietly and as quickly 
 as possible, he rode up to the gate of the back 
 court, and after feeling about for the bell for 
 some time, he rang for admittance. 
 
 After a little delay, a coachman v^th a pow- 
 D 6 
 
60 
 
 dered wig, and three rows of curls round 
 his ears, opened the gates, with a lantern in 
 his hand, and demanded what the strangers 
 wanted; but without other reply, De Yaux 
 rode into the yard with his companion, and 
 springing to the ground, exposed his well- 
 kno^\-n face to the glare of the lantern, and 
 the wondering eyes of old Joseph, the imme- 
 morial coachman, who, bursting forth into 
 a loud exclamation, called vehemently to the 
 gi'oom, and the helper, and the stable boy. 
 *^ The oaken doors returned a brazen sound!" 
 and not only those that the old curly-wigged 
 official of the hammer-cloth called to his aid, 
 appeared with ready promptitude, but eke a 
 footman emerged from the passage of the ser- 
 vants' hall, and two or three pippin-faced house- 
 maids were seen " peeping, from forth the alleys 
 green," beyond. 
 
 Thus, as usual, De Vaux's precaution in re- 
 gard to not making a bustle had, in fact, the 
 very contrary effect in the house itself. But 
 this was not all ; his method of proceeding had 
 the very contrary effect with his companion, 
 also, to that which he had purposed. Colonel 
 Manners certainly did think, in the first in- 
 stance, that such an entrance was a somewhat 
 
61 
 
 strange one for the house he saw before him ; and 
 when he found that it was, in truth, the stable- 
 yard into which he had been taken, he thought 
 the conduct of his friend still stranger. But, 
 by this time, Charles Manners had known Ed- 
 ward de Vaux too long not to have some slight 
 insight into his character, and into the weak- 
 nesses thereof ; and as they had ridden along 
 together upon that day's journey, various httle 
 traits, which might have escaped any but a 
 very keen and a very friendly eye, had given 
 him the key of his friend's feelings on his return ; 
 a key which he did not fail to apply on the 
 present occasion. The result was, that he soon 
 comprehended the general motives of De Yaux, 
 though, perhaps, not all the little ins and outs 
 of the business — ins and outs, by the way, 
 which depended as much upon the plan and 
 architecture of the house, and upon the fact of 
 the first landing of the grand staircase leading 
 at once into the little ante-room of the drawing- 
 room, so that the voice and step of any one 
 ascending could be recognised instantly, as upon 
 any thing else in the world. 
 
 A slight smile curled Colonel Manners's lip, 
 as he perceived what had been passing in his 
 friend's mind ; but he would not have had that 
 
smile seen, for any recompense that could have 
 been offered to him, unless it had been that of 
 curing his friend of a folly. But he knew very 
 well that De Vaux was not a man to be laughed 
 out of any thing on earth ; and that, with all his 
 sensibility to ridicule, it was only so long as the 
 sneer was silent and suppressed, that he cared 
 anything about it. The moment that the laugh 
 was open, his pride took arms to defend the 
 position which he occupied, and every one 
 knows that pride would always rather blow up 
 the place than capitulate. 
 
 Colonel Manners did, indeed, wish that his 
 friend could be taught, with the same sort of 
 bold determination which he displayed in op- 
 posing the loud laugh, to despise the silent 
 sneer, which is as often excited in the minds 
 of the worldlings by traits of a good and noble 
 nature as by folly or by awkwardness : but he 
 knew that the only lessons he would receive 
 upon the subject would be gentle ones, spoken 
 by the voice of friendship without a touch of 
 sarcasm. 
 
 "It is a pity, a great pity," thought he, 
 " that De Vaux, who affects to, and perhaps 
 really does, despise the opinion of the general 
 fool, should thus, as it were, make himself a 
 
slave, to the laugh of his own fancy. I hope 
 and trust, that liis fair future bride may have 
 influence enough to school him from these 
 weaknesses." 
 
 Such was all his comment ; and by the time 
 it was made, their horses were in safe hands, 
 and a footman, as antique as the coachman, 
 was leading the way up the back stairs towards 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 De Vaux was somewhat uneasy at the back 
 stairs, and at a distant prospect of the kitchen, and 
 the servants' hall, and the housekeeper's room ; 
 but Manners, though he saw it all, appeared to 
 see nothing, rubbed his boot with his riding- whip, 
 and talked of North America with all the zeal 
 and volubility of a Mohawk. His companion was 
 relieved ; and, following the fat legs and white 
 stockings of the old footman up the narrow 
 staircase, they were soon in a small lobby, which 
 led into the drawing-room. Soft Turkey car- 
 pets covered the floor of the lobby; against 
 each of the piers stood a small antique table of 
 tortoise-shell and brass; and in the deep re- 
 cesses of the windows were placed those im- 
 mense and beautiful china jars, which formed 
 the glory of our great grandmothers. These 
 again were filled with a composition of all the 
 
64 
 
 sweet-scented leaves, gathered from the garden 
 during the past year; and which, mingled with 
 orris root and many a fragrant spice, diffused 
 through the whole air a rich perfume of the 
 eighteenth century. 
 
 But there was music upon the air of this 
 bower as well as perfume. It was the music, 
 however, of a sweet, low-toned woman's voice, 
 speaking some sentences of which nothing could 
 be distinguished but the melody. Neverthe- 
 less, it made the fitful colour come up for a 
 moment in the cheek of Edward De Vaux; 
 and w^hether his heart beat more quickly, or 
 whether it maintained its even pulse, is a pro- 
 blem which we shall leave others to solve ; for, 
 the next moment, the door was thrown open, 
 and the visiters all silently and unannounced 
 entered the room. 
 
 It was a large handsome chamber, fitted up 
 as unlike a modern dravdng-room as possible. 
 There was nothing in it of the last fashion, even 
 of that day ; but all was comfortable, and all be- 
 spoke both taste and affluence. On the walls 
 were a few cabinet pictures, which at first ap- 
 peared dark and dingy, but which, when any 
 one looked farther, turned out gems; and on the 
 rich and massive marble mantel-piece — which 
 
65 
 
 was itself nearly equal in size, and quite equal 
 in value, to a house in a modern square, — were 
 placed pagodas, and feather fans, and screens, 
 and many a little curiosity from different parts 
 of the world, — bracelets that might have clasped 
 the arm of Cleopatra, and idols that had been 
 acquainted with Captain Cook. The room, like 
 every clever room, had a great number of tables 
 of all sorts and sizes ; and at two of these 
 tables, not with hospitable cares intent, but very 
 busy with that sort of idleness which ladies call 
 work, sat two fair dames, who, in point of age, 
 might divide between them the apportioned 
 years of man. The division of those seventy 
 years, however, was very unequal, as the one 
 nearest the door had monopolised at least forty- 
 six of them to herself, and had left her daughter 
 — for such was the other lady — not much more 
 than twenty-three. They were both very hand- 
 some women, nevertheless ; the mother feeling 
 her years as light as a young king's crown, and 
 the daughter, in addition to a very beautiful 
 person, and a face where all that is fine was 
 softened by all that is pleasing — having the 
 advantage of youth, and all youth's graces. 
 There was one peculiarity in her countenance, 
 which, as it had something to do with her 
 
66 
 
 mind, may as well be noticed. It was one of 
 those faces which love not clouds — which smile 
 where others frown ; and as she sat with her 
 eyes bent upon a provoking knot in her work, 
 which for the last ten minutes had defied all 
 her efforts to disentangle it, she was still half 
 laughing at the perversity of the silk, which 
 seemed to take a pleasure in baffling her. "^ 
 
 There was a third person in the drawing-room, 
 younger than either, and very different from 
 both. As she lay upon a sofa at the other side of 
 the room, with a book in her hand, and her eyes 
 bent upon the pages, the light of the lamp fall- 
 ing at the same time from above upon her clear 
 fair forehead, on her beautiful eyelids with their 
 long dark eyelashes, and on the marble white 
 chiseling of her nose and upper lip, she did 
 not appear to be more than eighteen ; but her 
 real age, which we are bound to give, was 
 twenty years, eleven months, and a few days, 
 the exact number of which is forgotten. Her 
 form was Hght and beautiful, and though those 
 who did not love her might contend that she 
 was certainly not equal to the Medicean Venus, 
 yet she was a great deal more graceful than 
 many another goddess, and as fair a specimen 
 of the fairest of earth's creatures as the eye of 
 
67 
 
 man has ever seen since Eve's ill-fated expe- 
 riment in Eden. 
 
 Her hair was of that glossy golden brov?n,which 
 is so beautiful and so seldom seen ; and as the 
 v^hole party had given up the expectation of their 
 visiters for that night, she had turned back the 
 shining curls which would have fallen into her 
 eyes while reading ; so that, with a wavy line on 
 either side, they left her fair forehead bare, and 
 formed a bunch of ringlets behind each ear, 
 that might have defied the chisel of a Chantry. 
 
 As the door which admitted De Vaux and 
 his companion was that which led to the back 
 staircase, the party in the drawing-room con- 
 cluded, naturally enough, that it was opened by 
 one of the domestics on some of the many 
 motives or pretexts upon which a servant can 
 visit the drawing-room. No one took any 
 notice, no one looked up ; and the fair girl 
 upon the sofa went on commenting upon the 
 book in her hand, without knowing that any 
 one was listening to her gentle criticism. 
 
 Thus each of the two visiters had time to 
 make their own observations, if they chose it. 
 A bright pleased smile lighted up the rough 
 features of Colonel Manners, as he was thus 
 at once admitted, without the help of an 
 
68 
 
 Asmodeus, into the very heart of an English do- 
 mestic circle, to each member of which he was a 
 stranger. To him it was a sight full of pleasure 
 and interest ; it was a sight that he had seldom 
 seen even when in England, and which he had 
 not seen at all for several years while serving 
 abroad : but it was one which fancy had often 
 renewed for him in his solitary wanderings, 
 wliich had been painted to his eye in the still 
 night, and in the tented field on distant shores, 
 which had been to him a dream, whereunto 
 imagination could cling without the apprehen- 
 sion of disappointment ; for he had ever thought 
 of it as a thing whereof he might be the spec- 
 tator, but never a sharer in its dearer ties. 
 
 As for Edward de Vaux, he did not choose 
 to make any observations on the scene at all, 
 for, more fastidious in anticipation than in 
 reality, the moment he was in the midst of his 
 domestic circle, a host of bright warm feelings 
 rose up at once in his heart, and trampled 
 every cold calculation of Chesterfieldism be- 
 neath their feet. Passing the old servant, who 
 was himself amused to see the unconsciousness 
 of the party in the drawing-room, De Vaux 
 at once advanced towards the fair girl on the 
 sofa. But there was a sound in his step differ- 
 ent from that of any of the servants, which only 
 
69 
 
 let him pass half across the room, ere her eyes 
 were raised from the book and fell upon him. 
 The sight instantly called into them a gleam as 
 bright as sunshine after a storm, and the warm, 
 eloquent blood rose into her cheek and brow, 
 while with a voice of unquestionable joy, she 
 exclaimed, '^ Edward ! My dear aunt, here is 
 Edward!" 
 
 The next moment, however, the light of her 
 glance faded away, the blood ebbed back from 
 her cheek, and from that moment it was scarcely 
 perceivable that Edward de Yaux was anything 
 more to her than an intimate friend. It was 
 all the work of an instant, and Colonel Man- 
 ners had only time to think, " This is all very 
 odd ! " ere the other two ladies rose to welcome 
 his companion and himself; while the one who 
 had spoken, gracefully but composedly, drew 
 her small foot from the sofa to the ground, 
 and advanced to meet her lover ; contriving to 
 execute what is sometimes a difficult manoeuvre, 
 without showing half an inch of her ankle, 
 though it might very well have borne the 
 display. 
 
 The elder lady now of course took the lead, 
 and expressed her joy at the return of her 
 nephew, in a manner which showed how com- 
 patible real dignity and grace are with every 
 
70 
 
 zealous and kindly feeling. *' And this," she 
 said the next moment, "is of course Colonel 
 Manners ; though you have not introduced him 
 to me, Edward ; but Colonel Manners indeed re- 
 quires no introduction here; for allow me to say, 
 my dear sir, that, even were it not that you had 
 saved the life of my nephew, and rendered him 
 so many inestimable services, the son of your 
 mother, who was my dear and early friend, 
 would always be the most welcome of guests at 
 my fire-side." 
 
 Colonel Manners bowed, and replied, " I have 
 been lucky enough to find amongst my mother's 
 papers. Madam, the letters of the Honourable 
 Mrs. Falkland ; and am aware how fortunate 
 in a friend my parent was, during the greater 
 part of her short life. Most proud shall I be 
 if the son may merit some portion of the same 
 regard which you bestowed upon the mother." 
 
 " You already command it. Colonel Man- 
 ners," she replied : " Isadore, — Marian — Co- 
 lonel Manners I My daughter — my niece. Miss 
 De Vaux." 
 
 Now this introduction puzzled Colonel Man- 
 ners a good deal, for reasons which may as well 
 be explained. He had heard long before, while 
 abroad, that his friend, Edward de Vaux, the 
 
71 
 
 only son of Lord Dewrj, was affianced to his 
 cousin, and that their marriage was to take 
 place as soon as the young heir of the barony 
 could return to his native country, pro\ided 
 that the lady were by that time of age. In 
 the course of their intimacy in other lands, 
 De Vaux had often spoken of his fair cousin 
 Marian, and had indeed on their return be- 
 sought Colonel Manners to accompany him 
 down to the house of his aunt, in order to act 
 the part of bridesman at his wedding, which 
 was to take place immediately. With this re- 
 quest we have seen that he complied ; but he 
 had completely made up his mind to the belief 
 that his friend was about to be united to the 
 daughter of Mrs. Falkland, and he was now 
 surprised to find a Miss De Yaux, towards whom 
 the manner of Edward de Vaux was not exactly 
 that which men assume towards their sisters. 
 Besides, her name was Marian, that of his pro- 
 mised bride ; and although this discovery, 
 leaping over the head of all his o\vn precon- 
 ceptions, puzzled Colonel Manners for a mo- 
 ment, he soon set it all to rights in his own 
 mind, by supposing, what was in fact the truth, 
 that the fair girl we have described was the 
 daughter of Lord Devn-y's brother. 
 
7^ 
 
 All the while he was settling this to his own 
 satisfaction, he was going through the manual 
 of poHteness, and doing De Vaux the favour of 
 talking to Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, 
 while the lover spoke in a lower tone to the 
 other fair cousin. Whatever he said, however, 
 seemed to have no very great effect upon her. 
 She smiled, and seemed to answer him kindly 
 and affectionately ; but she displayed no further 
 sign of that agitation which a girl in her situ- 
 ation might be expected to feel, on the return 
 of her lover from a long and dangerous expe- 
 dition. Once indeed she laid her hand upon 
 the table near her, and Colonel Manners saw 
 that, notwithstanding the general composure 
 which she seemed to feel, that hand trembled so 
 much, that, as if conscious its tremor might 
 be perceived, she instantly withdrew it, and 
 suffered her arm to fall gracefully by her side. 
 
 Manners marked all this, for from their first 
 acquaintance, De Vaux had interested him, as 
 much perhaps by the contrast of the little 
 foibles of his character with the greater and 
 nobler qualities it possessed, as by any other 
 circumstance ; he had gradually suffered a deep 
 regard for him to rise up in his heart ; he had 
 permitted imagination to indulge herself with 
 
73 
 
 bright pictures of his friend's domestic happi- 
 ness ; and in every little trait connected there- 
 with, he had a sort of personal feehng, which 
 made him seek to discover all that he vnshed 
 might he. 
 
 After standing booted and spurred in the 
 middle of the room for about ten minutes, and 
 having learned that their servants had arrived 
 with their baggage early in the morning of the 
 same day, the two gentlemen retired to cast off 
 their travelling costume, and attire themselves 
 in apparel more suited to the drawdng-room. 
 Colonel Manners proceeded to the task sys- 
 tematically ; and, although he knew that no- 
 thing on earth could ever make him hand- 
 some, yet he took every reasonable pains vrith 
 his dress, and was soon ready to descend again, 
 with that neat, clean, soldier-like appearance for 
 which he was particularly distinguished. De 
 Vaux acted differently, as may well be sup- 
 posed, and giving his man the keys of the 
 trunk mails, he cast himself on a chair ; and, 
 with his arm leaning on the dressing table, re- 
 mained for full ten minutes in deep and some- 
 what melancholy thought, while the servant 
 continued to torment him, every other minute, 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
74 
 
 with " Sir, do you want this?" or, ** Sir, shall 
 I do that?" 
 
 Into his private thoughts we shall not at pre- 
 sent pry, although we consider that we have a 
 right to do so whenever the necessities of the tale 
 may demand it ; but in this instance it is only 
 requisite to give the ending reflection of his re- 
 verie, w^liich may serve as a key to all the rest. 
 '' How cold Manners must have thought her 
 reception of me ! and yet her own lips, which 
 never from her infancy spoke any thing but 
 truth, have given me the assurance of her love. 
 Well, we cannot change people's nature ! and 
 yet she was very different as a child ! " 
 
 Such were the last dying words of his medi- 
 tation ; and then, starting up, he proceeded 
 hastily to dress himself, addressing the servant 
 with as much impatience as if the man had been 
 dreaming instead of himself. " There, give me 
 that coat," he exclaimed. " Set down the 
 dressing-case here. Put those shoes on the 
 other side of the table ; and throw the stockings 
 over the back of the chair. How slow you are, 
 William 1 Here now, pull off these great boots, 
 and then go and see that old Joseph does not 
 poison the horses with any of his nostrums." 
 These various commands the man obeyed with 
 
75 
 
 as much promptitude as possible ; and after lie 
 was gone, De Vaux proceeded to dress himself 
 with all the haste of one who is afraid of bemg 
 detected in loitering away his time. He was 
 half way through the operation, and was just 
 arranging his hair, when Manners^ whose rooms 
 were on the opposite side of the corridor, rejoined 
 him ; and they descended together, without 
 having made any comment on the subject which 
 was certainly next to the heart of Edward de 
 Vaux. He felt that, in common dehcacy, he 
 could not begin it, though he would have given 
 worlds, by any curious process of distillation, to 
 have extracted Colonel Manners's first impres- 
 sion of her he loved ; and Manners was resolved 
 to see more and judge more cleaiiy, ere he 
 ventured even the common nothings which are 
 usually said upon such occasions. 
 
 In the mean while, the ladies in the drawing- 
 room had not, of course, refrained from comment 
 on the appearance and arrival of their visiters. 
 As the first object of all their affections was 
 Edward de Vaux, his appearance and health 
 natm-ally occupied several moments ere any 
 thing else was thought of. 
 
 ** How very well he looks !" said Mrs. Falk- 
 land ; ** his health seems greatly improved.*' 
 E 2 
 
76 
 
 " I never saw him look so handsome," said 
 Isadore Falkland, " though he was wrapped in 
 that horrid great coat." 
 
 Marian de Vaux said nothing, but she repaid 
 her cousin for her praises of her lover's looks 
 by a smile as bright as an angel's, which flut- 
 tered away in a warm blush, though it had 
 nearly been drowned in some sparkling drops 
 that rose into her eyes. So she turned away^ 
 and began playing with the seals on the writing 
 table." 
 
 ** I am delighted that Edward has prevailed 
 on Colonel Manners to come do^vn with him,** 
 said Mrs. Falkland ; " for I have longed to see 
 him, on his mother's account." 
 
 " And I, because he saved Edward's life," 
 said Marian de Vaux. 
 
 " And I am delighted too," said Isadore 
 Falkland, " because he seems a very agreeable 
 gentlemanly man, though certainly a very ugly 
 one — I think, as ugly a man as I ever saw." 
 
 *' His face is certainly not handsome," replied 
 her mother ; ^' but his figure seems remarkably 
 fine. His mother was as beautiful a woman as 
 ever lived ; and I have heard that, till he was 
 twenty, he was equally good looking." 
 
 " Poor fellow I" cried Isadore ; "he has 
 
77 
 
 been very unfortunate, then ; for it is certainly 
 better to^be born ugly, than to become so after- 
 wards." 
 
 ** I did not think him ugly at all," said 
 Marian de Vaux. 
 
 " That was because you only saw the man 
 that saved Edward's life," replied Isadore, laugh- 
 ing ; ** but he is not beautiful, I can assure you, 
 Marian." 
 
 '' Happy are they, my dear Isadore," replied 
 her mother, *^ who can * see Othello's visage in 
 his mind ; ' and I do not think you, my dear 
 girl, are one, either, to value any one for their 
 personal appearance." 
 
 *' No, no, no, mamma! I am not," answered 
 Miss Falkland ; ^' but still, some sensible old 
 gentleman has said that a good countenance is 
 the best letter of recommendation ; and now, 
 had it not been that you had known Colonel 
 Manners's mother, or that he had saved Ed- 
 ward's life Yet notwithstanding ," she 
 
 added, breaking off her sentence abruptly, *' after 
 all, perhaps, his face is just the one from which 
 we should expect a man to save people's lives, 
 and do a great many brave and noble things." 
 
 *^ I think so, certainly," answered Mrs. Falk- 
 land. ^^ However ugly it may be, I have seldom 
 E 3 
 
J, 78 
 
 seen a face through which a fine mind shone 
 out so distinctly." 
 
 Such was the tenor of the conversation that 
 went on in the drawing-room, till the two gen- 
 tlemen returned, and, by their presence, took 
 themselves out of the range of topics. Other 
 subjects were soon started, and filled the hours 
 till supper time. Edward de Vaux naturally 
 took the place he loved best ; and what passed 
 between him and his fair cousin was not always 
 loud enough in its tone, or general enough in 
 its nature, to be very distinct to the rest of the 
 party, or very interesting to the reader. Man- 
 ners, who knew as well as any one how to 
 effect a diversion in favour of a friend, placed 
 himself near the other ladies, and displayed such 
 stores of varied information as well occupied 
 their attention. Those stores were somewhat 
 desultory, perhaps, but they were gained from 
 every source. Man, and all the fine and all 
 the amusing traits of his character ; countries, 
 and all their beauties and their disadvantages ; 
 the history of other times, the varied events of 
 the present; matters of taste and of science, 
 the Hght wit of a playful imagination, and the 
 choice knowledge procured by very extensive 
 
'I 
 
 reading; all seemed to come within the scope 
 of his mind. All, too, had been refined and 
 ornamented by judgment and good feeling, and 
 his conversation had still the peculiar charm of 
 appearing far less profound than it really was. 
 It was all light, and playful, and gay ; and yet, 
 on rising from it, one felt improved and in- 
 structed, without well knowing how or in what. 
 His memory, too, was excellent, and stored 
 with a number of little anecdotes and beau- 
 tiful scraps of poetry ; and, without ever seeming 
 to intrude them, he knew how to mingle them 
 in the general current of what was passing, with 
 tact almost as skilful as that of the greatest 
 writer and most amiable man that centuries 
 have witnessed upon earth — Sir Walter Scott. 
 So extensive, indeed, seemed to have been the 
 reading of their new acquaintance, that Mrs. 
 Falkland wondered thereat in silence ; while 
 Isadore, well knowing that there is scarcely any 
 question on the face of the earth that a young and 
 pretty woman may not ask of a man under forty 
 with perfect hienseance and propriety, looked 
 up with a smile, and said — " Pray tell me. Co- 
 lonel Manners, where you have found time, while 
 you have been defeating the King's enemies 
 E 4 
 
80 
 
 night and day, to read every thing of every kind 
 that is worth reading ? " 
 
 " Oh, Madam," he replied, " I am afraid I 
 have read but little as compared with what 
 I might have done. A soldier's life is the most 
 favourable of all others for general reading; 
 though, perhaps, not for pursuing steadily any 
 particular study. He is for a few days full of 
 active employment, and then for many more has 
 hardly any thing to do ; and if he gives one half 
 of his spare time to reading, he will, I beheve, 
 read more than many a philosopher. The only 
 difficulty is in procuring books that are worth 
 the trouble of poring over." 
 
 In such conversation passed the hours till 
 supper; for those were days of supper, — that 
 most pleasant and sociable of all ways of ac- 
 quiring the nightmare. When the meal was 
 announced, it of course caused some derange- 
 ment in the local position of the parties ; and 
 Edward de Vaux being brought for a moment 
 nearer to his aunt than his other occupations 
 had hitherto permitted, she took the oppor- 
 tunity of saying, — " I hope, Edward, your 
 father will not be at all offended at your coming 
 here first. He is sometimes a little omhrageux, 
 
81 
 
 you know ; and I would advise you to ride over 
 to-morrow as early as possible," 
 
 *' Oh ! no fear of his being offended, my dear 
 aunt/' he replied, " In the first place, he wrote 
 to give me that assurance. In the next place, 
 as we chose to ride our own two best horses 
 down, rather than trust them to two break- 
 neck grooms, we could not have gone seventeen 
 miles farther to-night : and in the last place," he 
 added, in a lower tone, " you know that his 
 Lordship never likes visiters to take him by 
 surprise ; and as the invitation to Manners was 
 yours, not his, of course I could not have 
 brought him to the Hall vdthout writing, which 
 I had no time to do. There is nothing he 
 hates so much as any one taking him by sur- 
 prise." 
 
 Almost as he spoke, the old servant Peter, 
 who had retired after announcing supper, once 
 more threw the door open with a portentous 
 swing, and proclaimed, in a loud voice, *^ Lord 
 Dewry ! " Something like a smile glanced upon 
 Mrs. Falkland's lip, as the sudden and unex- 
 pected arrival of her brother contrasted some- 
 what strangely with what her nephew had just 
 been saying. She paused in her progress to 
 
the supper room, however ; and, in a moment 
 after, with a slow step, which was languid with- 
 out being feeble. Lord Dewry entered the ante- 
 room, and came forward towards them. 
 
 While he is in the act of doing so, let us 
 paint him to the reader — at least, as far as the 
 outward man is concerned. Of the inward man 
 more must be said hereafter. He was tall — 
 perhaps six feet high, or very near it — and well 
 made, though now excessively thin. His frame 
 was broad, and had been very powerful ; his 
 shoulders wide, his chest expansive, and his 
 waist remarkably small. In feature, too, it 
 could be still discerned that he had once been 
 a very handsome man ; but his face was now 
 thin and sharp, and his complexion extremely 
 sallow. His eyes, however, were still fine, and 
 his teeth of a dazzling whiteness. He might 
 have numbered sixty years, but he looked some- 
 what older, although he had taken a good deal of 
 pains with his dress, and lay under considerable 
 obligations to his valet-de-chambre. The first 
 impression produced on the mind of a stranger 
 by the appearance of Lord Dewry was impos- 
 ing, but not pleasing ; and, unfortunately, the 
 unpleasant effect did not wear off". He looked 
 very much 'the Peer and the man of conse- 
 
83 
 
 quence ; but there was a gloomy cloud upon his 
 brow which was not melancholy, and a curl of 
 the lip which was not a smile, and both prepared 
 the mind of all who approached him, for not the 
 most agreeable man in the world. His general 
 expression, too, was cold. He had a look like 
 the easterly wind, at once chilling and piercing ; 
 and, though report said that he had been a very 
 fascinating man in his youth, and had not 
 always made the best use of his powers of pleas- 
 ing, he did not seem at present to consider it 
 at all necessary to use any effort to render him- 
 self agreeable, farther than the common forms 
 of society and what was due to his own station, 
 required. 
 
 «' Well, my Lord," said Mrs. Falkland, as he 
 came forward, ^' I am happy to see you come 
 to welcome our wanderer back again.^ 
 
 As she spoke, Edward advanced to his father, 
 who grasped his hand eagerly, while a smile of 
 unfeigned pleasure, for a single instant, spread 
 a finer expression over the worn features of the 
 Baron. "Welcome back, Edward!" he said; 
 '* welcome back ! you look remarkably well ! 
 I have to apologise, Maria," he added, turning 
 to his sister after this brief salutation bestowed 
 upon his son ; " I have to apologise for coming 
 E 6 
 
84 
 
 tlius, without notice ; but I have some businesis 
 to-morrow, down at the park house, of which I 
 knew nothing till this morning; and I also 
 wished to see Edward, whose devoirs here," — 
 and he turned towards Marian, — ** I knew 
 must first be paid, according to all the rules of 
 gallantry. How are you, my fair niece ? You 
 look a little pale. How are you, Isadore?" 
 And the Peer, without waiting to hear how any 
 one was, cast his eyes upon the ground, and 
 fixing upon a spot in the carpet, seemed cal- 
 culating geometrically the precise measurement 
 of all its strange angles. 
 
 " We were just going to supper, my Lord," 
 said Mrs. Falkland; *^ will you come with us? 
 But first let me introduce you to Colonel Man- 
 ners." Lord Dewry acknowledged the intro- 
 duction by a cold bow, while Manners said 
 some words of course ; and the question of 
 supper being renewed, the nobleman agreed to 
 go down with the party to the table, though he 
 bestowed a word or two of heavy censure on 
 the meal they were about to take. 
 
 " It is, nevertheless," said Colonel Manners, 
 " from its very hour, the most sociable one of 
 the whole day ; for by this time, in general, all 
 the cares, and annoyances, and labours of the 
 
85 
 
 busy daylight are over; andj as is justly ob- 
 served — I forget where — ^* nothing remains 
 for us but enjoyment and repose." 
 
 " Eating and sleep ! " muttered Lord Dewry ; 
 " the delights of a hog and a squirrel : " but as 
 what he said did not seem intended to be heard, 
 Colonel Manners made no reply, though he did 
 hear it ; and the party seated themselves round 
 the supper table, in walking towards which 
 these few sentences had passed. For some time 
 the presence of the Peer seemed destined to 
 cast a gloom over the society in which he had 
 so suddenly appeared. His manner even here, 
 in the midst of his nearest relations, and by 
 the side of his newly returned son, was cold, 
 stern, and gloomy, only broken by some flash 
 of cynical scorn for things that other people 
 valued, or by some biting sneer at the folHes 
 and weaknesses of his fellow creatures. 
 
 To his niece, Marian de Vaux, however, his 
 conduct was very different. At table he placed 
 himself by her side ; made an evident effort to 
 render himself agreeable to her ; and whenever 
 he spoke to her, softened his tone, and endea- 
 voured to call up a smile. Such was his conduct 
 on the present evening ; but it may be neces- 
 sary also to stretch our view over the past, for 
 
his behaviour to his niece had always formed a 
 strange contrast to his conduct towards others. 
 The first effect of her presence, when he had 
 not seen her for some time, was ahnost always 
 to throw him into a fit of deep gloom; and 
 those who watched him narrowly, might have 
 remarked his lip move, as if he were speaking 
 to himself, though no sound was heard. From 
 this fit of abstraction he generally roused him- 
 self soon, but it was evidently at the cost of 
 great efforts ; and then he would speak to his 
 niece with a degree of tenderness which bor- 
 dered on timidity, and treat her with attention 
 approaching to gallantry. Any one who saw 
 him in conversation with her, might easily con- 
 ceive him to have been the fascinating and 
 courtly man that report had represented him in 
 his younger days ; and there was a kindness and 
 gentleness in his whole demeanour towards her, 
 which, together with the family name that 
 she bore, had often caused her to be taken for 
 his daughter. Nevertheless, even across the 
 moments when he seemed exerting himself to 
 please her, would break occasionally the same 
 fits of gloom, called up by words apparently 
 the least calculated to produce any such effect. 
 They were then always brief, however ; and it 
 
87 
 
 seemed that the original exertion to conquer 
 the dark feelings which the first sight of his 
 niece appeared to arouse, was sufficient to hold 
 all the rest in check. 
 
 It was only to her, however, that he was 
 thus gentle. Her presence made no diiference 
 in his conduct towards others ; and, the moment 
 his attention or his speech was called from the 
 conversation with his niece, he seemed to be- 
 come a different being, — dark, stern, and over- 
 bearing. 
 
 Such a demeanour, of course, was not cal- 
 culated to promote any thing like cheerful con- 
 versation; and the atmosphere of his gloom 
 would have affected all those by whom he was 
 surrounded, and extinguished every thing like 
 pleasure for that night, had it not been for the 
 counteracting influence of Colonel Manners. 
 He, without the slightest touch of obtrusive- 
 ness or self-conceit, by a just estimation of 
 himself and others, was always in possession of 
 his own powers of mind; and never suffered 
 the presence of any other individual — unless, 
 indeed, it was that of one whom he could at 
 once admire and love — to give a tone to his be- 
 haviour, to restrain him in what he chose to say, 
 or to frighten him from what he chose to do. 
 
88 
 
 He took the tone of his conversation from his 
 own heart, and from its feelings at the time ; 
 and, guarded by fine sensibilities, good taste, 
 knowledge of the world, and a refined edu- 
 cation, there was not the sHghtest fear that he 
 would ever give pain to any one whose appro- 
 bation he valued. Of all this he was himself 
 well aware ; and, after a few moments given to 
 something like wonder at the character of Lord 
 Dewry, he proceeded in the same manner as if 
 such a person had not been in existence. 
 
 Isadore Falkland, as soon as she found that 
 such powerful support was prepared for her, 
 boldly resisted the influence of her uncle's pre- 
 sence also. Mrs. Falkland, whose naturally 
 strong mind was not unfitted to cope with her 
 brother, held on the even tenor of her way ; 
 and Edward De Vaux joining in, the con- 
 versation soon became once more general and 
 cheerful. It had taken another turn, however ; 
 and the subject had become the mutual adven- 
 tures of Colonel Manners and Edward de Vaux, 
 in the war which was then raging between 
 France and England, in North America. Many 
 was the wild enterprise, many the curious 
 particular that they had to speak of; " hair's 
 breadth escapes, and perils imminent" — scenes 
 
89 
 
 and persons quite fresh and strange to Eu- 
 ropeans ; a new world, and all that a new world 
 contained, with a system of warfare totally dif- 
 ferent from any thing that had ever been seen 
 on the older continents. At that time, neither 
 a barbarous poKcy, nor a criminal negligence, 
 had produced any of those lamentable results 
 which are rapidly exterminating the Indian 
 nations of America : but, at the same time, a 
 most barbarous poKcy had — instead of endea- 
 vouring to civilise and soften the dusky natives 
 of the woods, the real lords of the land — had 
 engaged them, with all their fierce and horrid 
 modes of warfare, in the contention between 
 the two great bands of European robbers, who 
 were struggling for the country that really be- 
 longed to the savage. Of these Indian nations, 
 and of their wild habits, both Manners and De 
 Vaux spoke at large ; and many a strange scene 
 had they witnessed together, amongst the uncul- 
 tivated woods and untamed people of the trans- 
 atlantic world. 
 
 Often, too. Manners, with kind and friendly 
 zeal, would make Edward De Vaux the hero 
 of his tale; and while he related — as if he 
 were speaking of ordinary events — some gal- 
 lant exploit or some noble action, would suffer 
 
90 
 
 his eye to glance for a single instant, unper- 
 ceived, to the countenance of Marian de Vaux. 
 It was generally calm and tranquil ; beautiful, 
 but still; yet occasionally, when the moment 
 of danger or of interest came, and when Edward 
 extricated himself gallantly from some difficult 
 or dangerous situation, there was a bright light 
 beamed up in her eyes, a long-drawn breath, 
 and a flickering colour, which satisfied Manners 
 that all was well. 
 
 Nevertheless, Manners could not, of course, 
 speak of his friend's adventures, without a little 
 delicate manoeuvring, in order to make the 
 tale appear more a general than a personal 
 one ; nor could he continue the subject long. 
 Often, therefore, he returned to the Indians, 
 and often to the state of America in general, 
 while Mrs. Falkland and her daughter gave 
 him, by manifold questions and observations, 
 full opportunity of varying the subject ad li- 
 bitum. They sought to know, amongst other 
 facts, what link of connection could possibly have 
 sprung up between the Indians and the Eu- 
 ropeans, so strong as to make the savage nations 
 have any feeling of regard or interest towards 
 either of the countries which only struggled to 
 
91 
 
 monopolise the means of plundering and de- 
 stroying them. 
 
 '* Oh, you must not think, my dear madam," 
 answered Colonel Manners, " that all persons 
 who visit America are actuated hy one selfish 
 motive, or pursue one system of fraud and 
 oppression towards the Indians. On the con- 
 trary, there are many who go over there with 
 the philanthropic motive of civilising and be- 
 nefiting the savage tribes themselves, and who, 
 in the endeavour to efiect this object, display a 
 degree of wisdom, perseverance, judgment, and 
 courage, that is quite astonishing. Nor are 
 these qualities without the most immense effect 
 upon the wild aborigines of the land, who look 
 up to such men almost as they would to a god. 
 De Vaux and I know a very remarkable in- 
 stance of the kind, in one of the most noble 
 spirited and excellent of human beings, to 
 whom we are both under no small obligations. 
 He nursed me through a long and severe fever, 
 when my senses were quite gone ; and after- 
 wards enabled me, by his influence with the 
 Indians, to render your nephew some small 
 service — which, however, was entirely attri- 
 table to his exertions. 
 
9^ 
 
 " Nay, nay, Manners," replied De Yaux ; 
 " to yours as much as his, and more ; for had 
 you not ventured, at the head of a party of 
 Indians, two hundred miles into a hostile coun- 
 try, not a step of which you knew" 
 
 " Well, well, De Vaux," answered his friend, 
 ^* you must own that he went with me, though 
 he did not know you, and I did. You must 
 not take away from the merit of my hero, for 
 such I intend to make him in these ladies' eyes. 
 I know not, however, how you will like a hero 
 of sixty. Miss Falkland ; but such, I must con- 
 fess, he is at least. He has now lived, for many 
 years, upon the very borders of civilisation, or 
 rather beyond it, for his house is surrounded 
 by forests and Indian wigwams. He has never 
 taken any part in the contentions of the tribes, 
 and seems equally venerated by all, showering 
 good and blessings upon the heads of every one 
 who approaches him. He is deeply versed in 
 the laws and the manners of the natives, too ; 
 and, though a finished and elegant scholar and 
 gentleman, conforms, when necessary, to their 
 usages, in a manner that is at once amusing 
 and admirable. He is, at the same time, the 
 most skilful and indefatigable hunter that the 
 world, perhaps, ever produced, — an accomplish- 
 
93 
 
 ment which renders him still more venerable in 
 the eyes of the Indians, who, on account of all 
 these qualities, have named him, '* The White 
 Father." * 
 
 " Delightful creature!" exclaimed Miss^alk- 
 land, with her beautiful eyes sparkling like 
 diamonds ; *' but tell me, Colonel Manners, 
 tell me, what is he like ? Mamma, if you have 
 no objection, I will go out, and marry him." 
 
 ** None in the world, my love!" answered 
 Mrs. Falkland ; " but perhaps it may be better, 
 first, to send over and ask whether he will 
 marry you." 
 
 " That he will of course," answered she : 
 " but. Colonel Manners, you have not told me 
 what he is like — in person I mean." 
 
 " Oh, he is fresh and hale, as a life of exer- 
 cise and a heart at rest can make him," replied 
 Manners. " Indeed, he is as handsome a man 
 as ever I saw." 
 
 " Oh, that wiU do exactly ! " cried Miss Falk- 
 land, laughing. Colonel Manners smiled too ; 
 but there was a tinge of melancholy in his 
 smile ; for, however much he might have made 
 
 * We need hardly point out to the reader, that though 
 the name has been changed, the character of a well-known 
 individual is not here overdrawn. 
 
94 
 
 up his mind to the fact, that personal beauty 
 is an indispensable requisite to obtain woman's 
 love, yet every little trait which served to con- 
 firm that opinion touched a gloomy chord in 
 his bosom, which again called forth the tone of 
 many a harmonising feehng, and made some- 
 what sad music within. 
 
 '* And pray, Colonel Maimers," said Lord 
 Dewry, with the cold, if not supercilious, tone 
 which he generally employed, *^ what may be 
 the name of the wonderful person who does 
 all these wonderful things ? " 
 
 " The name, my Lord," replied Colonel 
 Manners, coolly — " the name of the gentleman 
 who went two hundred miles into the Indian 
 country to save your son. Captain de Vaux, 
 from the tomahawk, without ever having seen 
 him, is one known throughout the greater part 
 of America, — Sir William Ryder." 
 
 Lord Dewry turned suddenly still paler than 
 he was before ; and then as red as fire. Whether 
 it was that some feelings had been excited by 
 that name, with which he did not choose to 
 trust his lips, or whether his emotion proceeded 
 fi'om temporary illness, did not appear ; but he 
 rephed nothing ; and Colonel Manners, by 
 whom the Peer's agitation had not been totally 
 
95 
 
 unmarked, went on. " If I remember right," lie 
 said, " I heard Sir William Ryder ask after your 
 Lordship's health from De Vaux, and say that he 
 had known you many years ago, in England." 
 
 *' I once knew. Sir," replied Lord Dewry, 
 drawing liimself up, " I once knew an unworthy 
 blackguard of that name, who is now, I believe, 
 in America ; but he has no right to claim ac- 
 quaintance with me." 
 
 De Vaux looked at his father with astonish- 
 ment, and then turned his eyes towards Manners, 
 as if to pray him patience ; but his friend was 
 perfectly calm, and replied, — ^' Your Lordship 
 must allude to some different person, as the 
 description does not at all correspond with him 
 of whom I speak." 
 
 " No, no, Sir," answered the Baron, redden- 
 ing, ** I speak of the same person, — there can 
 be no doubt of it, — a gambling beggar ! — 
 
 " If you do speak of the same person, Lord 
 Dewry," replied Colonel Manners, quite calmly, 
 " I must beg of you to remember, that you 
 speak of my friend ; and in the presence of one 
 who does not like to hear his friend's character 
 assailed." 
 
 ** Indeed, Sir, indeed!" exclaimed Lord 
 Dewry, rising ; *^ do you kindly wish to dictate 
 
96 
 
 to me, in my sister's house, what I am to say of 
 a person who, it seems, has formed an unfor- 
 tunate intimacy with my own son ; and is, as I 
 said, a gambling beggar ? " 
 
 Manners paused a moment. He and De 
 Vaux were alike under deep obligations to the 
 man of whom Lord Dewry spoke ; and he felt 
 that the language used by the Peer was not only 
 a gross personal insult to both of them, but es- 
 pecially to himself, who had been the means of 
 introducing him to his companion, and who had 
 the moment before bestowed such high and un- 
 quahfied praise on the very person whom he 
 now heard reviled. He remembered Lord 
 Dewry 's age and situation, however, and his 
 own particular position, and endeavoured to 
 moderate his reply as much as possible ; though 
 to pass the matter over in silence, or to leave the 
 charges of the Peer without direct contradiction, 
 he felt to be impossible, as an officer, a man of 
 honour, or the friend of Sir William Ryder. 
 
 " Your personal opinion, my Lord," he an- 
 swered, " you may, of course, express to your 
 own son, or your own family, whenever you like, 
 provided it be not injurious to any friend of 
 mine. In which last case,' I shall, as before, 
 beg your Lordship to refrain in my presence, 
 
97 
 
 for I am not a man to hear a friend calumniated 
 in silence." 
 
 " Calumniated, Sir! calumniated?" exclaimed 
 Lord Dewry. 
 
 " Yes, Sir, such was the word I made use 
 of," replied Colonel Manners, '^ because the 
 expressions you applied to Sir William Ryder 
 were calumnious, if applied to my friend, whom 
 a long life of noble actions raises above suspicion ; 
 but I trust and believe we are spealdng of 
 different persons." 
 
 " 'Tis well. Sir ; 'tis veiy well !" replied Lord 
 Dewry, appearing to grow somewhat cooler; 
 ** 'tis extremely well ! — I trust it is as you say. 
 — Give me a glass of soda water. Maria, I shall 
 now retii'e to rest; I am somewhat fatigued: 
 my apartments are, I think, opposite the drawing 
 room. Good night! — Colonel Manners, I wish 
 you good night ! " And, bowing with low and 
 bitter courtesy, he left the room. 
 
 Colonel Manners, whatever might be his 
 feelings, and whatever might be his intentions^ 
 took no notice of what had passed, after Lord 
 Dewry left the room, although he could not but 
 feel that he had been insulted by a man whose 
 age protected him ; but both Mrs. Falkland and 
 De Vaux spoke upon the subject, after a mo- 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
98 
 
 ment's painful pause. The first apologised 
 with dignified mildness for the occurrence, and 
 assuring her visitor that something strange and 
 extraordinary must have irritated her brother 
 during the course of the day, or that he vrould 
 not so far have forgot his usual hienseance ; and 
 the latter pressed his friend with kindly earn- 
 estness to forget what had occurred, and not 
 to sufier it to affect his conduct, or abridge his 
 stay. ^ 
 
 Colonel Manners smiled, and suffered himself 
 to be overcome : " You know, De Vaux, that 
 I am not one to be driven from my position by 
 the first fire," he said ; *^ and as I suppose that 
 Lord Dewry and myself will not meet very 
 frequently after the present time, we shall have 
 but few opportunities of being as agreeable to 
 each other as we have been to-night." 
 
 Thus ended the conversation, and soon after 
 the party separated, each grieving not a little 
 that the harmony of the evening had been so 
 imfortunately interrupted, when there was no 
 reason to expect such an event. 
 
99 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 The mind of man is a curious thing, in some 
 respects not at all unlike an old Gothic castle, 
 full of turnings and windings, long dark pas- 
 sages, spiral staircases, and secret corners. 
 Amongst all these architectural involutions, too, 
 the ideas go wandering about, generally very 
 much at random, often get astray, often go into 
 a -wrong room and fancy it their own ; and often, 
 too, it happens that, when one of them is trip- 
 ping along quite quietly, thinking that all is 
 right, open flies a door ; out comes another, and 
 turns the first back again — sometimes rudely, 
 blowing her candle out, and leaving her in the 
 dark — and sometimes, taking her delicately by 
 the tips of the fingers, and leading her to the 
 very spot whence she set out at first. 
 
 Colonel Manners, retiring to his bedchamber, 
 though he seldom, if ever, indulged in reveries 
 of happiness which were never to be realised, 
 could not help sitting down to think over the 
 events of the evening, and the circle to which 
 F 2 
 
100 
 
 he had been introduced. In the first place, 
 he took great care to turn the idea of Lord 
 Dewry, and his rudeness, out of the castle, 
 being a great economiser of pleasant thoughts ; 
 and then, with somewhat of a sigh (the sort 
 of semi-singultus which people give to some 
 thing irremediable in their own fate, while con- 
 templating the state of another), he thought, 
 ** De Vaux is a very happy man ! and yet," he 
 continued, ** though she is very beautiful, too, 
 and evidently has deeper feelings beneath that 
 calm exterior, yet, had I had to choose between 
 the two cousins, I would have fixed upon the 
 other." As he thus went on thinking, Colonel 
 Manners began to remember that his thoughts 
 might be treading upon dangerous ground : he 
 did not know even that they might not be 
 drawn into an ambuscade of dreams and wdshes 
 which he had long, as he fancied, defeated 
 for ever ; and, therefore, he hastily beat the 
 general, and marched the whole detachment off 
 to join his own regiment. What we mean is, that 
 he turned his mind to military affairs, and would 
 very fain have thought no more either of Mrs. 
 Falkland's domestic circle, or of the future hap- 
 piness of his friend ; or, at least, he would have 
 schooled himself, if he did think of such things 
 
101 
 
 at all, not to extract any personal feelings there- 
 from, but to let them be to him as matters in 
 which he had no farther share than as in a pass- 
 ing pageant of a pretty device, through which 
 he was to move, as he would have done through 
 a minuet, forgetting it all as soon as the music 
 ceased. Still, however, as he went on thinking, 
 open flew some of the doors of association, and, 
 ever and anon, out started some fresh idea, 
 which brought him back to the happiness of his 
 friend, and the delight of seeing a family circle 
 of one's own, and looks of affection, and a joyful 
 welcome after toil, and exertion, and danger 
 were over. 
 
 As sleep, however, is a strong fortress against 
 the attack of dangerous thoughts, he resolved 
 to take refuge there from a force that was too 
 powerful for him; and, going to bed, he was soon 
 within the gates of slumber. But fancy turned 
 traitor vdthin his fortress, and, ere long, whole 
 troops of dreams poured in, laying his heart pros- 
 trate before imaginations which he had repelled 
 with veteran courage for more than fourteen 
 years. There was, of course, no resisting under 
 such circumstances: the garrison threw down 
 their arms, and he went on dreaming of love 
 and domestic happiness all night. It did him 
 F 3 
 
10^ 
 
 no harm, however, for one of the most curious 
 phenomena which take place in regard to those 
 wild visitants, dreams, occurred in this case. 
 The visions that had come to him had all been 
 as vivid as reality : he had felt more and more 
 acutely than he had, perhaps, ever felt in life ; 
 there had been pleasures and pains, intense 
 and varying; events and feelings which, had 
 they occurred in waking existence, he would 
 have remembered till the last hour of his life ; 
 and yet, when he woke, he had forgot the whole. 
 It was as if some after -sleep, with a spunge 
 dipped in Lethe, had passed by, and wiped 
 out from the tablet of memory all but a few 
 rough scratches, sufficient to show that dreams 
 had been there. 
 
 The day was yet young when he woke ; but 
 Manners was habitually an early riser, — a 
 habit that generally springs from two causes — 
 vigorous health, a frame without languor, and 
 easily refreshed ; or from a refined heart, at ease 
 within itself. When he had prayed, — for all 
 noble-minded beings pray ; and the only truly 
 great pride is the pride with which one owns one- 
 self the servant of God r it is the soldier pointing 
 to the colours under which he serves ; — when he 
 had prayed, he dressed himself, somewhat slowly, 
 
103 
 
 gazing from time to time out of the window, 
 over the rich landscape sparkKng with dew and 
 morning ; and then, opening his door, went out 
 with the purpose of breathing the fresh air 
 of the early day. The windows at either end 
 of the corridor were still closed, for it had 
 scarcely struck six, but the skylight over the 
 staircase gave light enough ; and Colonel 
 Manners, descending, found a housemaid, with 
 unbought roses on her cheeks, and blue arms, 
 busily washing the marble hall, and the steps 
 that went out into the gardei), which, stretch- 
 ing away to the south-west, was separated from 
 the park in which the house stood, by a haw-haw 
 and a light fence. 
 
 Give me a flower-garden, in the early morn- 
 ing, with its dry gravel walks shining in the 
 fresh sun-beams, and all the thousands of 
 flowers, which man's care and God's bounty 
 have raised to beautify our dwellings, expanding 
 their refreshed petals to the young light. The 
 garden into which Colonel Manners now went 
 forth was an old-fashioned one, with manifold 
 beds, arranged in as many mathematical figures. 
 Each bed, fringed with its close-cut green border 
 of box, was full of as many flowers as it would 
 hold and as the season afforded ; and though of 
 F 4 
 
104 
 
 late many a foreign land has been ransacked to 
 procure new exotics for our grounds, yet even 
 then the garden was not without its rich assort- 
 ment of flowering shrubs ; some still bearing 
 the blossom, some fallen into the fruit. Between 
 the beds — and, as the garden was of very great 
 extent, the beds were not very close together 
 — were spaces of soft green turf; sometimes 
 flanked with holly, or hedged with yew, so as to 
 make a sort of little bowling-green ; sometimes 
 wide open to the gay sunshine, and full of in- 
 numerable thrushes and blackbirds, hopping 
 along, with their fine shanks sunk amidst the 
 blades of grass. Here and there, too, was an 
 arbour, covered with clematis ; and hot-houses 
 and green-houses, now and then, peeped out 
 from behind the shrubberies, on the sunny side 
 of the garden. 
 
 Colonel Manners took his way along a walk 
 that flanked the inclosure to the east, and 
 which, running by the side of the haw-haw, a 
 little elevated above the park and surrounding 
 country, gave, on the one side, an extensive 
 prospect over a rich and smiling landscape, with 
 the deer bounding over the grass, and the cattle 
 lowing along the distant upland ; and, on the 
 other, showed the garden — somewhat forma' 
 
105 
 
 perhaps, but neat, and beautiful, and sparkling. 
 He was a soldier, and a man of the world, and 
 he loved books, and he did not dishke society ; 
 but, perhaps, there never was a man upon earth 
 who more thoroughly enjoyed a solitary morning 
 walk amidst flowers and beautiful scenery — 
 scenery in which one can pause and fill one's 
 eye with fair sights, while the ideas springing 
 from each particular blossom, or from the whole 
 general view, can ramble out into a world of in- 
 distinct lovehness, wherein one can scarcely be 
 said to think, but rather to live in a sensation 
 of happiness which approaches near to heaven. 
 
 Although, as we have observed, one can scarcely 
 be said to think, yet there is no situation on the 
 earth — or very few — in which a man so little 
 likes to have his thoughts interrupted, and his 
 fine imaginations forcibly called back to the dull 
 ground. Colonel Manners, therefore, was not 
 very well pleased when, after foUovring the walk 
 which he had chosen to the end, he heard foot- 
 steps beyond the bushes, round which the path 
 now swept. 
 
 Had these footsteps, indeed, possessed that 
 
 light peculiar sound which is produced by a 
 
 small and pretty foot. Colonel Manners, who 
 
 never objected to see the beautiful things of 
 
 F 5 
 
106 
 
 nature enlianced by the presence of the most 
 beautiful, might not have thought his reveries 
 imworthily disturbed. In the present instance, 
 however, the sound was very different : it was 
 the dull, heavy, determined step of a foot that 
 takes a firm hold of the ground; and, as he 
 went on, he was not surprised to meet with 
 Lord Dewry at the turning of the walk. 
 
 Colonel Manners, if he had not forgot all 
 about their discussion of the preceding evening, 
 had remembered it as little as possible ; and, 
 being one of those happy men who never suffer 
 any annoyance of such a nature to rankle at 
 the heart, he had settled the matter in his own 
 mind by thinking that the old gentleman had 
 the toothach, or some of those corporeal pangs 
 or infirmities which cause and excuse ill-temper, 
 and sometimes even rudeness, at that period of 
 life when the passing away of those mighty 
 blessings, vigour and health, is, in itself, matter 
 enough for irritation. As, however, he never 
 liked to subject himself to occasions for com- 
 manding his temper, he proposed, in the present 
 instance, merely to give the Peer " good morn- 
 ing," and pass on upon his walk. 
 
 This purpose he was not permitted to exe- 
 cute ; as no sooner did Lord Dewry come op- 
 
107 
 
 posite to him than he stopped abruptly, and 
 answered Colonel Manners's salutation by a 
 cold and haughty bow. *' Colonel Manners," 
 he said, " I saw you come into the garden from 
 the windows of my room, and I have done my- 
 self the honour of seeking you." 
 
 The Peer spoke slowly and calmly ; but Man- 
 ners, who doubted not that his intention was to 
 apologise, was both somewhat surprised that so 
 proud a man should do so at all, and likewise 
 somewhat puzzled by a sneering curl of the 
 nostril, and a slight twinkling of the eyelid, 
 which seemed to betray a spirit not quite so 
 tranquil as his tone would have indicated: — 
 *^ Your Lordship does me honour," he replied ; 
 " what are your commands?" 
 
 ** Simply as follows. Colonel Manners," re- 
 plied Lord Dewry : — *' I think you last night 
 made use of the term calumny, as appUed to 
 part of my discourse ; and, as I am not in the 
 habit of being insulted without taking measures 
 to redress myself, I have followed you hither, 
 for the purpose of arranging the necessary re- 
 sult." 
 
 Colonel Manners felt inclined to smile, but he 
 refrained, and replied seriously, ** My Lord, I 
 wish to heaven you would forget this business, 
 F 6 
 
lOS 
 
 You thought fit to apply the strongest terms of 
 injury to a gentleman for whom I had expressed 
 my friendship and gratitude ; and I pronounced 
 such terms to be calumnious, in regard to my 
 friend, but expressed, at the same time, my 
 belief that we were speaking of different per- 
 sons. For heaven*s sake, let the matter rest 
 where it does ; I meant no personal insult to 
 you : I trust you meant none to me. I came 
 down here the friend of your son, on a joyful 
 occasion, and it would pain me not a little to 
 go away the enemy of his father." 
 
 The lip of Lord Dewry curled with a bitter 
 and galling sneer. '^ Colonel Manners," he 
 said, ^' I believe that you wear a sword ! " 
 
 " I do, Sir," replied Manners, reddening ; 
 but I should be unworthy to wear one, did I 
 draw it against a man old enough to be my 
 father." 
 
 Lord Dewry, too, reddened. " If, as I per- 
 ceive. Sir," he said, " you intend to make my 
 age your protection, I trust you have calculated 
 the consequences to your reputation, and will 
 understand the light in which I view you. 
 When I am willing. Sir, to wave all respect of 
 age, I do not see what you have to do with it." 
 
 " Much, my Lord," answered Colonel Man- 
 
109 
 
 ners ; " much have my own conscience and my 
 own honour to do with it." 
 
 " Do not let an officer who is refusing to 
 fight, talk of honour, Sir,'* replied Lord Dewry* 
 
 ** You cannot provoke me to forget myself, 
 Lord Dewry," answered the other; " I holdall 
 duelling in abhorrence, and as any thing but a 
 proof of courage : but when the encounter is to 
 be between a young and active man, and one of 
 your Lordship's age and probable habits, it is 
 murder outright. Your Lordship will excuse 
 me for saying, that I think the business a very 
 foolish one, and that I must insist upon its 
 being dropped." 
 
 *' I shall drop it, as far as regards the endea- 
 vour to make a man fight who is not disposed to 
 do so," replied Lord Dewry, with an angry and 
 disappointed, rather than a contemptuous, smile, 
 for which he intended it to be ; *' but, as a 
 matter of course, I shall make generally known 
 the fact, that you have refused to draw your 
 sword when called upon." 
 
 Colonel Manners laughed. " My Lord," he 
 answered, ** I have drawn it in eleven different 
 battles, in his Majesty's service ; I have been 
 wounded nine times, and I am quite satisfied 
 with a certain degree of reputation obtained in 
 
110 
 
 these afiairs, without seeking to increase it by 
 the encounter to which your Lordship would 
 provoke me." 
 
 Lord Dewry stood and gazed at him, for a 
 moment or two, with a heavy lowering brow, as 
 if contemplating how he might lash his adver- 
 sary to the course he sought to bring him to 
 pursue ; but the calm and confident courage 
 and cool determination of Colonel Manners 
 foiled him even in his own thoughts ; and, after 
 glaring at him thus while one might count 
 twenty, he exclaimed, '^ You shall repent it. 
 Sir ! you shall repent it ! " 
 
 " I do not think it, my Lord," replied Man- 
 ners : " I wish you good morning;" and he 
 turned calmly on his heel, retreading, with 
 slow steps, the path he had followed from the 
 house. 
 
 Li the mean time, the pace of Lord Dewry 
 was much more rapid ; but for a moment we 
 must pause ourselves, and seize this opportunity 
 of looking into his bosom, and seeing some of 
 the motives which, like Cyclopes, in the cave of 
 Vulcan, were busy forging all those hot thun- 
 derbolts that he was dealing about so liberally : 
 — somCf we only say some ; for were we to look 
 at all, we should have a catalogue too long for 
 
Ill 
 
 recapitulation here. The fact then, was, that 
 Lord Dewry had been greatly irritated on the 
 previous day, by a conversation of not the most 
 pleasant kind, concerning the very Sir William 
 Ryder of v^hom he v^^as destined to hear such 
 high praises the moment he set his foot within 
 his sister's doors. Now, for various reasons, 
 unto himself best knovni, the noble Lord hated 
 this Sir William Ryder vdth a most reverent 
 and solicitous hatred, and would willingly have 
 given a thousand pounds to any one who would 
 have brought him proof positive that he was 
 dead and safely deposited in that earthy chan- 
 cery, the archives of which, though they contain 
 many a treasured secret, can never meet the 
 searching eye of this inquisitive world. What, 
 then, were his feelings, when he heard that this 
 very man, in regard to whom his darkest 
 passions had been stirred up that very day, and 
 towards whom he had nourished an evergreen 
 animosity for many years — when he heard that, 
 through the instrumentality of Colonel Man- 
 ners, this man had been made intimate with his 
 only son. 
 
 This then was Manners's offence ; but, had it 
 been Hkely to end there. Lord Dewry might 
 even have forgiven it. Such, however, was not 
 
112 
 
 the case : Lord Dewry had some reason to "be- 
 Keve that the object of his hatred might visit 
 England ; and imagination instantly set np 
 before him the picture of his son, Colonel 
 Manners, and Sir William Ryder meeting and 
 discussing many things that would be better let 
 alone. Now, he trusted and believed that, as 
 far as his ancient enemy was concerned, he 
 could manage his son, and cause him to break 
 off a connection which had not been of long 
 duration ; but, at the same time, he judged it 
 necessary to place a barrier between him and 
 Colonel Manners himself, so as to cut off every 
 link of communication between Edward de Yaux 
 and Sir William Ryder ; and, for this purpose, 
 he at once determined to quarrel with his son's 
 firiend ; which, in his own irritable and irritated 
 state of mind, he found it not at all difficult to ac- 
 complish. On the preceding night he had begun, 
 therefore, with real good-will ; and, as he was a 
 man totally devoid of any thing like personal fear, 
 and remembered that he had once been a remark- 
 ably good swordsman, while he forgot that he was 
 sixty, he was really well pleased when Manners 
 made use of a term which promised to give him 
 an opportunity of bringing their dispute to such 
 an issue as must absolutely put an end to the 
 
113 
 
 intimacy between his son and Colonel Manners 
 for ever. " Even should I receive a wound," 
 he thought, ** so much the better ;" and, strange 
 as it is to say, had Lord Dewry even contem- 
 plated being killed in the encounter he sought, 
 he would have looked upon it with less appre- 
 hension than might be supposed, when there- 
 unto was attached the certainty of his son being 
 separated for ever from Charles Manners and 
 from Sir William Ryder : so much less terrible 
 does it often appear to our contradictory nature 
 to meet the eye of God than to encounter the 
 scrutiny of beings like ourselves. 
 
 Frustrated by the coolness and firmness of 
 his opponent in the grand object of his morn- 
 ing's walk, he now turned towards the house, 
 animated vdth a strong desire of accomplishing 
 his purpose by other means. The Peer now 
 determined, as it was impossible to make 
 Colonel Manners the aggressor, to induce his 
 own family to take the initiative, and break 
 vdth the object of his dislike, or of his appre- 
 hension, — for, perhaps, there might be a little 
 of both at the bottom of his heart ; — and, with 
 a resolution which was the more imperious and 
 domineering from having seldom suffered con- 
 tradiction, he sought the apartment of his son. 
 
114 
 
 Edward de Vaux was just up, and was in tlie 
 act of putting on, one after another, the different 
 parts of his apparel. As this act of clothing 
 one's person, however much pleasure people 
 may take in it habitually, is, in itself, a labo- 
 rious and troublesome operation, De Vaux's 
 servant was helping him therein ; but the ap- 
 pearance of Lord Dewry, and a hint, not to be 
 mistaken, sent the man out of the room, while 
 the noble Lord betook him to a chair ; and his 
 son, seeing that there was not a little thunder 
 in the dark cloud upon his father's brow, sat, ex- 
 pectant and half dressed, wondering what was 
 to come next. 
 
 ** Edward," said his father, in a tone which 
 was intended at once to express parental 
 affection, some slight touch of sadness, and 
 firm relying confidence upon his son's good feel- 
 ings, but which, in truth, did not succeed in 
 expressing much except a great deal of irri- 
 tation and heat; '* Edward, I have come to 
 speak with you upon last night's unfortunate 
 business, and to give you, in a few words, my 
 opinion upon the subject, in order that you may 
 choose your part at once." 
 
 Edward de Vaux, who knew his father well, 
 — though he knew not all his motives in the 
 
115 
 
 present instance, — prepared himself to resist ; 
 for he divined, almost immediately from the he- 
 ginning of Lord Dewry's discourse, what would be 
 the end ; being well aware — though he did not 
 choose to put it exactly in such terms to his own 
 heart — that a certain combination of vanity, 
 pride, selfishness, and remorselessness in the 
 bosom of his worthy parent, made him the exact 
 person to resent highly even a sHght offence, and 
 to treasure long hatred for a casual word. But 
 Edward de Vaux knew also that he himself 
 stood in a position towards his father different 
 fi:om that in which any other person stood; 
 he knew that the ties of nature, long habit, and 
 irreproachable conduct, rendered him the only 
 real object of Lord Dewry's love — the only 
 being who possessed any influence over a mind 
 which never, through life, in any other case 
 than his own, had yielded to either persuasion 
 or opposition. He himself, however, had found, 
 from experience, that he could resist with suc- 
 cess, when the ground of resistance was such as 
 satisfied his own heart ; and he now, therefore, 
 prepared to practise, upon an occasion of more 
 importance, a behaviour he had sometimes dis-* 
 played in regard to trifles. He was aware, at 
 the same time, from liis soldierly habits, that it 
 
116 
 
 was advantageous sometimes to be the attacking 
 party ; and when his father paused, a little out 
 of breath with climbing the stairs faster than 
 necessary, and with speaking more vehemently 
 than was becoming, he instantly replied, ** Oh, 
 my Lord, if you mean the business with Man- 
 ners, do not think of it any more ! Manners is 
 extremely good-humoured, and vdll forget it at 
 once, I am sure. No farther apology is ne- 
 cessary. 
 
 " Apology, Sir!" exclaimed Lord Dewry; 
 " what do you mean ? I have made no apo- 
 logy!" 
 
 ^' No, my Lord," replied De Vaux ; " but, 
 considering that Manners was my friend ; that 
 he saved my life at the risk of his own ; that he 
 came down here at my invitation ; and that he 
 was a guest in my aunt's house ; I thought it ne- 
 cessary to apologise for the manner in which my 
 father had treated him, saying, that I was sure 
 you were irritated by some other cause ; and 
 adding — as I felt sure you would — that you 
 would be sorry for having expressed yourself so 
 bitterly, when you reflected upon the circum- 
 stances." 
 
 ^' You did, Sir! " said Lord Dewry, *' you did ! 
 then I have only to tell you that you said what 
 
117 
 
 was not the case;" — De Vaux reddened; — -" that 
 you took a great and unwarrantable liberty with 
 my name," continued Lord Dewry, whose pas- 
 sion had quite overcome every restraint ; *' and 
 that had you considered your father as much as 
 this new friend, you would have seen that I was 
 the insulted person — that / had a right to de- 
 mand apology, and you would have broken off 
 all connection vdth a person who would show 
 ^o little respect to your parent: and this, Sir, — 
 this is what I command you now to do, or to 
 take the consequences of your disobedience." 
 
 *' My Lord," answered De Yaux, cooling 
 himself dovni as far as possible, — *^ my Lord, as 
 you must already have seen, we view the 
 matter in a very different light. It grieves me 
 bitterly that we should disagree so severely, on 
 the very day after my return ; but, if you wish 
 me to break off my acquaintance with Colonel 
 Manners, because you have thought fit to treat 
 him with some rudeness, I must tell you, at 
 once, such an idea could never be entertained 
 by me for a moment. As to the consequences 
 which your Lordship speaks of, I am at a loss 
 to conceive what you mean. A disagreement 
 with your Lordship is " 
 
118 
 
 ** The consequences, Captain de Vaux," in- 
 terrupted his father, with a small red spot glow- 
 ing in the middle of his sallow cheek — '^ the 
 consequences may be more bitter than you 
 think. You believe that the estates of the 
 barony, being entailed, must descend to you ; 
 but, let me tell you, young man — let me tell 
 you," he repeated, approaching nearer to his 
 son, and lowering his voice in tone, but not in 
 emphasis, — *^ let me tell you, you could be 
 deprived of them by a word. But no more of 
 that," he added, raising his head, and resuming 
 his usual air of dignity, which had been a good 
 deal lost during that morning, ^' no more of 
 that — the consequences to which I alluded, 
 and to which I now allude, are the displeasure 
 of your father, and the knowledge that you 
 remain the friend of a man who has insulted 
 him." 
 
 " Could I see, my dear Sir," repHed De 
 Vaux, " that Manners had insulted you " 
 
 ** It is sufficient. Sir, that I see it," inter- 
 rupted his father, hastily, ^' it is sufficient that 
 I see it ; and I hold myself aggrieved, that my 
 son should see it otherwise. But do as you 
 will, Edward de Vaux — do as you will. If 
 
119 
 
 you are lost to a sense of filial duty, and refuse 
 to obey my positive injunction to break with 
 this man, you may act as you think fit." 
 
 " I shall never, my Lord, even dream of 
 breaking with him," replied De Vaux ; *^ as it 
 appears to me, that to do so would render me 
 an accomplice in an act of notable injustice." 
 
 ** You are dutiful, Sir — you are respect- 
 ful," said Lord Dewry, setting his teeth hard ; 
 " but do as you please — do as you please : I 
 vrish you good morning," and, turning on his 
 heel, he quitted the apartment. 
 
 " This is mighty disagreeable," thought De 
 Vaux, as he rang the bell to bring back his 
 servant; " this is mighty disagreeable, and 
 mighty absurd it seems to me; but the worst 
 part of all will be the meeting at breakfast. 
 However, all these things must be encountered 
 as they come, in this good pleasant world of 
 ours ;" and he returned to his toilet. 
 
 In the meantime the noble Lord, his father, 
 proceeded to his own apartments, laid his hand 
 upon the bell, and rang in such a manner as 
 to show that he was in a passion, not only to 
 his own servant, but to the whole house. His 
 own servant, however, a thin, dark, saturnine 
 person, well calculated by constitutional fri- 
 
gidity, to cope with an irritable master, was not 
 in the least alarmed by any sign of his Lord's 
 angry mood, to which he was wont to oppose, 
 on all occasions, a dull, obtuse silence, that left 
 him without any remedy but patience. He 
 accordingly proceeded slowly to Lord Dewi'y's 
 apartment; received the objurgation for his 
 tardiness with profound and unmoved taci- 
 turnity; listened to his Lordship's orders to 
 pack up all his dressing things, and order the 
 horses to the carriage directly, in the same au- 
 tomatonical manner, and then went to take his 
 breakfast, not at all approving of his master's 
 purpose of setting out without refreshment. 
 Lord Dewry, fondly fancying that he had gone 
 to order the horses to be put to, waited in his 
 bed-room, very patiently, for five minutes, 
 then began to get angry during five minutes 
 more, and then rang the bell for at least the 
 same space of time. At the end of that period 
 the man again made his appearance ; and, with 
 a face of dull unconsciousness, asked if his Lord- 
 ship had rung, although he had heard every 
 succeeding stroke of the bell. 
 
 Lord Dewry stamped with rage ; but, finding 
 that it had no effect, he left the man alone to 
 arrange his dressing things, while, for the pur- 
 
pose of waiting till the carriage was ready, 
 he went down to the library, calculating, of 
 course, upon its being, as usual, the most soli- 
 tary room in the whole house. If he expected 
 to find it empty, however, he was mistaken ; 
 for Mrs. Falkland was seated at the table, 
 writing a note ; and, as there was no person, 
 in or out of his own family, for whom his Lord- 
 ship entertained so great a respect — which 
 would have been a little, perhaps, approaching 
 to fear, if he could have feared any thing — 
 there was no one consequently whom he less 
 wished to meet, at a moment when he was act- 
 ing in a manner which needed the full excite- 
 ment of passion and pride to appear, even in 
 his own opinion, either dignified or gentlemanly. 
 He was drawing back, but Mrs. Falkland raised 
 her eyes ; and his Lordship, conscious that he 
 had been wishing to retreat, advanced, of course, 
 with a greater degree of boldness, and asked, 
 whether he interrupted her by his presence. 
 
 *' Not in the least — not in the least," re- 
 plied Mrs. Falkland ; " but you seem prepared 
 for travelling, my Lord. You are not tliinking 
 of setting out before breakfast ? " 
 
 '■^ Most assuredly I shall, Maria," replied the 
 peer. *' You do not suppose that I am going 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
152 
 
 to subject myself to the pain of meeting again, 
 in your house, a person by whom I have 
 been so grossly insulted, as this Colonel Man- 
 ners?" 
 
 " Whom you have so grossly insulted, I 
 suppose, your Lordship means," replied Mrs. 
 Falkland. " My Lord, I am your sister, and 
 consequently am not disposed to see faults ; 
 but I tell you sincerely, that you equally owe 
 an apology to me and to Colonel Manners, for 
 your behaviour last night. The one to myself, 
 I will, of course, dispense with ; but, if you do 
 right, you will go to Colonel Manners, and tell 
 him, that something had occurred in the course 
 of yesterday to irritate and vex you, and that 
 you are extremely sorry that your irritation 
 vented itself upon him." Mrs. Falkland spoke 
 with infinite calmness ; and, when she had 
 done, wrote another sentence of her note, leav- 
 ing her brother the while to pause on the 
 somewhat bitter matter of her discourse. 
 
 His Lordship employed the time in remem- 
 bering that it was a lady and his sister to whom 
 he was opposed, and in subduing the wrath of 
 his heart into the quieter form of sneer ; al- 
 though he still continued to gaze on her, while 
 she wrote, with eyes in which his anger still 
 
123 
 
 maintained its ground, like a solitary post left 
 behind a retreating army. 
 
 " Do you know, Mrs. Falkland," he replied, 
 with a curling lip, ^' in such pleasant little dis- 
 cussions as these, we gentlemen have hardly 
 fair play when opposed to female antagonists ; 
 for, under shelter of your sex, you women dare 
 say things to us, that it would be ungentlemanly 
 to retort, and which are very difficult to bear." 
 
 " Truth, my Lord, I am afraid, is often diffi- 
 cult to bear," replied Mrs. Falkland, " and per- 
 haps, on such occasions, you may hear it in a 
 more unqualified manner from a woman than 
 from one of your own sex." 
 
 " As the matter is a difference of opinion, 
 Maria, between you and me," said Lord 
 Dewry, " it is rather like begging the question, 
 to assume that it is truth that gives me offence. 
 You have forgot your logic, my good sister." 
 
 " If I ever possessed any, my Lord," re- 
 joined Mrs. Falkland, '* I certainly should not 
 be disposed to try it upon you, in order to in- 
 duce you either to make an apology, which is 
 alike due to youself and to Colonel Manners — 
 or to stay here without making it." 
 
 *' I understand you, my dear sister, I un- 
 derstand you!" exclaimed Lord Dewry; " but 
 G 2 
 
124 
 
 do not be in a hurry. My carriage is ordered, 
 and cannot be many minutes 'ere it delivers 
 you from my presence. In the meantime I 
 will not interrupt you farther. — Good morning, 
 Mrs. Falkland!" 
 
 "Good morning!" she replied, and her 
 brother walked towards the door. As he laid 
 his hand upon the lock, he turned for a single 
 glance at his sister ; but Mrs. Falkland was 
 writing on, with a rapid and easy pen, in the 
 clear and running movements of which there 
 was evidently not the slightest impediment from 
 one extraneous thought in reference to the con- 
 versation which had just passed between them. 
 Anger, hatred, malice, even active scorn itself, 
 man can bear or retort ; but utter indifference 
 is more galling still. So Lord Dewry found it ; 
 and throwing open the door, with a degree of 
 force that made sundry of the smaller articles 
 of furniture dance about the room, he issued 
 forth in search of his carriage, with wounded 
 pride and diminished self-importance. 
 
 Gliding gracefully down the corridor towards 
 the breakfast-room was, at that very moment, 
 Marian de Vaux, his niece ; and the sight of 
 her beautiful face and form, with its calm and 
 easy movements, was well calculated to tran- 
 
125 
 
 quiliise and soothe. But Lord Devvry had 
 never been famous for bemg easily soothed. 
 Dr. Johnson is said to have liked a *' good 
 hater," and had he carried the predilection a 
 little farther, the peer was just the man to 
 merit that sort of approbation. He was not 
 only a good hater, but he was, and always had 
 been, the man of all others to nourish his 
 anger, and render it both stout raid permanent. 
 Now, during the early part of the preceding 
 evening, before he found " mettle more at- 
 tractive" in his quarrel with Colonel Manners, 
 the noble Lord had — as he always did — paid 
 very great attention to Marian De Vaux. He 
 had sat by her, he had talked to her, he had 
 exerted himself to be agreeable to her, when it 
 was very evident that he was not much disposed 
 to be agreeable to any one. But now, as Ma- 
 rian approached, gave her hand, and wished him 
 good morning, he let her hand drop as soon as 
 he had taken it, and answered her salutation 
 by telling her he was in haste. 
 
 Somewhat surprised at the cloud upon her 
 uncle's brow, his flashing eye, and abrupt man- 
 ner, Marian drew back, in order to let him pass, 
 and Lord Dewry took two steps more along 
 the passage. Then recollecting himself, how- 
 G 3 
 
126 
 
 ever, and remembering how strange his con- 
 duct might appear, he turned, and made the 
 whole seem stranger than ever, as all people do, 
 when, with a heart very full of feelings, which 
 they are afraid or ashamed to picture in their 
 nakedness, they attempt to explain the strange 
 behaviour to which those feehngs have prompted 
 them. 
 
 " I am obliged to quit the house, Marian," 
 he said, in a quick and agitated manner; " dis- 
 agreeable occurrences have taken place, which 
 compel me, in justice to myself, to withdraw : 
 the whole business is an unfortunate one, and 
 I am afraid it may be some time before we 
 meet again, — but I will write, — I will write, 
 and explain myself fully. Good bye ! I hear 
 the carriage ; " and with a rapid step he walked 
 on, leaving Marian De Yaux not a little con- 
 founded by all that had passed, and entirely mis- 
 construing the few abrupt and unsatisfactory 
 sentences which her uncle had pronounced. 
 
 She heard his step sound along the passage, 
 down the stairs, and through the hall, listened 
 to his voice giving some directions to his ser- 
 vant, and then to the closing of the carriage 
 door, and the grating roll of the wheels over 
 the gravel before the house. Then mentally 
 
127 
 
 exclaiming, " This is all very strange, and 
 very unfortunate ! " she went on towards the 
 breakfast-room, into which a servant had just 
 carried the urn, without closing the door behind 
 him. The sound of her cousin Isadore's voice, 
 speaking gaily with Colonel Manners, issued 
 forth as she approached ; but Marian De Vaux 
 was agitated and alarmed ; and, feeling that 
 she must have time to think over her uncle's 
 words, and to compose her mind, ere she 
 mingled with any society, she turned to the 
 music-room, and had entered it before she 
 was aware that any one was there. 
 
 G 4 
 
128 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 It was a beautiful idea of Plato, and not at 
 all an unchristian idea, that the sins which 
 people have committed during life — and which 
 in this case were termed manes — had an exist- 
 ence after death, and were the instruments for 
 punishing those who had committed them — > 
 the worm that dieth not, and the fire that 
 cannot be quenched. But had Plato seen into 
 the bosom of Lord Dewry, he would have per- 
 ceived that his theory might be carried a 
 little farther ; and that the sins and passions 
 do not wait till we are dead, in order to tor- 
 ment their authors ; but punish them even in 
 this world, not alone in their consequences, but 
 by their very existence. After having laboured 
 manibus pedihusque to render every member of 
 his sister's household as uncomfortable as pos- 
 sible, the noble Lord sunk back in his carriage, 
 with his frame exhausted and his whole heart 
 on fire, with that flaming up of painful memories 
 
U9 
 
 and violent passions winch the occurrences we 
 have related had excited. Unfortunately, how- 
 ever, it happens in the wonderful arrangement 
 of this our earthly dwelling-place, that here 
 our evil qualities not only torment ourselves 
 but others also ; and the noble Lord might 
 have consoled himself with the certainty, that 
 he had for the time, at least, destroyed much 
 tranquillity, and tiu'ned joy into bitterness. 
 
 Of all who suiFered on the occasion, Marian 
 de Vaux perhaps suffered most. Mrs. Falk- 
 land, for her part, had been very much of- 
 fended, but she respected her brother too little, 
 to permit liis ill temper or rudeness to pro- 
 duce any lasting effect upon her. Edward de 
 Vaux believed that his father's present mood 
 would not be long ere it yielded to circum- 
 stances ; and Colonel Manners, though of course 
 considerably annoyed by what had tak^n place 
 between Lord Dewry and himself, was not 
 aware of what had passed afterwards ; and conse- 
 quently did not enter, as he would otherwise 
 have done most feelingly, into the uncomforts 
 of Mrs. Falkland and his friend De Yaux. But 
 with Marian the matter was different. She 
 knew nothing of all the occurrences of the 
 morning : she had seen her uncle retire on the 
 
130 
 
 preceding night, apparently dropping his dis- 
 pute with Colonel Manners ; and she never for 
 a moment connected his extraordinary conduct 
 of that day with the disagreement of the pre- 
 ceding evening. 
 
 In almost all cases of apprehension and un- 
 certainty, the human mind has a natural ten- 
 dency to connect the occurrence of the moment, 
 whatever it may be, vsdth the principal object of 
 our wishes and our feelings at the time. It 
 matters not whether the two things be as dis- 
 tinct and distant as the sun is from the moon ; 
 association in an instant spins a thousand gos- 
 samer threads between them, forming a glis- 
 tening sort of spider-like bridge, scarcely dis- 
 cernible to other people's eyes, but fully strong 
 enough for fancy to run backwards and for- 
 wards upon for ever. 
 
 Thus then was it with poor Marian De Vaux. 
 It had been settled that her marriage with her 
 cousin was to take place on the day she became 
 of age — that is to say, in about three weeks. 
 Now, whether she was pleased with the arrange- 
 ment or not, we do not at all intend to say ; 
 but she had made up her mind to it completely ; 
 and the first thing that Lord Dewry's broken 
 sentences suggested to her mind was, that some 
 
131 
 
 difficulty had occurred in regard to her union 
 with Edward, and that his father had withdrawn 
 the consent he had been before so willing to 
 give. 
 
 When Lord Dewry left her, she was as pale as 
 death ; and though before she reached the break- 
 fast-room the colour had come back into her 
 cheek, yet all her former ideas were so com- 
 pletely scattered to the four winds of heaven, 
 that she felt it would be absolutely necessary 
 to think what her own conduct, under such cir- 
 cumstances, ought to be, before she met any of 
 the party ; and especially before she met her 
 cousin Edward, as towards him, of course, the 
 regulation of her behaviour was most import- 
 ant. She turned, then, as we have before said, 
 to the music-room, and entering it ere she per- 
 ceived that any one was in it, found herself there 
 alone with no other than Edward de Vaux. 
 
 Whether he had gone there purposely or 
 accidentally — from a habit which some people 
 have, of returning to take a look at places 
 where they have spent happy moments — or 
 from a sort of presentiment that he might find 
 Marian there, we have no means of judging ; 
 but on her part the meeting certainly was un- 
 G 6 
 
13^ 
 
 expected, and being such, it would hardly be 
 fair to look narrowly into her manner of re- 
 ceiving her lover's first salutation, which salu- 
 tation was sufficiently warm. 
 
 As soon as she recollected herself, however, 
 she turned at once to the subject of her 
 thoughts. ** But, Edward," she said, " this is a 
 most unfortunate occurrence — in regard to your 
 father, I mean." 
 
 " Most unfortunate indeed ! " replied De 
 Vaux, looking grave immediately. 
 
 *^ But tell me what it is all about, Edward?" 
 rejoined his cousin. " I do not understand 
 your father's conduct. Do explain it to me ! " 
 
 ** I do not understand it either, my dear 
 Marian," answered De Vaux ; ** his conduct is 
 quite inexplicable." 
 
 The tears would fain have run away over 
 Marian de Vaux's cheeks ; but she shut the 
 gates in time, and only one straggler made its 
 escape into the court of her eyes, unable to get 
 farther. Her cousin did not see one half of 
 what was going on in the fair tabernacle of her 
 bosom; but he saw that she was much dis- 
 tressed, and endeavoured to soothe her vdth the 
 same assurances wherewith he made his own 
 mind easy in regard to his father's conduct. 
 
133 
 
 *' Nay, nay, dearest Marian!" he said, " do not 
 distress yourself about this business, unfortunate 
 as it is. The principal part of my father's 
 present heat in the affair will pass away, for a 
 great share is mere passion. I cannot however 
 flatter myself into believing that his dislike will 
 ever entirely subside, because, as you know, 
 he is not a man who changes easily in such 
 matters ; but all his violence and his threaten- 
 ings will die away and end in nothing." 
 
 Marian, who had now recovered from her 
 first emotion, paused, and looked pensively 
 upon the ground ; but while her bosom seemed 
 as calm as monumental marble, there was a sad 
 struggle going on within. " Edward ! " said 
 she, at length, " we cannot tell what may be 
 your father's ultimate conduct ; but indeed I 
 think that while his present objection — or, as 
 you call it, dislike — continues, we ought cer- 
 tainly to delay our marriage." 
 
 *^ Good God, Marian!" exclaimed Edward 
 de Vaux, in utter astonishment : "in the name 
 of heaven, my beloved, what has my father's 
 dislike to Colonel Manners to do with our 
 union C 
 
 " His dislike to Colonel Manners !" said 
 Marian, blusliing a good deal as she began to 
 
134 
 
 perceive her mistake, and comprehended at a 
 glance that the clearing up of the matter might 
 make an expose of her inmost thoughts that 
 for reasons of her own she did not desire. 
 ** His dislike to Colonel Manners ! Oh, is that 
 all ? His words and conduct towards me just 
 now, made me think that his dislike was to me, 
 Edward, and to our union." 
 
 " And did the thought give you so much 
 pain, Marian ? " said De Vaux, somewhat anx- 
 iously. 
 
 But Marian De Vaux had by tliis time com- 
 pletely mastered her agitation, and she answered 
 in her usual quiet sweet tone : " Of course it 
 gave me great pain, Edward, to think that I had 
 lost my uncle's regard, and great pain to think 
 that the consequences might pain you. But tell 
 me, was it really nothmg more than his dispute 
 with Colonel Manners, which made your father's 
 conduct so very strange ? " 
 
 " Nothing more, I can assure you," answered 
 her lover ; " but you know that my father, 
 when he bursts forth into one of these fits of 
 passion, is like Don Quixote at the puppet- 
 show, and deals his blows to the right and left 
 upon all things, whether they have offended 
 him or not." 
 
135 
 
 *' Hush, hush, Edward!" cried Marian, •'' he 
 is your father, remember." 
 
 De Vaux coloured sHghtly, and indeed he 
 had not got to the end of his speech ere he had 
 found that he had better have left it unsaid ; 
 for, notwithstanding his general fastidiousness, 
 and a certain degree of bitter that mingled with 
 his -views of other people, he had too much 
 taste to find any pleasure in pointing out the 
 faults or folHes of his near relations. He might 
 feel them a little too sensitively, it is true ; but 
 he seldom made them the subject of his con- 
 versation ; and he was now vexed, both that he 
 had done so at all, and that Marian had been 
 the person to whom he had done it. 
 
 Thus Edward de Vaux was a httle out of 
 humour with himself, and as a matter of course 
 he soon found cause to be dissatisfied with 
 others ; for the human mind — to which no- 
 thing is so burthensome as self-reproach of any 
 kind — is always glad to cast a part of its load 
 upon the shoulders of other people. The first 
 thing, then, that upon reflecting rapidly over 
 the moments just passed, Edward de Vaux found 
 to be discontented with, was the manner in 
 which Marian had spoken of delaying their 
 union ; and once having started this idea, he 
 
136 
 
 limited it up and down through all the cham- 
 bers and passages of his mind, like a boy after 
 a mouse. " Their marriage seemed to her a 
 matter of great indifference," he thought ; and 
 then he went on to persuade himself that her love 
 for him was of a very calm and tranquil character 
 compared with his for her. Indeed it seemed 
 little more than indiiference, he fancied ; or at 
 best sisterly affection ; and at the very thought 
 of such a thing as sisterly affection, the spirit 
 of Edward de Vaux sprang up as if a serpent 
 had crossed his path, although his person re- 
 mained perfectly calm, with his arm resting on 
 the harpsichord, and his fingers twisting some of 
 the strings of the harp. One of the strings 
 breaking, with a sharp twang, called the spirit 
 suddenly back again ; and he found himself 
 standing abstractedly before his fair cousin ; 
 while she looked upon him with a smile, which 
 seemed to say, ** I could triumph, if I would ! 
 but it is not in my nature." 
 
 Now Edward de Yaux, though he read the 
 smile and read it aright, which is not always 
 done in that difficult language of which it was 
 one of the hieroglyphics, was all the more puz- 
 zled when he had done. But the fact is, that 
 
137 
 
 women's eyes, in matters of love, seem to be not 
 eyes but microscopes ; and Marian had traced 
 the whole fine progress of Edward's thoughts 
 and feelings, through every turning and wind- 
 ing, as accurately as if he had laid them all 
 open before her with his own free will. 
 Then, connecting the result with some fore- 
 gone conclusions in her own mind, the com- 
 bination produced a smile, being, as we be- 
 fore said, the equivalent sign, in the language 
 mentioned, of the words, " I could triumph, if I 
 would ! but it is not in my nature." There 
 was, however, a little mental reservation, per- 
 haps, in regard to the triumph, inasmuch as she 
 reserved unto herself entire right and privilege 
 of triumphing hereafter, in case she should 
 find it necessary and expedient to do so. 
 
 The time occupied in reading the smile, to- 
 gether with the beauty of the smile itself, and 
 the exceeding loveliness of the lips on which it 
 rested, all tended to get the better of the 
 demon in the heart of De Vaux, and to make 
 him feel, that as he loved her beyond anything 
 on earth, he must try to content himself with 
 obtaining her upon her own terms. Having 
 come to this conclusion, it was natural enough 
 
138 
 
 that he should seek to Knger out the time with 
 her alone ; but Marian felt that if she did stay 
 at that moment, she might be obliged to tri- 
 umph in the way she wished not to do, or to 
 explain her smile without triumphing at all, 
 which was still more disagreeable. She there- 
 fore determined to retreat to the breakfast- 
 room, in which she was sure of finding allies ; 
 and which — as her apprehensions in regard to 
 Lord Dewry's disapprobation, and the conse- 
 quent emotion, had now been dissipated — she 
 was no longer afraid of entering. 
 
 De Vaux would fain have detained her, plead- 
 ing that he had had no opportunity of conversing 
 with her alone since his return, and urging all 
 those little arguments which we leave to imagi- 
 nation. Marian, however, resisted with forti- 
 tude ; and her lover, forced to content himself 
 with a promise to take a long ramble with him 
 after breakfast, as they had done in the days of 
 their early youth, led her to the breakfast- 
 room, where they found the rest of the party 
 assembled, and conversing with as much ease 
 and cheerfulness as if nothing had occurred to 
 disturb the tranquillity of the morning. 
 
 " Well, Edward," said Mrs. Falkland, '' your 
 father would not stay longer ; and I forebore to 
 
139 
 
 press him," she added, with a little pardonable 
 hypocrisy, " as I know that he has a good deal 
 of business on his hands ; and when he is de- 
 termined on any point, it is vain to try to move 
 him." As she spoke, she looked for an instant 
 towards Colonel Manners, to give more meaning 
 to her words in her nephew's ears than the 
 words themselves imported. 
 
 '^ I saw my father myself, my dear aunt," 
 replied De Vaux : " he was with me in my 
 room for half an hour, and explained the neces- 
 sity of his departure." 
 
 Colonel Manners could have smiled ; but he 
 thought it best to follow the lead that had been 
 given, and to appear ignorant of anything else 
 having taken place, though, of course, he felt in- 
 ternally convinced that his unfortunate dispute 
 vnih De Vaux's father had been the cause of 
 that nobleman's sudden and abrupt departure. 
 " I think your father mentioned last night," he 
 said, in pursuance of this plan, " that he was 
 going to Dimden, did he not, De Vaux ? Does 
 it belong to your family V 
 
 ** It always has done so," replied his friend : 
 *' it is here, very near — but a few miles off; but 
 it is not kept up as I think it should be. My 
 father always resides at the other house ; and 
 
140 
 
 seems to have so strong an aversion to Dimden, 
 that, not contented with not living there, he lets 
 it fall somewhat to decay." 
 
 " I must make you take me there some 
 morning," answered Colonel Manners ; "I 
 have heard that it contains a fine collection of 
 pictures." 
 
 " Fine, I believe, but small," answered De 
 Vaux, dehghted to fancy that his friend had 
 totally forgotten the dispute of the night be- 
 fore, and was ignorant of any fresh discomfort 
 which had been produced by that morning ; 
 " fine, I beheve, but small — but I do not un- 
 derstand anything about pictures." 
 
 " Nay, nay, Edward, do not say that," ex- 
 claimed Miss Falkland. ^^ Do you not love 
 everything that is beautiful and fine in nature ? 
 have you not an eye to mark every shade and 
 every line that is worth looking at in a land- 
 scape ? and do you call that not understanding 
 pictures? I have seen you and Marian find 
 out a thousand beautiful little tints and touches, 
 and lights and shades in a view, that I had ge- 
 neralised most vulgarly." 
 
 Colonel Manners and Mrs. Falkland smiled ; 
 and perhaps both might have said, had they 
 spoken their thoughts, ** It was because your 
 
141 
 
 two cousins were in love, fair lady, and you 
 were not ! " They left the matter unexplained, 
 however, contenting themselves with thinking 
 that Isadore might, some time, learn the secret 
 of finding out new beauties in a view; and 
 De Vaux answered in his own style, *^ Still, 
 Isadore, I know nothing about pictures, depend 
 upon it. I cannot talk of hreadth, and hand- 
 ling, and chiar oscuro, and juice, and ordon- 
 nanee.'* 
 
 " Except when you mean a park of artillery, 
 De Vaux," said Colonel Manners ; " but if I 
 understand you rightly, you can see and feel 
 the beauties of a picture as well as any one, 
 though you cannot talk the jargon of a con- 
 noisseur about it." 
 
 " Perhaps that is what I do mean," an- 
 swered his friend ; ** but I believe the truth is, 
 Manners, that you and I are both far behind 
 in the elegant charlatanism of dilettanteship. 
 Why I have heard a man go on by the hour 
 with the copia fundi of a Cicero about a 
 picture, the beauties of which he no more un- 
 derstood than the frame in which it was placed. 
 These men's minds are like a yard measure, a 
 thing on which a multitude of figures are written 
 down, without the slightest use till they are 
 
U2 
 
 properly applied by some one else. When I 
 am seeing anything fine, heaven deliver me 
 from the proximity of a walking dictionary of 
 technical terms ! '* 
 
 " They are very useful things in their way, 
 Edward," answered Isadore ; " and only think, 
 if these men can be so eloquent about things 
 that they do not feel, solely upon the strength 
 of their jargon, how much more eloquent you, 
 who do feel them, would be, if you had the 
 jargon too." 
 
 She spoke jestingly ; but De Vaux, whose 
 spleen had been somewhat excited, answered 
 quickly, *^ I do not know, Isadore — I do not 
 know. I very often think that a great ac- 
 quaintance with the jargon of art tends to 
 destroy the feeling for it. I have heard of a 
 great critic, who on viewing the Apollo of 
 Belvidere, declared that had the lip been a 
 hair's breadth longer, the god would have been 
 lost. This was all very connoisseurish and very 
 true, no doubt ; but, depend upon it, that man 
 felt the beauties of the immortal statue a thou- 
 sand times more, whose only exclamation on 
 seeing it was, * Good God ! ' I would rather 
 have the fresh feehngs of even ignorance itself 
 than the tutored and mechanical taste that 
 
us 
 
 measures the cheek-bones of a Venus, gauges 
 the depth of colour in a Claude, or feels the edges 
 of a book instead of looking into the inside." 
 
 " Yes, but consider, Edward," said Marian, 
 who since she entered the room had been sit- 
 ting silent at the breakfast-table, " it surely 
 does not follow that because we understand a 
 thing well, we lose our first and natural taste 
 for it. If I could paint like Claude or Poussin, 
 I surely should not take less pleasure in a 
 beautiful landscape." 
 
 " No, Marian," exclaimed Miss Falkland, 
 well knowing that De Vaux would not support 
 his sarcasms very vigorously against his cousin, 
 *' no ; but depend upon it, no one who could 
 paint like Claude or Poussin would talk like a 
 connoisseur." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Colonel Manners, ** know- 
 ledge of all kinds may be like the fabled cup, 
 whose influence entirely depended upon those 
 who drank from it — to some it was death, to 
 others immortal life ; wisdom to some, and fool- 
 ishness to others. And thus I should think a 
 great acquaintance with any art, in some in- 
 stances — where the taste was good and the mind 
 was strong, — would refine the taste and give 
 humility to the mind, by showing what an un- 
 
144 
 
 fathomable mine of undiscovered things every 
 study presents ; while in other cases — where the 
 taste was null and the mind weak — the result 
 would be the vanity of ill-digested knowledge, 
 and an idle gabble of unmeaning terms." 
 
 *' And how often would the latter be the case 
 when compared with the former ? " said De 
 Vaux. *^ Answer me, my dear Colonel." 
 
 " I am afraid, indeed, nine hundred and 
 ninety-nine times out of the thousand," replied 
 Colonel Manners : *' and what, I must confess, 
 is worse still, the proportion of those who would 
 bow to the vanity of ill-digested knowledge, and 
 give implicit credit to the gabble of unmeaning 
 terms, would be still greater ; while taste and 
 genius and mind would be forced to content 
 themselves with the poor thousandth part of 
 those whom they addressed." 
 
 " Then how is it, Colonel Manners," said 
 Marian, " that we are told that what is really 
 good has always ultimate success, notwithstand- 
 ing this terrific array of folly against it ? " 
 
 " Because truth is permanent in its very 
 essence, and falsehood — of every kind, as well 
 false taste as false statements — is evanescent," 
 replied Colonel Manners. " Such is, I suppose, 
 the broad reason ; but, to examine it more cu- 
 
145 
 
 riously, we shall find the progress of the thing 
 somewhat amusing ; for even the ultimate esta- 
 bhshment of truth and wisdom is, in a great 
 measure, owing to the voice of the false and 
 foolish. Here is a fine picture or a fine statue, 
 of that chaste but not attractive kind, which 
 ensures the admiration of those who can feel 
 beauty, but does not win the attention of the 
 crowd. A man without taste sees a man of 
 taste gazing at it ; hears him praise its beauties ; 
 and, as there is nothing so servile or so vain as 
 folly, instantly affects to perceive the beauties 
 which he never saw, and goes forth to trumpet 
 them as things of his own discovery. Others 
 come to see, and, as one fool will never be out- 
 done by another, each sings its praises in the 
 same vociferous tone, each gains his little stock 
 of self-complacency from praising what others 
 praise, and the reputation of the thing is esta- 
 blished." 
 
 ** Unless," said De Vaux, " one of the learned 
 fools we were talking of should step in ; and, as 
 his vanity is always of the pugnacious kind, — 
 the vanity that will lead, instead of being led, — 
 he, of course, condemns what others have been 
 praising ; declares that the statue has no con- 
 tour, that the picture wants breadth, force, 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 
 
 chiaroscuro. All the others cry out, that it is 
 evident it does so ; wonder they could have ad- 
 mired it, and poor patient merit is kicked back 
 into the shade." 
 
 *' But still, the same process takes place 
 again," rejoined Colonel Manners. " The 
 learned fool and his generation die off; but still, 
 the merit of the thing remains, till some one 
 again rescues it from oblivion, and its reputation 
 is finally established." 
 
 *' Indeed, now, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. 
 Falkland, ** I think that you have admitted 
 Marian s maxim with too little limitation. That 
 what is really good may always have ultimate 
 success, is true, undoubtedly, when spoken of 
 transcendent merit, or of super excellent qua- 
 lities ; but this transcendent merit only appears 
 once, perhaps, in a century ; and the world shows 
 that, in the great mass of worldly things, the 
 every-day virtues, the every-day exertions, the 
 every-day characters, which surround us in this 
 busy existence, virtue and merit are not always 
 ultimately successful. The religious, the poli- 
 tical, the scientific charlatan often carries all 
 before him ; while the man of modest talent and 
 unassuming virtue plods on his way unnoticed, 
 and dies forgotten. So much, indeed, is this the 
 
147 
 
 case, that do not we daily see that many a shrewd 
 man of real talent feels obliged to mix a little 
 charlatanism with his other qualities, for the 
 sake of ensuring success ? If Marian had said 
 that things which are intrinsically immortal — 
 which have in themselves inherent permanence 
 — must have ultimate success when they are 
 really good, and condemnation when they are 
 bad, I would have granted it at once ; but 
 in all lesser things, — and the world is made up 
 of them, — I sincerely believe that success de- 
 pends upon accident or impudence." 
 
 Colonel Manners smiled, and abandoned, or, 
 at least, modified his theory, admitting that Mrs. 
 Falkland was right : for he was one of those 
 men who, having generally reason on their side, 
 can be candid without fear. But there was also 
 something more than this in his candour : it 
 sprung from his heart — it was a part of his cha- 
 racter; and though it may seem unnatural to 
 the greater part of mankind, it is no less a fact 
 that he was so great a lover of truth, that, when 
 once he was convinced, he never dreamed of 
 contending against his conviction. He therefore 
 gave up the position, that merit would always 
 be ultimately successful, limiting it according 
 to Mrs, Falkland's showing. 
 H 2 
 
148 
 
 Isadore added, that she thought it must be 
 so, and woidd be sorry to believe it otherwise, 
 as the occasional separation of virtue and suc- 
 cess in this w^orld afforded to her mind one of 
 the strongest corroborative assurances of a future 
 state. De Vaux laughed at her ; and called 
 her a little philosopher, and the conversation 
 branched off to other things. 
 
 Breakfast is a meal at which one loves to 
 linger. The daylight and the wide world have all, 
 more or less, an idea of labour attached to them ; 
 and, though that labour be of the lightest kind, 
 there is still a feeling in going forth after break- 
 fast, that we are about to take our share of the 
 original curse : which feeling inclines man na- 
 turally to linger over the tea and coffee, and 
 saunter to the window, or look into the fire, or 
 play with the knife and fork for a few minutes 
 more than is positively required. What between 
 one oral occupation or another, then, the party 
 at Mrs. Falkland's breakfast table contrived to 
 pass an hour very pleasantly. Colonel Man- 
 ners, when all had risen, bestowed five minutes 
 more upon the long wdndow, — while Isadore and 
 her mother, De Vaux and Marian, held separate 
 councils on the future proceedings of the day, — 
 and then retired to his ovm room, to write a 
 
149 
 
 note of business to some of his people in Lon- 
 don. He had not long been gone when the fat 
 and venerable servant, whom we have called 
 Peter, entered the room, bearing a note, which, 
 with much respectful ceremony, he deHvered 
 over to the hands of Miss De Vaux. Marian 
 turned a little red, and a little pale ; and, had a 
 jealous husband seen her receive that billet, he 
 might have began to suspect one whose every 
 thought was pure ; but the truth was, that poor 
 Marian had instantly recollected her uncle's 
 hand ; and, as her last ideas in respect to him 
 had not been very pleasant, she was afraid that 
 the new ones about to be called up by his note 
 might be still more disagreeable. Without 
 pausing to examine the scrawl upon the back, 
 which implied her name, she broke the seal and 
 read. As she did so, a gentle smile, and a softer 
 suffusion, stole over her face ; but then she be- 
 came more grave, then looked vexed, and then 
 handed the paper to Mrs. Falkland, saying, 
 " Do read it, my dear aunt — my uncle is both 
 very kind and very unkind ; but, indeed, it con- 
 cerns you and Edward a great deal more than 
 it does me." 
 
 Mrs. Falkland took the letter and read it, the 
 substance of which was to the following effect : — 
 
 H 3 
 
150 
 
 In the first place, the noble Lord began by ex- 
 pressing more affection for Marian De Vaux 
 than he had ever been known to express for 
 man, woman, or child before in his existence. 
 He next went on to say, that there was nothing 
 on earth which had ever given him so much 
 pleasure as the prospect of his son's marriage 
 with her on whom he had been showering such 
 praises: it was the solacing idea of his old 
 age, he said, and the compensating joy for many 
 a past sorrow. He then declared that he had 
 hoped to be much with Edward and Marian 
 during the days that were to intervene ere their 
 marriage could be celebrated, and to have wit- 
 nessed the ceremony as the most joyful and 
 satisfactory one that he could ever behold ; and 
 next came the real object and substance-matter 
 of the whole, for he concluded by expressing 
 his bitter disappointment at not being able to 
 do so, from the circumstance of a man, who had 
 so grossly insulted him as Colonel Manners had 
 done, continuing in his sister's house, as her 
 honoured guest, and his son's bosom friend. 
 Marian would understand, he said, that it was 
 impossible for him to present himself again at 
 Morley House while Colonel Manners was there, 
 without loss of dignity and honour; but he 
 
151 
 
 nevertheless besought her to let every thing 
 proceed as if he were present ; and he added a 
 desire to see her, as soon after her marriage as 
 possible. 
 
 While Mrs. Falkland, and then Edward de 
 Vaux, read the letter in turn, Marian kept her 
 eyes fixed on the ground. The fact is, how- 
 ever, that there was much in her uncle's letter 
 to pain her, as well as to gratify her ; and she 
 would even willingly have sacrificed the gratify- 
 ing part, if, by so doing, she could have done 
 away the painful. It was very unpleasant, in the 
 first place, to be pressed, by assurances of affec- 
 tion and kindness, to commit a gross injustice, 
 for the gratification of the person expressing 
 that affection ; and it was not a little disagree- 
 able to think of her marriage to Lord Dewry's 
 son taking place without his father's presence 
 and countenance. Women of the finest minds 
 and the justest feelings will tliink of wKat iho, 
 world will say ; and God forbid they ever should 
 not. Marian De Vaux, therefore, thought of 
 what the world would say, in regard to Lord 
 Dewry being absent from her wedding ; and 
 she could not help feeling that the comments 
 of all her kind acquaintances would be painful, 
 both to her pride and her deHcacy. All this 
 
 H 4 
 
15^ 
 
 was passing in her mind, while her eyes were 
 busy with a pair of nondescripts on the damask 
 table-cloth: but let it be clearly understood, 
 that she never did Colonel Manners the wrong 
 to wish that he should go, on account of any 
 pain that she herself might suffer. She wished, 
 indeed, that her uncle would be more just, 
 more placable, more generous ; but she felt 
 clearly where the fault lay, and she never 
 turned her eyes in the other direction. Mrs. 
 Falkland appreciated Marian's feehngs in al- 
 most all cases ; but at present she estimated to 
 the full all that would be distressing to her niece 
 in the conduct of her brother, and thought, 
 perhaps, that Marian might be more affected 
 by it than she really was. " My dear Marian," 
 she said, ^' this is very disagreeable fcr us all, 
 and must be very painful to yOu, my sweet girl, 
 in particular. Nevertheless, we must do jus- 
 tice to ourselves. "Were it any thing like a 
 sacrifice of mere pleasure, we might and would 
 wilHngly do a great deal to satisfy your uncle, 
 and remove the unpleasant load he casts upon 
 us; but this is a matter of right and wrong, 
 in which he is decidedly in the wrong ; and to 
 yield to him would not only be dishonourable 
 to ourselves, but seems to me quite impos- 
 sible. The demeanour of Colonel Manners to 
 
153 
 
 me and mine lias been every thing that I could 
 desire, and is in every respect accordant with 
 his well-established character, as a most gallant 
 soldier and accomplished gentleman ; and I can 
 neither suffer the whims nor the ill-temper of 
 any person, however near the relationship, to 
 alter my conduct in such a case. What do you 
 say, Edward?" 
 
 '* I agree with you entirely, my dear aunt," 
 he replied, *' and so I told my father this morn- 
 ing. Holding Manners, as I do, to be most 
 nobly in the right, I cannot suffer either my 
 opinion of him, or my behaviour towards him, 
 to be changed by the sudden dislike of even 
 my parent." 
 
 " And let me say, Edward, a most capricious 
 and Lord Dewry-ish dislike it is — though he 
 be your father and my uncle," added Miss 
 Falkland. " What can he find to disHke in 
 Colonel Manners? He is not beautiful, it is 
 true ; but he saved your life at the risk of his 
 own ; he nursed you in sickness ; he was your 
 companion in danger, and your friend at all 
 times ; so that if any one loved him, it should 
 be your father. Besides, could any one have 
 made himself more agreeable than he has done 
 since he has been here ? What pretence does 
 H 5 
 
154 
 
 Lord Dewry think mamma could have for 
 turning such a man out of her house, when she 
 had so lately invited him in the most pressing 
 terms ? '* 
 
 " Oh, of course, that is quite out of the 
 question," said Mrs. Falkland, smiling at her 
 fair daughter's enthusiasm; "though I cannot 
 help thinking, Edward, that your father's design, 
 in that letter, was to make us do so, by render- 
 ing the contrary so disagreeable to us.'* 
 
 "If it were so, he will alter his behaviour," 
 replied De Vaux, " when he finds that we 
 cannot follow such a course ; and I am sure 
 you think with me, my dear aunt, that the 
 only plan we can pursue is, to do as he bids us 
 in his note, and proceed as if he were present." 
 
 " Most certainly," replied Mrs. Falkland : 
 " do you not think so too, Marian?" 
 
 ^ Oh, yes, Marian does," cried Isadore Falk- 
 land, " I am sure she does ? " 
 
 " I am afraid we must do so," answered Ma- 
 rian, smiling somewhat sadly; "but, at aU events, 
 my dear aunt, I had better write to my uncle, 
 and I will try to persuade him to change his 
 determination." 
 
 " Do so, my dear girl," repHed her aunt; 
 " though I am afraid you will find it in vain." 
 
155 
 
 Marian sat down and wrote, and put as much 
 gentle sweetness into her note as would have 
 gone far to soften any other man upon earth. 
 She said not a word in regard to Colonel 
 Manners, his quarrel with her uncle, or her 
 own feehngs on the subject : but she expressed 
 to Lord Dewry how deeply gratified she was 
 by his tenderness and affection ; how ardently 
 she hoped to retain it when she should become 
 the wife of his son. She then went on to tell 
 him, in language that came rushing from her 
 heart, how bitterly painful it would be to her, 
 if he continued the same determination of not 
 being present at her marriage ; and she en- 
 treated, with persuasions that none but woman 
 could have v^'itten, that he would yield his 
 resolution in this respect. In the whole course 
 of her letter — though it was as artless as any 
 collection of words that ever was penned-^^ there 
 was not one syllable that could offend the pride, 
 or the vanity, or the feelings of her uncle — not 
 one that could afford anger or irritation the least 
 footing to rest upon. Had it been calculated 
 upon the most experienced view of all the fol- 
 lies and passions of human nature, it could not 
 have been better constructed; and yet, as we 
 have said, it was as artless a composition as 
 H 6 
 
156 
 
 ever was penned: but the secret was, that it 
 came from a fine, a gentle, and a sensitive 
 mind. 
 
 And now, while she folds, seals, and addresses 
 it, with neat and careful hand, and gives it to 
 the servant to be sent off immediately, we shall 
 take the liberty of turning to another part of 
 the subject, and treating of the person whose 
 presence was the point of difficulty. 
 
157 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 When Lord Dewry quitted Colonel Manners, 
 at the end of the flower-garden, as we have 
 shown in a preceding chapter, the gallant sol- 
 dier had turned back towards the house, but 
 with steps much less rapid than those of the 
 peer, from the simple fact of no violent passion 
 moving in his breast. In truth, it would seem, 
 after all, that man — notwithstanding his great 
 pretensions, his reasonings about his own ex- 
 istence, and his conceit in his painted jacket — 
 is not at all unhke one of those figures that 
 children buy at fairs, with his arms and legs, 
 and even his head, hung on by wires ; and 
 with the passions to pull the string at the 
 back, not only without his volition, but often 
 against his will. Wrath puUs, and he kicks ; 
 revenge pulls, and he strikes; jealousy puUs, 
 and he writhes ; fear puUs, and he runs ; love 
 pulls, and he dances ; and, as no one of these 
 passions was behind Colonel Manners at the 
 time, he had walked on slowly and deliberately 
 
158 
 
 towards the house, sometimes turning to look 
 at the landscape, sometimes trifling with a 
 flower, but doing neither one nor the other, 
 perhaps, quite so often as when he set out that 
 day upon his morning's walk. 
 
 Still it is not to be supposed that, though 
 no very violent afiection of the mind followed 
 Lord Dewry's departure. Colonel Manners re- 
 mained perfectly indiflerent to what had oc- 
 curred: on the contrary, it threw him into a 
 fit of musing, if not of deep thought, and pro- 
 duced reflections which ended in resolutions, 
 such as Colonel Manners might be expected to 
 form. At the peer's wrath he laughed, and 
 laughed at his menaces equally, secure in that 
 calm, self-confident coiu'age, which, not knowing 
 what fear is, never dreams that it can be attri- 
 buted to us : but at the uncomfort that his dispute 
 with De Vaux's father might and would pro- 
 duce in the family he had come to visit. Colonel 
 Manners did not laugh. He had assented, on 
 the preceding night — in words which, with 
 him, amounted to a promise — to forget the 
 Baron's rudeness, and not to sufier it to abridge 
 his stay ; but, at present, new provocation had 
 been given, and he had every reason to beKeve 
 that his visit could not be prolonged to the 
 
159 
 
 period lie had at first proposed, without ma- 
 terial uncomfort to the family at Morley House, 
 however strongly their kindness or their polite- 
 ness might urge his stay. 
 
 " Doubtless," thought Colonel Manners, — 
 for we must put his private cogitations into the 
 form of that necessary folly, a sohloquy, — • 
 " Doubtless, the worthy peer will not go and 
 expose himself so much to his own family, as 
 to tell them what has occurred between us this 
 morning; but equally, without doubt, he will 
 contrive, by his demeanour towards me, to render 
 the house not only very unpleasant to me, but 
 also to all its occupants ; and, therefore, as this 
 is a field where honour is neither to be gained 
 nor supported, I must even beat a retreat. Yet 
 De Vaux will, I know, feel very much morti- 
 fied, if he fancies that his father is the cause 
 of my departure ; and, therefore, I suppose that 
 the best plan will be, to wait a day or two, 
 and then, vrith the first letters that arrive,— 
 and I must receive some soon, — to plead im- 
 portant business, and set out. I suppose I 
 must bear with this ill-tempered old gentle- 
 man's behaviour as best I may, for eight and 
 forty hours, though I am afraid it will be a 
 
160 
 
 struggle to avoid retorting a little of his bitter- 
 ness upon himself." 
 
 Such had been the substance of Colonel Man- 
 ners's thoughts upon this subject, as he walked 
 back, and such the determination he formed ; 
 but as he did form them, there was sometliing 
 Hke a sigh escaped from his bosom. The re- 
 ception he had met with from Mrs. Falkland 
 and her family, on his first arrival, had been 
 so warm and kind, that all the best feelings 
 of his heart had been enlisted on their side. 
 He had completely made up his mind to spend 
 a happy three wrecks with people who seemed, 
 in every respect, so amiable ; and although he 
 felt that it might be a httle dangerous, — by 
 making him feel more acutely, from comparison, 
 the want of domestic ties and comforts, — al- 
 though he felt it might be a little dangerous, 
 yet he had experienced a pleasure at the idea 
 of thus dwelling, even for a short space, in 
 the midst of a true old English family, that 
 made him bitterly regret the necessity of fore- 
 going what he had set his heart upon. As he 
 thought of going forth again alone, it seemed 
 as if it were the voice of fate that forbade 
 him to expose himself to the sight of feelings 
 and enjoyments that he was never to know 
 
161 
 
 personally, and sent him back imperiously to 
 the solitary state of existence which was to he 
 his portion; and although Colonel Manners 
 was accustomed to the contemplation, and had 
 nerved his mind not only to bear the uncom- 
 forts of his lot, but to resist every thought that 
 would teach him to repine, yet there were times 
 — and this was one — when he could not but 
 feel the chill wind of soHtude blow from the 
 dreary prospect of the future, and blight even 
 the enjoyment of the present. A dissertation 
 on the moral and physical nature of man might 
 be given to prove to a demonstration, that do- 
 mestic ties are a necessity of his existence: 
 and let any man gaze forward into future years, 
 and fancy that some cold barrier is placed 
 between him and domestic affection, that no 
 kindred eye is to brighten at his presence, no 
 affectionate lip smile at his happiness, no tear 
 of sympathy to wash away one half of his griefs, 
 no cheerful voice to dispel the thoughts of care, 
 no assiduous hand to smooth the pillow of sick- 
 ness, and close the eye of death, — let him 
 picture his being solitary, his joys unshared, 
 his sorrows undivided, his misfortunes unaided 
 but by general compassion, his sickness tended 
 
162 
 
 by the slow hand of mercenaries, and his eyes 
 closed, while the light has scarce departed, by 
 the rude touch of some weary and indifferent 
 menial, — let him fancy all this, and then he 
 will feel, indeed, that domestic ties are a ne- 
 cessity of our existence — at least, if he be not 
 either drunk with licentious passions, or a mere 
 calculating machine. 
 
 "We do not mean to say that all these ideas, 
 or any one of them, presented themselves to 
 the mind of Colonel Manners. Far be it from 
 us to insinuate that he was foolish enough to 
 give a vivid form, and painful minuteness, to 
 the evils of a state that he believed he could 
 not avoid. He struggled even against the ge- 
 neral impression ; but, as we have said, there 
 were moments in his life — and this was one — 
 when, notvdthstanding reason and resolution, 
 he would feel bitterly, that it is sad and sor- 
 rowful to pass through life alone, to spend one's 
 days in solitude, and to go down into the grave 
 without a tie. The impression was so strongly 
 raised, and clung so firmly to his mind, at the 
 moment we speak of, that he took a turn of a 
 hmidred yards back upon the walk, to give the 
 thoughts full range. Then remembering him- 
 
163 
 
 self, he broke out into an involuntary exclam- 
 ation of, *^ This is folly !" and turned quickly 
 back to the house. 
 
 In the breakfast-room he found Miss Falk- 
 land alone, and was not sorry so to find her ; for 
 there was in her conversation a pleasant and 
 good-humoured sparkling, a frank and fearless 
 livehness, which amused and interested him. 
 Besides, Colonel Manners was by no means a 
 man to object to the society of a very beautiful 
 girl : on that score he was quite fearless ; for 
 he had so guarded his heart by rampart, and 
 bastion, and half-moon, that he feared no at- 
 tack, either by seige or storm. The thing that 
 he feared was, the sight of a state of happiness, 
 which he coveted, but did not hope for ; and 
 therefore, he could enjoy the gay conversation and 
 pleasing presence of Isadore Falkland, without 
 alloy, though he might apprehend that a length- 
 ened stay, in the midst of a cheerful family circle, 
 might deepen his regret at his own loneliness. 
 
 Now, although the house of Mrs. Falkland, 
 like most other houses of its date, had a certain 
 ramblingness of construction, midway between 
 the gothic of Henry the Seventh's, and the 
 anomalous architecture of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury, yet the rooms were sufliciently proximate 
 
164 
 
 to allow Colonel Manners to hear, every now 
 and then, as the servant opened and shut the 
 door of the breakfast-room, the voice of Lord 
 Dewry, in tones more sharp than was becom- 
 ing. Nor was he slack in attributing the acer- 
 bity of the sounds he heard to their right 
 cause ; so that, as we have before shown, when 
 Mrs. Falkland and her nephew spoke of the 
 departure of the noble Lord, as a thing that 
 had taken place in the ordinary course of affairs. 
 Manners had very nearly smiled. 
 
 However, having taken his determination in 
 regard to his proceedings, and, seeing no bet- 
 ter plan that he could pursue, he suffered the 
 matter to pass" quietly, well knovdng that real 
 delicacy never makes a noise. To say the 
 truth, he was not at all sorry to find that Lord 
 Dewry had taken his departure ; for he had 
 every inclination to make himself both comfort- 
 able and agreeable while he did stay, neither of 
 which objects are very attainable in the same 
 house with a man who wants to fight a duel 
 vnth. you. After breakfast, as Manners was 
 too much of a general to leave any thing to 
 chance, he retired to his ovni apartments, in 
 order to write such letters to London as would 
 ensure immediate replies of the kind that would 
 
165 
 
 afford him a fair excuse for breaking through 
 his engagement with De Vaux, without ren- 
 dering the matter painful to his iriend, by any- 
 direct reference to his father ; and, when this 
 was accompKshed, he returned to the rest of 
 the party, whom he found in the act of seeing 
 the footman leave the room with Marian's note 
 to her uncle. 
 
 " We propose to take a walk, Manners," said 
 De Vaux, as he entered : ^* I must show you 
 the beauties of our county ; and, I think, we 
 will go upon the path which leads across the 
 hill, and brings us through the wood to within 
 a few hundred yards of the spot where we saw 
 the gipsies. We call it Marian's walk, as she 
 might always be found there when we were 
 but little boys and girls." 
 
 '^ It might have been called Edward's walk, 
 as well, then," answered Isadore gaily ; ** for, I 
 am sure, she was never there, without you, 
 Edward. At all events, if you did not go with 
 her, you were not long before you found her." 
 
 ** And can Miss de Vaux venture on so long 
 a walk ? " asked Colonel Manners, " in the 
 present day, when the extent of a lady's morn- 
 ing promenade is twice round the room and 
 once round the garden — when shoemakers 
 
166 
 
 stare, I am told, at the name of walking shoes, 
 and declare that they never heard of such 
 things?" 
 
 Marian smiled. " You are severe upon us, 
 Colonel Manners," she said ; *' but this v^^alk is 
 not so far either — though it is a little steep." 
 
 *' It seemed to me near six miles," replied 
 Colonel Manners ; "six miles, at least, from 
 this spot to the place De Vaux mentions." 
 
 '* Oh, that w^as because you came by the 
 road," replied Isadore : "if you had come over 
 the hill you would have shortened the way by 
 one half — but I forgot ; you would have met 
 with some accident also, as it was dark, and you 
 were on horseback. It is not much more than 
 two miles to the place where the path again 
 joins the high road, after passing through Mor- 
 ley wood." 
 
 " If you find it so short, I trust you are to 
 be of the party, Miss Falkland," said Colonel 
 Manners. 
 
 " Oh, most certainly," she repHed. " It was 
 aU very well for Edward and Marian to wander 
 through the woods together, when they were 
 boys and girls ; but now propriety, you know. 
 Colonel Manners, requires a sedate and aged 
 chaperon; and besides, I could not leave the 
 
167 
 
 party of such an odd and unfortunate number 
 as three : I should be afraid of some accident 
 happening to you by the way." 
 
 " But three is a fortunate number, my gay 
 cousin," replied De Vaux, smiling ; '* not an 
 unfortunate one, by every rule of cabalastic 
 science." 
 
 " In figures, but not in love, Edward," an- 
 swered his cousin, with a gay laugh. ** At 
 least, I have read as much in your face, more 
 than once, when I happened to be the unfortu- 
 nate third " 
 
 " Hush, hush, Isadore," cried Marian. 
 " Come, let let us dress ourselves to go ;" and, 
 taking her cousin's arm, she hurried her away. 
 Now, Marian de Vaux, who knew her cousin 
 well, was quite sure that Isadore would not 
 push her raiUery of her lover one step too far ; 
 but still she was not sorry to break off Isadore's 
 discourse ; for love is one of those things that 
 people may talk about a great deal, when they 
 feel it not, but which they bury deep in the 
 heart's innermost tabernacle as soon as they 
 know its value, and, like misers, tremble even 
 when their treasure is named. 
 
 Every one was soon ready to set out ; and, 
 stroUing through the garden separately, they 
 
168 
 
 proceeded to what was called the little gate, 
 w^hich gave them exit upon the road of 
 which they were in search. By separately, I 
 mean that neither of the gentlemen offered an 
 arm to their female companions, so long as 
 they were within rows of box-wood bordering, 
 and upon gravel walks. There would have been 
 something ridiculous in it ; although, perhaps, 
 the quality of walking arm-in-arm is to be 
 looked upon as one of the peculiar privileges 
 of humanity, which as much distinguishes man 
 from other animals, as any other quality of his 
 mind or body. He has been called, by those 
 wdio strove to define him, ** a forked radish, 
 fantastically cut," " a viviparous biped, without 
 feathers," *' a cooking animal," and many an- 
 other name. But had they called him '* the 
 animal that walks arm-in-arm," philosophers 
 might have come nearer to his distinctive qua- 
 lity ; for not only is it a thing that no other 
 animal does, but it also gives, at once, the idea 
 of many of the finer qualities of man's mind, 
 and is, in fact, a sort of hving hieroglyphic of 
 affection and sympathy, and mutual assistance 
 and support. 
 
 Now Colonel Manners and Edward de Vaux, 
 looking upon the privilege of walking arm-in- 
 
169 
 
 arm in its true light, might consider it with too 
 much reverence to enter upon it lightly, and 
 therefore not offer to exercise it towards their 
 fair companions, tiU the steepness oi" the way, and 
 the openness of the country, seemed to render it 
 necessary for their convenience and protection. 
 There might, indeed, be another reason, which 
 was, that in issuing forth from the house, a little 
 derangement in the natural order of things had 
 taken place, — some stray glove, or wandering 
 stick, or something of the kind, had been forgot- 
 ten, so as to throw out the order of the march ; 
 and Colonel Manners found himself walking be- 
 side Marian de Vaux, while De Vaux was at 
 the elbow of his cousin Isadore. Colonel Man- 
 ners, in agreeing to go out upon this expedition, 
 had perfectly well understood the part he was 
 held to play ; and De Vaux had the most firm 
 and implicit reliance upon his friend's tact in 
 the business : so that by a tacit convention it 
 was arranged between them, that the long 
 ramble which Marian had promised to take 
 with her lover was to be as completely solitary 
 and agreeable, as if they had not a friend or 
 relation upon the face of the earth. But the 
 derangement which had taken place in tlie po- 
 sition of the forces of course rendered a counter 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 
 
 movement on the part of De Vaux and liis friend 
 necessary ; and yet, as the walk they followed 
 was narrow, and did not admit of the advance of 
 more than two abreast, the desired evolution 
 could not be performed without rendering the 
 object unpleasantly obvious, till some little ac- 
 cident came to their aid. Colonel Manners, 
 however, had been out in the morning, as we 
 have already seen, to reconnoitre the ground ; 
 and as soon as he saw the difficulty, he in- 
 stantly laid out the plan of the evolutions, and 
 fixed upon the exact position, walking on still 
 by the side of Marian de Vaux, and talking of 
 les mouches qui volent. 
 
 But to proceed. Colonel Manners and Ma- 
 rian reached the little gate first, and unlocked 
 it, and then Colonel Manners halted till Miss 
 de Vaux and Miss Falkland had passed. The 
 two ladies immediately halted on the bank 
 of the little road, facing the gate, with Ma- 
 rian on the right hand and Isadore on the 
 left. Colonel Manners then resigned the com- 
 mand of the gate to Edward de Vaux ; but, in 
 marching out, while the other locked the door 
 and brought the key. Manners took up a posi- 
 tion upon the extreme left. De Vaux then 
 advanced to the right of the line, and, wheeling 
 
171 
 
 about, gave his arm to Marian ; Colonel Man- 
 ners offered his to Miss Falkland, and led the 
 way up the road to the left. This detail is 
 given as an exemplification of Manners's mili- 
 tary skill ; a quality vrhich, unfortunately, we 
 shall have no other opportunity of displaying 
 throughout this book. Nor was Isadore Falk- 
 land's knowledge of stratagy less marked, in 
 taking up the position to the left, as it entirely 
 commanded the road up which they were about 
 to proceed ; and as people in love in general 
 walk a great deal slower than people not in 
 love, it was necessary that she and Colonel 
 Manners should lead the way, in order at once 
 to give Edward and Marian de Vaux the pro- 
 tection of their presence and the benefit of 
 their absence. 
 
 Colonel Manners and Miss Falkland did not 
 lose much time in silence, for they were both 
 people who could talk very pleasantly ; and, 
 whatever they might think in regard to them- 
 selves, they each felt that it was so in regard to 
 the other. They spoke of many things; and 
 Isadore's conversation, as she became better 
 acquainted with her companion, and discovered 
 that there were stores of feeling and kindness at 
 his heart which would prevent liim from laugh- 
 I 2 
 
172 
 
 ing at her own enthusiasms, poured forth more of 
 the deeper stream of her character, over which 
 the rippHng current of gay and sparkling jest 
 that she usually displayed, flowed as much to 
 conceal the depth, as for any other purpose. 
 Besides, she was happy and young ; and where 
 was ever the stream, however profound, that did 
 not sparkle when the sun shone full upon it ? 
 
 Their first topic, as perhaps might be ex- 
 pected, was De Vaux and Marian ; a topic 
 which, under some circumstances, might have 
 been dangerous ; but Manners and Miss Falk- 
 land felt themselves perfectly secure. Still 
 it was a delicate one : for however deep and 
 true Colonel Manners's friendship might be 
 for De Vaux, and however warm and enthu- 
 siastic might be the love of Isadore for her 
 cousin Marian, there were, of course, a thousand 
 little circumstances and feelings, upon which 
 neither could enter, out of respect for the very 
 friendship and affection which they felt for the 
 two lovers. Nevertheless, perhaps this very 
 reteiiue, with, the sort of faint and misty allusions 
 which they were obliged to make to their 
 friends' love and their friends' hopes and pro- 
 spects, and the graceful circumlocutions and 
 explicative figures that it obliged them to seek, 
 
173 
 
 were not without charms in themselves. Colonel 
 Manners, for his part, felt very sure that, under 
 Marian de Vaux's cahn and tranquil manners 
 were very deep and powerful feehngs ; but, at 
 the same time, he wished — if consistently with 
 dehcacy it were possible — to find out from 
 Miss Falkland whether his opinions were fully 
 justified; and Isadore longed to know — with 
 all a woman's yearnings to prove to her own heart 
 the substantial existence of real, pure, perma- 
 nent, unswerving love— -whether her cousin had 
 retained, during his long absence, all that 
 tender, devoted, undivided attachment whicli 
 he displayed towards Marian when present. Not 
 at all did she wish to know whether Edward de 
 Vaux had made love to, or flirted v/ith, or talked 
 sweet nonsense to any other woman. Do not 
 let it be misunderstood; she never suspected 
 such a thing, nor would have believed it had it 
 been told her : but she would have given a great 
 deal to find out, whether in the bosom of her 
 cousin, the one thought of his afiection had 
 ever been paramount ; whether the world, and 
 ambition, and other scenes, and absence, and 
 danger, and excitement had never banished the 
 image of Marian from the bosom of Edward 
 de Vaux ; and, in short, she would have will- 
 I 3 
 
174 
 
 ingly heard it proved, in his instance, that 
 love can exist in the bosom of man, under 
 prolonged absence and varying circumstances. 
 In all this, she was as disinterested as a woman 
 ever can be in regard to an affair of love ; 
 but, the truth is, no woman can be totally 
 so. The whole of that bright race are, in this 
 respect, but a joint-stock company — to borrow 
 a figure from familiar things — and love is their 
 capital, in which all have an interest, and all a 
 share. 
 
 However, it will be easily conceived that, 
 under these circumstances, the conversation be- 
 tween Miss Falkland and Colonel Manners was 
 as nice, and delicate, and difficult an encounter 
 of their wits as ever was practised. Colonel 
 Manners was soon satisfied ; for, in answer 
 to some complimentary observation upon her 
 cousin's manners and appearance, which went 
 to praise their tranquillity as well as their ele- 
 gance, Isadore answered frankly, and smiling as 
 she did so, " Oh, Marian is often more commoto 
 dentro than you think." Miss Falkland's re- 
 searches, however, were less easily pursued, and 
 they led her, like a child hunting a butterfly, 
 through a world of flowers. One time, she 
 would put her problem generally, and wonder 
 
175 
 
 whether any man ever did feel, and contmue to 
 feel, as she wished to believe Edward had done 
 towards Marian ; and then she would put it 
 particularly, and say, that she thought such an 
 attachment as his must have been a wonderful 
 solace and delight to him ; an inexhaustible fund 
 of sweet feelings and hopes, throughout all that 
 he had been obliged to endure. But still Colonel 
 Manners, who very clearly understood what she 
 meant, hung back a Httle in his explanations ; 
 pleased, in truth, to watch the feelings that 
 prompted her and the path she pursued ; pleased 
 with all the graces that the subject called up in 
 her countenance and her manner ; the beaming 
 smile, the sparkhng eye, and sometunes the 
 sudden stop and passing blush, when she became 
 uncertain of the next step and dared nOt 
 advance. 
 
 After he had amused himself a little, and 
 saw that she might misconstrue his backward- 
 ness into something disadvantageous to his 
 friend, he caught at the next sentence, and re- 
 plied, " Yes, indeed, I look upon De Vaux's 
 attachment, and his engagement to your fair 
 cousin, before he went to America, as one of 
 the greatest blessings that could have happened 
 to liim ; especially for a man whose heart was 
 I 4 
 
176 
 
 calculated to make it his happiness and his 
 safeguard, and his leading star wherever he 
 went." 
 
 Isadore blushed warmly ; and perhaps there 
 was a little mingling of emotions in her blush ; 
 for, in the first place, the full confirmation of 
 what she had wished and hoped, made her cheek 
 glow ; and, in the next place. Colonel Manners' 
 words were so exactly a reply to the questions 
 which had been lurking unspoken in her heart, 
 that she almost suspected he had seen deeper 
 into her thoughts than she had anticipated. A 
 slight smile that followed upon his lip she con- 
 sidered as excessively malicious; but she was 
 one who never suffered wrath to rankle in her 
 bosom, but, in her way, revenged herself always 
 on the spot. " You speak so feelingly, Colonel 
 Manners," said she, just suffering a single ray 
 of laughing light to gleam out of her fine dark 
 eyes ; " you speak so feelingly, that I doubt 
 not you have been guarded and led in the same 
 manner." 
 
 Let it be clearly kept in mind, that Isadore 
 Falkland had only known Colonel Charles 
 Manners fourteen hours and a half, or she 
 would not have said what she did for the world. 
 It may be thought that the case ought to have 
 
177 
 
 been quite the contrary, and that she might 
 have ventured more had she been more inti- 
 mate. But such would be an erroneous view of 
 the matter. Isadore Falkland well knew that 
 fourteen hours and a half was not a sufficient 
 space of time for any rational man either to 
 feel or to affect love for the most enchanting 
 being that ever the world beheld, and, conse- 
 quently, that she might say a sportive thing in 
 regard to Colonel Manners' heart, without any 
 chance of a retort which might have been dis- 
 agreeable — unless he had been a fool or a cox- 
 comb, wliich she knew him not to be. Had 
 she known him a fortnight, he might have made 
 the retort, as a jest, which would have been 
 disagreeable enough ; or as a comphment, which 
 would have been still more disagreeable ; or as 
 a serious fact, which would have been most dis- 
 agreeable ; and therefore, under such circum- 
 stances, she would never have thought of talking 
 about the heart of one of the company, when 
 there were but two in it. Had she known, too, 
 that the subject was a painful one to Colonel 
 Manners, she would as little have thought of 
 touching upon it ; and, indeed, a feeling that 
 he was not handsome, and a vague misty sort of 
 consciousness that that fact might have some- 
 I 5 
 
178 
 
 tiling to do with his remaining unmarried, did 
 make her regret that she had said such words, 
 ahnost as soon as they were beyond recall. 
 
 " No, indeed," said Colonel Manners, with a 
 touch of melancholy in his manner that could 
 not wholly be banished ; '* no, indeed, I have 
 not been so fortunate as either to have guardian 
 angel or leading star ; " and he smiled at the 
 triteness of his own figures of speech, but with 
 a smile that did not counteract, to the mind of 
 Miss Falkland, the sadness of his tone. She 
 was vexed with herself, and would have done 
 any thing on earth, in a reasonable way, to 
 efface whatever painful feelings she might have 
 awakened : but though she was generally skilful 
 enough in putting an end to a difficulty where 
 others were concerned, she found it not so easy 
 to disentangle the affair when she herself was 
 the culprit. 
 
 Whether Colonel Manners perceived that 
 Miss Falkland felt she had given pain, and was 
 vexed with herself, or whether he likewise 
 wished to get rid of the subject, matters little, 
 but he now changed the topic somewhat ab- 
 ruptly, and looking round upon the woods, into 
 the very heart of which they were plunging, he 
 said, " I wonder that yon fair ladies are not 
 
179 
 
 somewhat afraid of walking tlirough these soli- 
 tudes hj yourselves." 
 
 ** There is no danger," she replied ; *' we have 
 none but very orderly peaceable people in our 
 part of the world : though, in truth," she added, 
 after a moment's thought, ** we are the last 
 family that should say there is no danger ; but 
 I have never heard of any very serious offence 
 being committed in our neighbourhood, since 
 the murder of my poor uncle, which, as it is 
 long ago, of course I do not recollect." 
 
 '* I remember having heard something of that 
 event," replied Colonel Manners ; " but do not 
 recollect the particulars. Was he killed by 
 highwaymen ? " 
 
 ** I believe so," answered Miss Falkland ; 
 " though I know too little about it to tell you 
 exactly what happened. But^ — oh! yes — he was 
 robbed and murdered, I remember ; for it was 
 proved that he had a large sum of money upon 
 his person when he went out — several thousand 
 pounds — and it was supposed that some one, 
 who knew the fact, had either waylaid him, or 
 had informed the murderers of the booty they 
 might obtain." 
 
 " He was, I think, your uncle by the side of 
 Mrs. Falkland," said Colonel Manners, who, of 
 I 6 
 
180 
 
 course, felt an interest in the matter, in propor- 
 tion to tlie little difficulties of obtaining inform- 
 ation. 
 
 " Yes, my mother's brother," replied Isadore ; 
 ** Marian's father. You may easily imagine 
 that such a story rendered her an object of 
 double interest to all her family — of redoubled 
 tenderness, I beheve I should say; and even 
 my uncle, who is not very scrupulous in regard 
 to what he says to any one, is more kind and 
 considerate towards Marian than towards any 
 other human being. That great and horrible 
 crime, however — I mean the murder — seems 
 to have frightened others from our neighbour- 
 hood; and, though we occasionally hear of a 
 little poaching, the people round us are uni- 
 formly well-behaved and peaceable." 
 
 " Can you say as much for the gipsies, to- 
 wards whose encampment, if I understood De 
 Vaux right, we are bending our way ? " asked 
 Colonel Manners ; " they are, in general, very 
 troublesome and unquiet neighbours." 
 
 " I had not heard of their being here," re- 
 plied Miss Falkland : " we are very seldom so 
 honoured, I can assure you. I do not remember 
 having seen gipsies here more than once ; and 
 that was not in this wood, but on a large com- 
 
181 
 
 mon, up yonder at the top of that hill, behind 
 the house. They are a strange race ! " 
 
 " They are, indeed," answered her compa- 
 nion ; " and De Yaux and I, as we passed their 
 encampment, could not help marvelling that no 
 government had ever thought it worth its while 
 to pay some attention to them, either for the 
 purpose of reclaiming them to civiHsed life, or, 
 if that were judged impossible, for the purpose 
 of obtaining those traces of knowledge which 
 are waning from amongst them every day, but 
 which some of their better men are said still to 
 retain." 
 
 ** Do you mean their astrological know- 
 ledge ? " asked Miss Falkland, with a look of no 
 slight interest in the question. 
 
 *^ Oh ! no," answered Colonel Manners, with 
 a smile ; " I mean the knowledge of their 
 real history, of their original country, of their 
 former laws, of their language, in its purity, 
 and of many facts of great interest, which, 
 though with them they are merely traditionary, 
 yet might be confirmed or invalidated by other 
 testimony in our own possession." 
 
 '* They are a strange people, indeed!" said 
 Miss Falkland. " Do you know. Colonel Man- 
 ners, that the separate existence of these gipsies 
 
182 
 
 and of the Jews — coming down, as it were, two 
 distinct streams, amidst all tlie whirling con- 
 fusion of an ocean of other nations — keep- 
 ing their identity amongst wars, and battles, 
 and changes, and the overturning of all things 
 but themselves ; retaining their habits and their 
 thoughts, and their national character apart, in 
 spite both of sudden and violent revolutions in 
 society, and of the slow, but even more powerful, 
 efforts of gradual improvement and civilisation ; 
 — do you know, whenever I think of this, it gives 
 me a strange feeling of mysterious awe, that I 
 cannot describe? It seems as if I saw more 
 distinctly, than in the common course of things, 
 the workings of the particular will of the 
 Almighty ; for I cannot understand how these 
 facts can be accounted for by any of the com- 
 mon motives in existence ; as, in both instances, 
 interest, ambition, policy, and pleasure, vnth 
 almost every inducement that could be enume- 
 rated, would have produced exactly the opposite 
 result." 
 
 " I shall not attempt to reason against you. 
 Miss Falkland," replied Colonel Manners, with 
 a smile, " and indeed I very much agree with 
 you in opinion, though perhaps not in your 
 wonder ; for being a complete believer in a spe- 
 
183 
 
 cial providence, I only see the same hand in this, 
 that I think is discernible throughout creation." 
 
 " But tell me, Colonel Manners," said Isadore, 
 *' have you any belief in the fortune-telling 
 powers of the gipsies ? " 
 
 '* None whatever," answered Colonel Man- 
 ners. 
 
 ** Nor perhaps have I," said Isadore ; ** but 
 at the same time, it is strange, that in all ages, 
 and in all countries, as far as I can understand, 
 these gipsies have pretended to this particular 
 science, and have been very generally believed. 
 At all events, it shows that they have an im- 
 memorial tradition of such a power having been 
 possessed by their ancestors ; and if it were 
 possessed by their ancestors, why not by them- 
 selves?" 
 
 " But we have no reason to believe that it 
 was possessed by their ancestors," replied Co- 
 lonel Manners, " except, indeed, their own 
 tradition, which, as you say, is evidently very 
 ancient." 
 
 " Nay, nay, but I think we have other proofs," 
 replied Isadore, " and very strong ones, it ap- 
 pears to me. It is evident from the historical 
 part of the Bible that the most ancient Egyp- 
 tians had various means of divination, and even 
 
184 
 
 a magical influence, the reality and power of 
 which is admitted by the sacred writers most 
 distinctly ; and consequently, when these facts 
 are joined to an immemorial tradition of the 
 descendants of the same nation, it seems that 
 there is strong reason for believing that these 
 powers existed even after the period to which 
 the sacred volume refers." 
 
 ** I am inclined, indeed, to believe," replied 
 Colonel Manners, " that the gipsies are de- 
 scendants from some Egyptian tribe, although 
 the fact has been contested strongly, and the 
 French call them Bohemians — unreasonably 
 enough. In regard to the powers of divination 
 attributed to the ancient Egyptians, too, I be- 
 lieve them to have existed, because I believe 
 the Bible not only as an inspired record, but as 
 the best authenticated history, without any ex- 
 ception, that exists ; and at the same time I 
 cannot suppose that men, who had so grand, so 
 comprehensive, and also so philosophical an idea 
 of the divinity, that four thousand years have not 
 been able to produce the slightest enlargement 
 of it, as displayed in many passages of Holy Writ 
 — I cannot suppose that such men would have 
 recorded as facts anything substantially incon- 
 sistent with the majesty of that Being whom they 
 
185 
 
 alone knew in tlie age when they wrote. But 
 you must remember that these powers, though 
 permitted then, for reasons we know not, may 
 have ceased now, like the powers of prophecy, 
 and many other things of the same kind ; and did 
 the gipsies possess such powers at present, depend 
 upon it we should find them clothed in purple in 
 the closets of kings, instead of wandering upon 
 bare heaths and stealing for a livelihood." 
 
 " You are right, I know," replied Miss 
 Falkland, with a smile, at the lingerings of cre- 
 dulity that still haunted her own bosom, " and 
 I have convinced myself, and been cominced by 
 others over and over again, that it is all non- 
 sense ; and yet, " 
 
 She paused, and Manners rejoined, ** One of 
 our old humorous poets says, 
 
 * A man convinced against his will, 
 Is of the same opinion still.' " 
 
 " And perhaps you think the verses still more 
 applicable to a woman, Colonel Manners," re- 
 plied Miss Falkland; " but that is not exactly 
 the case with me. My weakness extends no 
 farther than this : — were a gipsy to predict any 
 great evil for my future life, it would make me 
 very uneasy, however much I might struggle 
 
186 
 
 against the impression; and on that account 
 I would not have my fortune told, as they call 
 it, for the world ! Would you ? " 
 
 " Without the slightest apprehension," an- 
 swered Colonel Manners, laughing. *^ They may 
 try their chiromancy on me, when they please, 
 and do me aU the harm they can for half-a- 
 crown, which is, I believe, the stipulated sum." 
 
 *' That is, because you are a man and a 
 hero," replied Miss Falkland, in the same gay 
 tone, " and you are bound by honour and pro- 
 fession to be afraid of nothing ; but remember, I 
 look upon it as an agreement — you are to have 
 your fortune told this very day, and that will 
 do for the whole party ; for I will not have mine 
 told, and I am sure Marian shall not, if I can 
 prevent it." 
 
 ^' Oh, I will be the scape goat, with all my 
 heart," he replied ; " but I suppose we cannot 
 be far from their encampment, if your com- 
 putation of miles be correct." 
 
 " We are close to the high road," answered 
 Miss Falkland ; " but how far up the hill they 
 are, you best know. However, let us wait for 
 Edward and Marian. We must not make the 
 babes in the wood of them ; and of course they 
 are a good way behind. Now, I dare say, while 
 
187 
 
 you and Edward were in America, you heard 
 of Marian De Vaux till you were tired — was 
 it not so, Colonel Manners ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," he answered, smiling ; " far 
 from it, I can assure you. Although I long ago 
 found out by various infallible signs that De 
 Vaux was in love, yet never till circumstances 
 had produced esteem and friendship, and friend- 
 ship had become intimacy, did he ever mention 
 his engagement, or the object of his attach- 
 ment." 
 
 " And then he doubtless painted her in very 
 glowing colours," added Isadore, trying strenu- 
 ously to while away the time till her cousins 
 came up, they having lingered behind farther 
 than she had expected. 
 
 " Oh, of course, all lovers are like the old 
 painter Arellius," answered Colonel Manners, 
 " and always paint the objects of tlieir love as 
 goddesses. But I will not gratify your mahce. 
 Miss Falkland ; De Vaux has too fine a sense 
 of the ridiculous ever to render himself so by 
 exaggerating any feeling." 
 
 " He has, indeed, too fine a sense of the 
 ridiculous," answered Isadore ; *' it is his worst 
 fault, Colonel Manners; and I fear that, like 
 all the rest of our faults, it may some day prove 
 
188 
 
 Ills own bane ; but here they come ! Now, 
 Colonel Manners, prepare to hear your fate. 
 Edward, here is your friend going to have his 
 fortune told." 
 
 " You mean going to give half-a-crown to a 
 gipsy," said De Vaux ; " but if you are serious, 
 Manners, I will of course stand by you to the 
 last, as if you were going to fight a duel, or any 
 other unreasonable thing. Turn to the left and 
 you wall see the appointed place, as the news- 
 papers call it, before you." 
 
 In this expectation, however, De Vaux was 
 mistaken ; for the gipsies and their accompani- 
 ments, men, women, and children, pots, kettles, 
 and tents, had all disappeared. It must not be 
 said, indeed, that they had left no vestige of 
 their abode behind them, for half a dozen black 
 spots burnt in the turf, and more than one pile 
 of white wood ashes, attested the extent of their 
 encampment ; but nothing else was to be seen 
 in the green wood, except the old oaks, and the 
 yellow sunshine streaming through the rugged 
 boughs, with a squirrel balancing itself on the 
 branch of a fir, and two noisy jays screaming 
 from tree to tree. 
 
 " This is a very Robin Hood like scene," said 
 Colonel Manners, as he looked around, " and 
 
189 
 
 less gloomy in the broad day -light than at even- 
 tide. But here are no gipsies, Miss Falkland, 
 and I am afraid that you must put off hearing 
 the future fate and fortunes of Charles Manners 
 till another time." 
 
 '^ I am very much mortified, indeed," re- 
 plied Isadore, " and I see that you only laugh at 
 me, Colonel Manners, without sympathising in 
 the least with disappointed curiosity; wliich, — 
 as no one beheves more fully than yourself, — is 
 a very serious event in a woman's case. How- 
 ever, I shall hold you bound by your promise, 
 and look upon you engaged as a man of honour 
 to have your fortune told the very first time you 
 meet with a party of gipsies, — nay, more, to 
 let me know the result also." 
 
 She spoke with playful seriousness ; and Co- 
 lonel Manners replied, " With all my heart. 
 Miss Falkland ; and indeed you shall find that 
 your commands are so lightly borne by me, that 
 I will take other obligations upon myself, and 
 even seek out your favourites, the gipsies ; for 
 these protegees of yours seldom move far at a 
 time, unless indeed all the poultry in the 
 neighbourhood happens to be exhausted." 
 
 " Oh, that is not the case here," answered 
 Isadore, '* there is plenty yet remaining in 
 
190 
 
 every farm-yard, and I dare say you will find 
 them on the common." 
 
 *^ I will go to-morrow, then, without fail," 
 
 he answered, " for " and he had nearly 
 
 added words which would have betrayed his 
 meditated departure, but he turned his speech 
 another way ; and all parties, well satisfied wdth 
 their ramble, returned by the same path to the 
 house. 
 
 Nothing occurred during the rest of the day 
 to disturb the tranquillity of the party. The 
 evening passed away in conversation, generally 
 light enough, but of which we have given a 
 specimen above, fully sufficient to show its 
 nature and quality. Sometimes it touched, 
 indeed, upon deeper feelings, without ever 
 becoming grave ; and sometimes it ventured 
 farther into the realms of learning, without ap- 
 proaching pedantry. The annoyance of Lord 
 Dewry's behaviour on the preceding night had 
 at the time reconciled Colonel Manners in some 
 degree to the idea of quitting a circle in which 
 he found much to please and interest him ; but 
 no such annoyance interrupted the course of 
 this evening, and he experienced more pain than 
 he Hked to acknowledge, when he thought of 
 leaving behind him for ever a scene in which 
 
191 
 
 the hours passed so pleasantly. He felt, how- 
 ever, that the annoyance might soon be re- 
 newed, or that even if it were not, he had 
 no right by his presence to shut out De Vaux's 
 father from Mrs. Falkland's house ; and he re- 
 solved still to adhere to his purpose, and set 
 out for London on the day after that which was 
 just about to follow. 
 
192 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 The ordinary and too well deserved lament- 
 ation over the fragility of human resolutions 
 was not in general applicable to the determin- 
 ations of Charles Manners, who was usually 
 very rigid in his adherence to his purposes, 
 whether they were of great or small import- 
 ance. But it must not be supposed that this 
 pertinacity, if it may so be called, in pursuit 
 of designs he had already formed, proceeded 
 from what the world calls obstinacy. Obstinacy 
 may be defined the act of persisting in error ; 
 and the rectitude and precision of his judg- 
 ment generally kept him from being in error 
 at first, so that he had rarely a legitimate cause 
 for breaking his resolution. Nor was he either 
 of such a hard and tenacious nature as to resist 
 all persuasion, and, like the cement of the 
 Romans, only to grow the stiffer by the action 
 of external things. Far from it ; he was always 
 very willing to sacrifice his purposes — where 
 no moral sacrifice was implied — to the wishes 
 and solicitations of those he loved or esteemed. 
 
193 
 
 Nor is there any contradiction in this statement, 
 though it may be enquired, how, then, did he 
 break his resolutions less frequently than other 
 people ? The secret was this, and it is worth 
 while to burden memory with it : he never 
 formed his resolutions without thought, which 
 saved at least one third from fracture ; and though 
 he broke them sometimes at the entreaty of 
 others, he never sacrificed them to any whim of 
 his own, which saved very nearly two thirds more; 
 for we may depend upon it that the determin- 
 ations which we abandon, either from a change 
 of circumstances, or from the persuasions of our 
 friends, form but a very minute fraction, when 
 compared with those that we give up, either 
 from original error or after caprice. 
 
 It has seemed necessary to give this lecture 
 upon resolutions, because Colonel Manners 
 very speedily found cause to abandon the de- 
 termination which he formed so vigorously on 
 the day we spoke of in the last chapter ; and, 
 that he might not be charged with incon- 
 sistency, it became requisite to enter into all 
 those strict definitions and explanations that 
 generally leave us as many loopholes for escape 
 and evasion as a treaty of peace or a deed of 
 settlement. 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 
 
 One resolution, however, and one promise, 
 Colonel Manners certainly did keep, as soon as 
 it was possible, which was, to enquire whether 
 the gipsies were still in the neighbourhood, 
 and to seek them out, with the full purpose of 
 having his fortune told. Now, it may be sup- 
 posed that here was a little weakness on the 
 part of Colonel Manners — that he did give 
 some credit to gipsy chiromancy; nay, the 
 reader may even push his conjectures farther, 
 and imagine him dreaming of Isadore Falk- 
 land's beautiful eyes and all their varieties of 
 expression, from the deep and soft to the gayest 
 sparkle that ever twinkled through two rows of 
 long silky eyelashes. But the simple fact was, 
 that he had promised to go, and that he went ; 
 and though he might think Miss Falkland ex- 
 tremely beautiful and extremely pleasing, — 
 as every man who had been tv/o minutes in her 
 company must have thought, — he no more 
 dreamed of the possibility of so fair a creature, 
 courted and loved as he knew she must be, 
 ever uniting herself to so ugly a man as him- 
 self — and as he sat and shaved himself that 
 morning he thought himself uglier than ever — 
 than Napoleon Buonaparte, in the plenitude 
 of power, and the majesty of victory, thought 
 
195 
 
 of a low grave beneatli a willow on a rock in 
 the Atlantic. 
 
 In regard to any belief in the gipsies' fortune- 
 telling, there were little use of investigating 
 closely, whether some thin fibre of the root of 
 superstition had or had not been left in the bosom 
 of Charles Manners. If any particle thereof 
 did remain, it went no farther than to excite, 
 perhaps, a slight degree of curiosity in regard 
 to what the people would predict, more, per- 
 haps, from feeling that it must be absurd, than 
 from expecting any point of coincidence with 
 his real fate : and certain it is that, whatever 
 the gipsies might have told to Colonel Manners, 
 he would have thought no more of, after the 
 immediate moment, except as a matter for jest, 
 than he would of any other kind of sortes, 
 whether drawn from Virgil or Joe Miller. 
 
 It was just a quarter to six on the morning 
 after that which had seen the walk in Morley 
 Wood, when Manners, who was, as we have 
 said, an early riser, gave some orders to his ser- 
 vant concerning his horses, and went out into 
 the new wakened world. Having observed on 
 the preceding day, for the purpose of carrying 
 on the jest, the exact position of the hill on 
 which Miss Falkland conjectured that the gip- 
 K 2 
 
196 
 
 sies might have quartered themselves, he took 
 his way across the park from that side which 
 formed, in fact, the hack of Morley House ; 
 and, having assured himself before hand that he 
 could find means of egress in that direction, he 
 was soon beyond the walls, and winding up a 
 small cart-road towards the summit. 
 
 The hill itself was somewhat singular in form ; 
 and as it is rather characteristic of that particular 
 county, we may as well endeavour to give the 
 reader some idea of its appearance. It formed 
 a portion of that steep range of upland, which 
 we have before described as principally covered 
 with fine wood ; but this particular point — 
 projecting towards the river in the form of very 
 nearly a right angle — seemed to have cast behind 
 it the mass of forest which still continued over 
 the ridge of the other hills. Vestiges of the 
 wood, too, hung in broken patches on the flanks 
 of even this protuberance, but the summit of- 
 fered nothing but a bare, open plain, full of 
 pits and ravines, and only farther diversified by 
 a few stunted hawthorns, and one single group 
 of tall beeches, gathered together upon a tumu- 
 lus, wliich covered the bodies of some of those 
 invading warriors to whom our island was once 
 a prey. The ascent to this plain, from the 
 
197 
 
 small gate in the park wall, by which Colonel 
 Manners issued forth, was in length somewhat 
 more than a mile ; but it consisted of two 
 distinct grades, or steps, the first of which was 
 formed by a little peninsula, jutting out from 
 the salient angle of the main hill, and completely 
 surrounded by the river on all sides except the 
 one which served to unite it, by a narrow neck, 
 not above three hundred yards in breadth, to the 
 high ground we have mentioned. This small 
 peninsula, which was itself covered with wood, 
 rose in a rocky bank to the height of about a 
 hundred and fifty yards above the stream ; and 
 over the narrow isthmus was carried the road 
 which passed the park ; while the wall of the 
 park itself, just excluding the wooded banks 
 from the grounds of Morley House, was low- 
 ered in that part, so as to leave a full view 
 of the picturesque little promontory from the 
 windows of the mansion. Let the reader re- 
 member all this, for his memory may be taxed 
 hereafter. 
 
 Branching oiF from the right of the high 
 road lay the path up which Colonel Manners 
 took his way, and which passed over a track 
 upon the side of the hill, partly hedged in and 
 cultivated, and partly left to its own ungrateful 
 K 3 
 
198 
 
 sterility. It was steep also, but Manners was 
 a good climber ; and, knowing that Mrs. Falk- 
 land's breakfast horn- was half-past nine, he did 
 not linger by the way, but soon found himself 
 at the summit of the hill, and on the piece of 
 waste ground, which will be found in the 
 county map under the name of Morley Com- 
 mon, or Morley Down. A good deal of dew 
 had fallen in the night ; and as the sun, who 
 had not yet pursued his bright course far up 
 the arch of heaven, poured the flood of his 
 morning light upon the short blades of grass 
 covering the common, the whole would have 
 seemed crisp with hoarfrost, had not every 
 here and there a tuft of longer leaves caught 
 the rays more fully, and twinkled as if sprinkled 
 with living diamonds, as the early air moved it 
 gently in the beams. In different directions 
 across the common might be seen a hundred 
 small foot-roads, winding in that tortuous and 
 unsteady manner which is sure to mark a path 
 trodden out by man's unguided feet, and which 
 offers no bad comment on his uncertain and 
 roundabout way of arriving at his object ; but, 
 as the ground comprised many hundred acres, 
 Colonel Manners might have been somewhat 
 puzzled which way to take, had not his mili- 
 
199 
 
 tary habits at once sent him to the small 
 planted tumulus which we have mentioned, in 
 order to obtain a general view of the place. 
 
 Climbing up the sides of the Httle mound 
 therefore he gazed round him; but neither gipsies 
 nor tents were visible ; and he might have re- 
 turned to Mrs. Falkland's, satisfied that they 
 were not there, had not a small column of faint 
 blue smoke, rising from behind some bushes, at 
 the distance of about a quarter of a mile, marked 
 the presence of human beings in that direction, 
 and shown that the bushes, though apparently 
 not higher than a man's hat, masked some fall 
 in the ground where the fire was kindled. 
 Thither, then, Manners turned his steps, and 
 soon perceived that another old sand-pit, with 
 some bushes climbling up one of the sides, 
 had given shelter to those of whom he was now 
 in search. 
 
 Before he could even discover so much, he 
 became aware, by two low whistles, that his 
 own approach had been perceived ; and, as 
 he was advancing directly towards the sand- 
 pit, where a number of the gipsies had paused 
 in their various occupations to watch him, he 
 saw a man issue forth from one of the huts, 
 K 4 
 
200 
 
 put something hastily into the bosom of his 
 long wrapphig coat, and then come forward to 
 meet him. The gipsy, as he came nearer, 
 gazed at him from head to foot, with a clear 
 dark eye, which had in it nothing either of the 
 dogged sullenness, or cunning stealthiness, that 
 sometimes marks the male part of the race, — 
 often the fruit both of their own vices and the 
 world's harshness. There was something in the 
 air and manner of the man that, to so accurate 
 an observer as Manners, spoke a great differ- 
 ence between him and the general class of his 
 people ; but, to save a repetition of description, 
 it may be as well to say at once, that the gipsy 
 who now appeared was the same whom we 
 have designated Pharold. 
 
 *' Good morning ! " said Colonel Manners, 
 as the other came near ; " you have hid your 
 tents very completely here." 
 
 " Good morning ! " replied the gipsy, slightly 
 knitting his brow, as he saw the soldier's eye 
 running over every part of their encampment 
 with some degree of curiosity ; " Good morn- 
 ing ! — it seems you were seeking me or mine." 
 
 " I was so," replied Manners, still gazing 
 with some interest upon the old sand-pit and 
 its picturesque tenants, with their blazing fire 
 
SOI 
 
 of sticks, and its white smoke curling through, 
 the broken ground, and amidst the scattered 
 bushes. 
 
 " And what did you want with us, then?" 
 asked Pharold, somewhat impatiently : " you 
 wanted something, or you would not have 
 come here." 
 
 ** I wish to have my fortune told," replied 
 Manners with a smile, excited equally by the 
 impatience of the gipsy's tone, and by the 
 nature of his own errand. 
 
 The gipsy looked at him steadily, and then 
 shook his head. " No, no, no," said he ; " you 
 did not come for that. Never tell me, that 
 you would get out of your bed by daybreak, 
 and climb a high hill, and seek a bare common, 
 at this hour, to have your fortune told — never 
 tell me that, Colonel Manners." 
 
 Manners started at hearing his own name 
 pronounced familiarly by the gipsy, though he 
 knew the world, and all the tricks that accident 
 and confederacy can put upon us, too well to 
 suppose that he who is emphatically termed in 
 Scripture " the prince of the power of the air" 
 had taken the trouble to send an account of his 
 name and quality to a gipsy on a common. 
 Still, as it was unexpected, he was surprised, and 
 K 5 
 
^02 
 
 expressed it ; but not in such a way as to make 
 the gipsy believe more fully than he had done 
 at first, that he really gave credit to the super- 
 natural pretensions of his nation, and came 
 there for the purpose of consulting them upon 
 his destiny. 
 
 " Pray, how did you become acquainted with 
 my name ? " demanded Colonel Manners calmly. 
 *' I do not know that I ever saw you before ?" 
 
 ** Perhaps not," replied the gipsy; " but if you 
 believe that I can tell you what you will become 
 hereafter, why should you be surprised that I 
 know what you are now ? " 
 
 '* I never said that I would believe what you 
 told me," answered Manners ; *' but I know 
 that, as I have been scarcely two days in this 
 county, you must have been very expeditious 
 in gaining my name. However, it is a matter 
 of small consequence : I came, as I said, to 
 have my fortune told according to your method. 
 WiUyoudoit?" 
 
 ** It shall be done," said the gipsy, still 
 gazing at him enquiringly. *' It shall be done, 
 if you really desire it ; but I know you men of 
 the world, and I cannot help thinking you came 
 not on that errand alone. I should think that 
 Lord Dewry had sent you, did I not know that 
 
g03 
 
 lie went away yesterday morning to Dimden, 
 and then before mid-day back to the hall." 
 
 " You are a very singular person," said Co- 
 lonel Manners, with a smile, ^' not only because 
 you know every thing that is going on in the 
 place, as well as a village gossip, but because 
 you vsdll not believe the truth when it is told 
 you. Once more, then, my good friend, let me 
 assure you, that nobody sent me ; and that my 
 sole purpose is to have my fortune told: nor 
 should I stay here any longer, even for that 
 purpose, had I not promised another person to 
 submit to the infliction." 
 
 *^ So, so," said the gipsy; ^' so the fair lady 
 you were walking with yesterday in Morley 
 Wood is more wise, or, as you would call it, 
 more credulous than you are. But do not look 
 angry, gentleman. I will tell you your fortune 
 presently, and will tell it truly, if you will do 
 me a piece of service, of which I stand in need 
 too — something that / have promised to do, 
 though not for a lady with dark eyes ; and you 
 seem sent here on purpose to aid in it." 
 
 Now Manners was half amused and half 
 
 angry ; but it is probable the anger would have 
 
 got the better of the other feeling, had not his 
 
 curiosity been excited also by the language, 
 
 K 6 
 
^04 
 
 the manners, and the request of the gipsy^ 
 whose whole demeanour was something quite 
 new to him. He replied, however, ** I never 
 undertake to do any thing without knowing the 
 precise nature thereof; but if you will tell me 
 what you desire, and I find it reasonable, I will 
 not, of course, refuse." 
 
 " Yes, yes ! you shall hear what it is," an- 
 swered the gipsy ; " nor will you find the re- 
 quest unreasonable. But come hither a little 
 away from the people, for they need not know 
 it.'' Thus speaking, he led the way towards the 
 mound from which Manners had made his re- 
 connoissance of the common ; and, as he went, 
 he kept his right hand in his bosom, but spoke 
 not a word. At length, v^^hen they were fully 
 out of ear-shot. Manners himself stopped, think- 
 ing that he had humoured his companion's ca- 
 prices far enough. 
 
 " Now, my good fellow," he said, " nobody 
 can either see or hear, unless they follow for 
 the purpose. Pray what is it you wish me to 
 do for you ? " 
 
 " You are a dear friend of Mr. de Vaux, are 
 you not?" said the gipsy abruptly, stopping 
 and turning round as Manners spoke. 
 
 " As far as esteeming him highly, and de- 
 
205 
 
 siring to serve him with all my heart, can make 
 me so," answered Manners, now more particu- 
 larly surprised, " I believe I may call myself 
 his dear friend : but what if I be so ? " 
 
 *^ If you be really a friend of Mr. Edward 
 de Vaux," said the gipsy, ** you will not object 
 to take a letter to him." 
 
 " Why," answered Manners, '* although I 
 am not exactly either a private courier, or a 
 postman, yet if your request stops there, I 
 can have no objection to do as you desire ; re- 
 serving to myself, of course, the right of telling 
 him where I got the letter, and the circum- 
 stances that attended my receiving it." 
 
 " That you will do, if you please," replied 
 the gipsy ; *' but the request does not stop 
 there. There are conditions in regard to the 
 delivery of the letter, which you must observe, 
 and that punctually." 
 
 Manners smiled. " This is all very extra- 
 ordinary," he said: ** you speak in somewhat 
 of a dictatorial tone, my good friend ; and it is 
 not easy for me to comprehend what business 
 one of your class and nation can have with my 
 friend De Vaux, so soon after his return from 
 other lands." 
 
 " Trouble not yourself with that, Colonel 
 
^06 
 
 Manners/' answered the gipsy ; and then added, 
 seeing that something like a cloud was gather- 
 ing on his auditor's brow, '^ if I have offended 
 you. Sir, I am sorry : such was not my pur- 
 pose ; and, believe me, I may know what is 
 due both to you and myself better than you 
 think. You are the commander of one of the 
 King of England's regiments, and I am a poor 
 gipsy ; but you come to make a request to me, 
 for granting which — as every thing is barter 
 or robbery in this world — for granting which 
 I require something of you. So far we are as 
 much equals as in the enjoyment of the free 
 air, and yonder bright sunshine, and this piece 
 of common ground. Whether there be any 
 other difference between us, in point of higher 
 or lower, God knows, and he alone. Thus, 
 then, hear me patiently, while I tell you the 
 conditions of my bargain ; and afterwards I 
 will do your bidding concerning your future 
 fortunes — whether you esteem my skill or not, 
 being your business, and not mine, as you seek 
 it without my offering it." 
 
 '* I believe you are right," replied Colonel 
 Manners, beginning more fully to appreciate 
 the character of him with whom he spoke : *^ go 
 on, and let me hear your conditions in regard to 
 
^07 
 
 the delivery of tliis letter, which is, I suppose, 
 the object that you hold in your bosom." 
 
 " It is not a pistol," said the gipsy, pro- 
 ducing the letter. 
 
 " I did not suppose that it was," replied Co- 
 lonel Manners ; " and had it been so, it would 
 have been a matter of much indifference to me : 
 but now for your conditions." 
 
 ** They are few and simple," answered the 
 gipsy ; "I require, or request, you to give this 
 into Mr. de Vaux's own hand, and to choose a 
 moment when he is not only alone, but when 
 he is likely to have an opportunity of reading 
 it in private ; and though you may tell him 
 when and how you received it, and add what 
 comments you hke, you must not indulge in 
 the same tattle to other people ; but must keep 
 silence on all concerning it." 
 
 *' Your conditions are not very difficult," 
 replied Colonel Manners ; ** I will undertake 
 them. Give me the letter. Upon my honour," 
 he added, seeing that Pharold hesitated, " I 
 will do exactly as you have desired." 
 
 The man gave him the letter, which was 
 cleaner, neater, and, as far as the address went, 
 better written than the hands from which it 
 came would have led one to anticipate. The 
 
^08 
 
 moment he had done so, Pharold uttered a 
 long, loud whistle, which brought a little yellow 
 urchin of ten years old to their side, as fast as 
 a pair of bare feet could carry him. ^' Thou 
 mayest go," said the gipsy ; " and make haste." 
 The boy set off like lightning on the road 
 which led to the river, and the gipsy again 
 turned to Colonel Manners. " Give me your 
 hand. Sir," he said. 
 
 Colonel Manners did as he desired, smiling 
 while he did so at a certain lurking feeling of 
 the ridicule of his situation, which he could not 
 repress. '' If any of my old fellow-soldiers were 
 to see me here," he thought, '^ taking counsel 
 with a gipsy upon my future fate and prospects, 
 they would certainly think Charles Manners 
 mad." The gipsy, however, gazed seriously 
 upon his hand, and then raised his eyes to the 
 other's face, without the slightest expression in 
 his own countenance which could raise a sus- 
 picion that he was seeking to play upon cre- 
 duhty. 
 
 " Colonel Manners," said Pharold, ^* before 
 I tell you what I read here, listen to me for 
 one moment. Most people who come to us on 
 such an errand smile as they give us their 
 hand ; some because they believe us thoroughly, 
 
209 
 
 and affect by a laugh to show they do not be- 
 lieve at all ; while some, who really do not be- 
 heve, smile out of vain conceit in their own 
 superior strength of mind : but do you remember 
 that this that we practise is, when properly 
 practised, a science in which we have ourselves 
 the most confident faith. We never enquire 
 afterwards whether what we have predicted 
 has proved true or not, for we are always sure 
 that it must do so : but, at all events, such 
 confidence in our own knowledge cannot spring 
 from nothing." 
 
 Manners could have easily found a reply in 
 favour of his own side of the question, but he 
 did not think it worth while to argue logically 
 upon chiromancy with a gipsy, although that 
 gipsy might be somewhat superior to others 
 of his tribe ; and, therefore, without answering 
 the arguments of Pharold, he remained in si- 
 lence, while the other again turned a very 
 steadfast glance upon his extended hand. 
 
 '* Colonel Manners," said the gipsy at length, 
 " if I read right, you have been a fortunate 
 man." 
 
 " And, in some respects, an unfortunate 
 one," rejoined his auditor, ** though, in truth, 
 I have no great reason to complain." 
 
^10 
 
 " Far more fortunate than unfortunate," an- 
 swered the gipsy. ** Here are but three crosses 
 in all your life as yet; two so near the beginning,^ 
 that you could not have felt them; and one — 
 a deep one — much more lately." 
 
 Colonel Manners smiled. '^ In the past you 
 are certainly not far wrong," he answered; 
 " but it is the future I wish to hear : what of 
 it?" 
 
 '^ You mock us, Sir," said the gipsy, eyeing 
 him. " However, you shall hear your fate as it 
 is. You shall be fortunate and unfortunate." 
 
 " That is the common lot of human nature," 
 rejoined Colonel Manners. 
 
 "But herein does your fate differ from the 
 common lot of human nature," repHed the 
 gipsy : " you shall be no longer fortunate in 
 those things wherein you have hitherto found 
 success ; for you shall do all that you think you 
 will not do ; and prosper where you neither hope 
 nor strive." 
 
 " That is certainly a strange fate," answered 
 Manners ; " for I have ever found that success 
 is a coy goddess, who needs all our efforts to 
 obtain her smiles, and even then gives them 
 but sparingly." 
 
 " It ^5 a strange fate, and yet, in some sense, 
 
it is not," answered the gipsy : " your painters 
 rightly represent Fortune as a woman, though 
 they might as well have left her eyes unban- 
 daged ; for it is neither new nor marvellous to 
 see woman fly from those that pursue her, and 
 cast herself into the arms of those who care not 
 for her smiles. And yet the fate written on 
 that hand is strange, too ; for it speaks of for- 
 tunes as fair without effort, for the future, as 
 those of the past have been rendered by toil and 
 exertion. It is a strange fate ; but, neverthe- 
 less, it shall be yours : and now, forget not my 
 words, but, when you find them verified, remem- 
 ber him that spoke them." 
 
 ** But are you going to tell me no more?" de- 
 manded Colonel Manners : '* I would fain have 
 you come a little more to particulars, my good 
 friend. One can make but little of these broad 
 generalities." 
 
 " One can make nothing to laugh at," an- 
 swered the gipsy, ^* and therefore I shall keep 
 to them, though, perhaps, I could tell you more. 
 Remember them, however, and, as you will 
 soon find them true, lay them to your heart, 
 Sir, and let them teach you to believe that a 
 thing is not false because you do not understand 
 it ; that there may be truths without the range 
 
212 
 
 either of your knowledge or of your faculties — ■ 
 some that you cannot comprehend, because they 
 have not been explained to you ; and some that, 
 if they were explained to you a thousand times, 
 your mind is too narrow to conceive — and yet 
 they are." 
 
 ** I wish, my good friend, that I could send 
 you to converse vdth Yoltaire," said Colonel 
 Manners. 
 
 " Who is he?" demanded Pharold ; '' I do 
 not know him." 
 
 ** No," replied Manners ; " I dare say not : 
 but he is a famous wit, who dabbles in philo- 
 sophy, and seems inclined to teach the world, 
 by his example, if not by his precepts, that 
 man should credit nothing that he cannot un- 
 derstand." 
 
 " And what should I do with him?" de- 
 manded the gipsy, frowning : " I think you are 
 mocking me — is it not so ?" 
 
 " No, on my honour," replied Colonel Man- 
 ners ; " I am not mocking you. On the con- 
 trary, I think you a very extraordinary person, 
 and fitted for a different station fi-om that in 
 which I find you. Whether you yourself be- 
 lieve that which you have told me concerning 
 my future fortune, or not, I thank you for hav- 
 
213 
 
 ing gratified me ; and, at all events, I have 
 derived from your conversation more that I 
 shall remember long, than I anticipated when I 
 came here. Will you accept of that ? " . 
 
 Colonel Manners offered him one of those 
 beautiful golden pieces which are now, I fear 
 me, lost to the world for ever, and which were 
 then called guineas. 'But the gipsy put it away. 
 *^ No," he said; '* you have undertaken to fulfil 
 my request, and I have complied with yours. 
 We owe each other nothing, then. Farewell 1 " 
 and, turning on his heel, he left Colonel Manners 
 to descend the hill, thinking him more extraor- 
 dinary than ever, from the last very ungipsylike 
 act, by which he had terminated their con- 
 versation. 
 
 The sun was now much higher than when 
 Manners had trod that path before ; for, accord- 
 ing to his usual custom, the gracious luminary 
 seemed to have run more quickly at his first 
 rising than he does after having climbed the 
 steep hill of heaven ; and the wayfarer began to 
 think that he might be late at Mrs. Falkland's 
 breakfast table, where cold eggs and lukewarm 
 cofiee were the just punishments of those who 
 linger long abed. As he had closed the park 
 gate, however, and had not the key, he was 
 
^14 
 
 ol)liged to go round and enter by tlie otlier side 
 of tlie house ; but this proceeding, at all events, 
 tended to solve one mystery connected wdth his 
 late interview. In the hall, the first object he 
 beheld was the little gipsy boy whom he had 
 seen with Pharold on the hill; and he now 
 found him in conversation with Mrs. Falkland 
 herself, who appeared to be asking after some 
 of the Egyptian fraternity who were ill. Old 
 Peter stood behind, keeping a wary eye upon 
 the boy, whom he justly considered a very pro- 
 mising eleve in no inferior school of petty 
 larceny; and as Colonel Manners approached, 
 Mrs. Falkland terminated her enquiries, and 
 made over her little companion to the care of 
 the footman, with orders to give him something 
 and send him away ; an order, the latter part of 
 which was complied with in a more summary 
 manner than she anticipated, as soon as her 
 back was turned. 
 
 " Good morning! Colonel Manners," she said, 
 as they walked towards the breakfast room ; 
 ** you find me with a curious httle companion : 
 but the fact is, that, while you were all out 
 walking yesterday, a poor gipsy woman acci- 
 dentally fell down from the high bank, close by 
 the house, and was brought in here, completely 
 
215 
 
 stunned. The village apothecary was away ; 
 and, as I endeavour to enact my Lady Bounti- 
 ful, I did what I could for the poor creature, 
 who soon recovered. We had half a dozen of 
 her tribe in the servants' hall, however ; and, 
 much to the butler's and Peter's surprise, — and, 
 I must confess, to my own also, — when they 
 went away nothing was missing. According to 
 a promise made by one of them, they have sent 
 me down that little boy this morning, to tell 
 me that the poor woman is now quite well. I 
 wished to have despatched the apothecary to 
 her, and offered to do so, as soon as he re- 
 turned ; but they seemed to have an invincible 
 repugnance to all the professors of the healing 
 art." 
 
 " All people, I believe, who enjoy very good 
 health," replied Colonel Manners, '* feel the 
 same towards the learned doctors — the very 
 sight of one reminds us of losing one of the 
 best blessings of heaven. However, the meet- 
 ing with that little gipsy gentleman here 
 explains something which I might have made a 
 mystery of, had I not heard your account of 
 your yesterday's interview ; for this morning I 
 had a long conversation with a gipsy on the 
 hill, — a very singular person, — who addressed 
 
£16 
 
 nie at once by name, and seemed perfectly well 
 acquainted with my being at your house." 
 
 " Oh, your servant was present yesterday," 
 replied Mrs. Falkland, " and, with all the dex- 
 terity of an old soldier, gave us very great 
 assistance in bringing the poor woman to her- 
 self. I remarked, too, that her gipsy com- 
 panions did but little, and contented themselves 
 with standing round, asking irrelevant questions 
 of the servants, which of course, in that temple 
 of tittle tattle, a servants' hall, they found some- 
 body willing to answer ; so that I dare say 
 there was nothing supernatural in your name 
 being known on the hill. But how came you. 
 Colonel Manners," she added, with a smile, 
 '' how came you in such deep consultation with 
 a gipsy, at this hour of the morning ? You 
 surely have not been having your fortune told ? " 
 
 " I must plead guilty, I am afraid," replied 
 Colonel Manners ; '' but if the fault be a very 
 grievous one, I must lay the blame upon Miss 
 Falkland, as it was under her special injunc- 
 tions that I went." 
 
 *' Indeed ! " said Mrs. Falkland ; '' and to 
 answer what object ? " 
 
 *^0h, if you mean Miss Falkland's object, I 
 really cannot tell," he replied ; '^ and my object 
 
217 
 
 was certainly a very foolish one, but one that 
 leads many a man to do a still more foolish 
 thing : I mean, it was to prove that I was not 
 afraid." 
 
 " And pray what was the result ? " demanded 
 Mrs. Falkland : but by this time they were at 
 the breakfast room door, and Colonel Manners 
 declared, that he would not communicate his 
 fate to any one before he revealed it to Miss 
 Falkland in general consistory. This he had 
 soon an opportunity of doing ; and the whole 
 business was laughed at gaily enough. It is 
 wonderful how light a little merriment soon 
 makes every thing appear ; and this is the reason 
 why, in moments of mirth and cheerfulness, so 
 many secrets are revealed that one would often 
 give worlds to shut up again in the casket of 
 one's own breast. Let wise diplomatists keep 
 far from merriment; for a light laugh or a 
 gay witticism, whose idle wings seemed hardly 
 strong enough to flutter it across the table, has 
 often taken a weighty secret on its back, and 
 flown away with it, never to return. Now, the 
 letter that the gipsy had given Colonel Manners 
 for his friend he had believed might be of some 
 importance, as long as he was alone ; but every 
 gay word that was spoken on the subject of 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 
 
 gipsies and fortune-telling took away something 
 from its weight in his estimation ; and had he 
 been only restrained by a sense of its import- 
 ance, he might have delivered the letter before 
 breakfast was over, and made a jest of it. It 
 has never been said that Colonel Manners was 
 perfect; and though his mind was strong, it 
 certainly was not without a full share of human 
 weaknesses. Colonel Manners, however, was 
 restrained by something besides a sense of the 
 letter's importance — he had given his word to 
 deliver it in a particular manner; and, whatever 
 else he might do in the way of frailties, he never 
 forgot a promise, though, in the present in- 
 stance, it was long ere he found an opportunity 
 of fulfilling the one he had made the gipsy on 
 the hill. 
 
219 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 Any one who "has tried to speak with another 
 for five minutes in private, without the pomp 
 and circumstance of demanding an interview, 
 will know that it is almost impossible to find 
 the opportunity, unless the person be one's own 
 wife. There is always something comes in the 
 way, just at the very moment — something un- 
 foreseen and unlikely ; especially if one be 
 very anxious upon the subject. If the matter 
 be of no importance, the opportunity presents 
 itself at every turn ; but if one be very, very 
 desirous to unburden a full heart, or tell a 
 tale of love, or give a valuable hint, or plead 
 the cause of oneself, or any one else, without 
 the freezing influence of a formal conference, 
 one may wait hours and days — nay weeks and 
 months, sometimes — without finding five mi- 
 nutes open in the whole day. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, Edward de 
 
 Vaux followed Marian into the music-room ; 
 
 and, when Marian left him, he came to tell his 
 
 friend and Isadore, that they proposed making a 
 
 L 2 
 
220 
 
 riding party to see something in the neighbour- 
 hood. Manners went up to his room to prepare ; 
 and, as he found himself on the stairs alone 
 with De Vaux, he had his hand in his pocket 
 to produce the letter, when Miss Falkland's step 
 sounded close by them, and her voice invited 
 her cousin to come with her, and see a little 
 present she had bought for Marian's birthday. 
 As soon as Manners was equipped for riding, 
 he went to De Vaux's room, calculating — as he 
 usually dressed in half the time that his friend 
 expended on such exertions — that he would find 
 him there : but no one was in the apartment 
 but a servant, who told him that Mr. de Vaux 
 had gone dowai. As he passed along one of the 
 corridors, he saw De Vaux sauntering across 
 the lawn towards the gates of the stable yard ; 
 but ere he could catch him, his friend was sur- 
 rounded by grooms and servants, receiving his 
 orders concerning the horses ; and as they 
 turned again towards the house, Marian and 
 Miss Falkland were standing in their riding 
 dresses on the steps. 
 
 ** Well, I must wait," thought Manners, re- 
 flecting sagely on the difficulties of executing 
 punctually even so simple a commission as that 
 which he had undertaken. " "Well, I must 
 
221 
 
 wait till we go to dress for dinner : then I am 
 sure to find my opportunity." 
 
 He was not destined, however, to remain 
 burdened with his secret so long. The ride 
 was pleasant, but did not extend far ; and, on 
 the return of the party, while Manners and De 
 Vaux stood looking at their boots in the haU, 
 Miss Falkland and her cousin retired to change 
 their dress, and the opportunity was not lost. 
 
 " Now we are alone," said Manners, " let me 
 execute a mission with which I am charged to- 
 wards you, De Yaux, and which has teased me 
 all the morning." 
 
 *' Not a challenge, I hope," replied the 
 other ; " for it seems a solemn embassy." 
 
 *' No, no, nothing of the kind," answered his 
 friend ; *^ but the fact is " 
 
 *' Please, Sir," said Colonel Manners' ser- 
 vant, opening the glass doors, " I believe the 
 young mare is throwing out a splint ; and T did 
 not like to " 
 
 '' Well, well," said Manners, somewhat im- 
 patiently, /* I will come and see her myself, 
 presently — I am engaged just now." The 
 man withdrew ; and, resuming his discourse at 
 the precise point where he had left off, Manners 
 L 3 
 
222 
 
 continued, *' the fact is, that gipsy, of whom 
 I was speaking this morning, charged me with 
 a letter to you, which I promised to deliver in 
 private, and when you were hkely to be able to 
 read it without interruption." 
 
 *' A gipsy 1" said De Vaux, knitting his 
 brows : " the circle of my acquaintance has 
 extended itself farther than I thought, and in a 
 class, also, equally beyond my wishes and anti- 
 cipations : but are you sure there is no mistake ; 
 — does he really mean me ? " 
 
 " There is the letter," replied Manners, 
 with your titles, nomen and cognomen, as clearly 
 superscribed as ever I saw them written : Cap- 
 tain, the Honourable Edward de Vaux, with 
 many et caeteras." 
 
 ** And in a good hand, and on tolerably clean 
 paper," said De Vaux, taking the letter, and 
 gazing on the back. " Why, this gipsy of yours 
 must be a miracle, Manners." 
 ^ " He is a very extraordinary person, cer- 
 tainly," answered his companion, ** both in his 
 ideas and his deportment, which are equally 
 above his class." 
 
 " Nay, he must be a miracle — a complete 
 miracle !" said De Vaux, laughing, " if he can 
 
mend kettles, and write such an address as that, 
 with the same good right hand. But this must 
 be a begging letter." 
 
 " I think not," replied Manners. " It would 
 not surprise me to find, that he knows more 
 of you than you imagine : but, at all events, 
 read the letter." 
 
 De Vaux turned the letter, looked at the 
 seal, which offered a very good impression, 
 though one with which he was not acquainted, 
 and then, tearing open the paper, read the con- 
 tents. The very first words made his eye strain 
 eagerly upon the page ; a few lines more ren- 
 dered him deadly pale ; and though, as he 
 went on, his agitation did not increase, yet the 
 intensity of his gaze upon the sheet before him 
 was not at all diminished; and when he had 
 concluded it, after staring vacantly in his com- 
 panion's face for a moment, he again turned to 
 the letter, and read it attentively over once 
 more. 
 
 " I am afraid I have brought you evil tidings, 
 De Vaux," said Colonel Manners, who had 
 watched with some anxiety the changes upon the 
 countenance of his friend : " if so, can I serve 
 you ? You know, Charles Manners ; and I need 
 L 4 
 
^24 
 
 scarcely say, how much pleasure it will give me 
 to do any thing for you." 
 
 " I must think, Manners — I must think," 
 replied De Vaux : " these are strange tidings, 
 indeed, and vouched boldly too ; but I doubt 
 whether I have a right to communicate them to 
 any one but the person whom they affect next 
 to myself. However, I must think ere I act at 
 all. Forgive me for not making you a sharer 
 of them ; and excuse me now, for I am much 
 agitated, and hardly well." 
 
 " Let me be no restraint upon you, De 
 Vaux," answered his friend : *' if I can serve 
 you, tell me ; if I can alleviate any thing you 
 suffer, by sympathy, let me share in what you 
 feel ; but do not suppose, for a moment, that I 
 even desire to hear any thing that it may be 
 proper to keep to your own bosom. Leave me 
 now, without ceremony : but take care how 
 yo'i act, De Vaux ; for I see there is matter of 
 m Lich importance in your mind ; and you are, 
 sometimes, at least, in military affairs, a little 
 hasty." 
 
 " I will be as cool and thoughtful as your- 
 self, my friend," replied De Vaux ; " but I am 
 agitated, and the best place for me is my own 
 room." 
 
2^5 
 
 Thus saying, he left his friend, not a little 
 surprised, indeed, that such a letter, from such 
 a person, should have had the power to pro- 
 duce on the mind of a man like De Vaux the 
 extreme agitation which he had just witnessed. 
 De Vaux, he well knew, was not one to give 
 credence to any thing lightly, or to yield to 
 any slight feeling which a first impression 
 might produce ; but, in the present instance, 
 it was evident that his friend had received 
 a shock from some tidings, which had been 
 totally unexpected ; but which must have been 
 probable, as well as unpleasant, to produce 
 such an effect. The extraordinary fact, how- 
 ever, that news of such importance should 
 be left to the transmission of such a man as 
 the gipsy, — so separated by station, and state, 
 and circumstances, from the person whom they 
 concerned, — was, of course, a matter of much 
 astonishment to Colonel Manners ; and surprise 
 divided his bosom with anxiety and sympathy 
 for his friend. 
 
 It is a very disagreeable thing to have any two 
 feelings, thus making a shuttlecock of our at- 
 tention ; or, when they are very eager, strug- 
 gling for it with mutual pertinacity; but the 
 only way to act, under such circumstances, is, to 
 L 5 
 
226 
 
 treat them like two quarrelsome boys; and, 
 shutting them up together, leave them to fight 
 it out without interruption. Such was the 
 plan which Colonel Manners now proposed to 
 pursue ; and, consequently, quitting the hall 
 where his conversation with De Vaux had taken 
 place, he walked straight to the library and 
 opened the door. 
 
 What happened next was not without its 
 importance ; but, as the mind may be at this 
 moment more anxious concerning De Vaux than 
 concerning his companion, we will follow him 
 up the staircase, as lightly as possible; enter 
 his chamber ; lay our hand upon his bosom ; 
 draw the curtain, and show the reader the 
 scene within. But it may be as well first to 
 look at that letter upon the table, before which 
 he is sitting, with his left hand upon liis brow, 
 and his right partly covering the sheet of paper 
 which had so disturbed him. If one can draw 
 it gently out from underneath his fingers, while 
 his eyes are shut, and his thoughts are busy, 
 one may read what follows : — 
 
 " To Captain Edward de Vaux." — Here, be 
 it remarked, that there was a diiFerence between 
 the superscription and the address ; the latter 
 having borne, ^' To Captain the Honourable 
 
227 
 
 Edward de Vaux ;" while in the inside was 
 merely written, ** To Captain Edward de Vaux." 
 The difference may appear insignificant ; but, 
 in the present instance, and with the com- 
 mentary of the epistle itself thereon, it signifies 
 a great deal. However, the letter went on, — 
 
 " To Captain Edward de Vaux," 
 '' Sir, 
 
 " I shall make no excuse for addressing you, 
 as I am fully justified therein ; and you your- 
 self, however great the pain I may inflict upon 
 you, will, eventually, admit that I am so» You 
 are about, I understand, to unite your fate to a 
 young lady of rank and fortune ; and it is 
 more than possible, that mutual affection, and 
 mutual good feelings, would render your union 
 happy. Nevertheless, believing you to be a 
 man of honour, I feel sure that you would not 
 like to lead any one into such an alliance with 
 expectations which are not alone doubtful but 
 fallacious. It is therefore necessary that you 
 should know more precisely how you are situ- 
 ated ; and I hesitate not to inform you, that on 
 the title and estates held by your father, you 
 have no earthly right to calculate ; that, should 
 you marry Miss de Vaux, you bring with you 
 L 6 
 
228 
 
 nothing but your commission as a captain in the 
 army ; and that whateyer you expect from your 
 parent will, most certainly, go to another person. 
 Your first conclusion — as a world in which 
 there are so many villains is naturally suspicious 
 — will be, that this letter is written, either by 
 some one who intends to set up some unjust 
 claim to your rightful inheritance, by some dis- 
 appointed suitor of your bride, or by some ma- 
 levolent envier of another's happiness. Such, 
 however, is not the fact. The person who 
 writes this owes some gratitude to your family ; 
 not so much for what was accomplished, as for 
 what your grandfather sought to accomplish in 
 his favour. You may have heard the story, — 
 in which case you will give more credence to 
 the present letter, — or you may not have heard 
 the story : but still, the way to satisfy your- 
 self is open before you. Either resolve to 
 question your father boldly, concerning the 
 points herein contained ; or, if you would have 
 the facts proved, so that you cannot doubt 
 them, come alone to the gipsies' tents, in the 
 sand-pit, on Morley Down, this evening, or early 
 to-morrow morning, and enquire for 
 
 " Pharold." 
 
229 
 
 Now, under any ordinary circumstances, the 
 only course which De Vaux would have pursu- 
 ed might have been, to twist up the paper into 
 any strange and fanciful form that the whim 
 of the moment suggested, and put it into the 
 first fire he met with, giving it hardly a second 
 thought. But there were circumstances totally 
 distinct from, and independent of, the letter 
 itself, which gave it a degree of importance far 
 above that which it intrinsically possessed. 
 Edward de Vaux, though he had a slight 
 recollection of a dark-eyed, beautiful creature, 
 whom in his infancy he had called mother , lost 
 all remembrance of her at a particular period of 
 his life, and had never since, that he knew of, 
 heard her name mentioned. He passed, it is 
 true, for Lord Dewry's legitimate son, was re- 
 ceived as such in society, and admitted as such 
 by his own family and relations. But, if so, 
 how was it he had never seen a picture of his 
 mother amongst those of his ancestors, and 
 beside that of his father, which stood in the 
 gallery, and represented him as a man of about 
 thirty -five years of age ? — How was it he had 
 never heard his mother's jewels mentioned, 
 though those of the two baronesses who had 
 preceded her were often referred to ? — How 
 
230 
 
 was it that his aunt, Mrs. Falkland — as he in- 
 ferred from many facts — had never seen his 
 mother ? — How was it that his father had never 
 spoken her name in his hearing ? All this had 
 often struck him as something very extraor- 
 dinary ; and a thousand minor circumstances, 
 which cannot be here recapitulated, had shown 
 him that there was some mystery in regard to his 
 family, which had frequently given him pain. 
 Since his return, however, something more had 
 occurred : two or three words had been spoken 
 by his father, during their dispute concerning 
 Colonel Manners, which had startled him at 
 the time, with a suspicion which he had in- 
 stantly banished ; but which now came up 
 again with fearful confirmation of the tidings 
 he had just received. Lord Dewry had de- 
 clared that he could be deprived of the en- 
 tailed estates of the barony by a single word. 
 At the time, that expression had but slightly 
 alarmed him, for, well knowing the violence of 
 his father's disposition, and the acts and words 
 of almost insane vehemence to which any op- 
 position would drive him, he had instantly con- 
 cluded that' it was a meaningless threat, spoken 
 to punish him for Jhe spirit of resistance he 
 had displayed. But now it came back in its 
 
231 
 
 full force ; and he asked himself, what could 
 such words mean, if he were a legitimate child ? 
 The estates were entailed on the male heir : he 
 himself was the only male heir in the present 
 line ; and if by birth he were the lawful son of 
 Lord Dewry, no earthly power could deprive 
 him of the lands of his forefathers. But his 
 father, who had been educated for the bar 
 before he succeeded to the title, had told him 
 that a word would take them from him. A 
 stranger now repeated the same tale, and 
 pointed more directly to the same conclusion ; 
 and all his former recollections changed his 
 bitter doubts into a terrible certainty. 
 
 Edward de Yaux bent down his head upon 
 his hands, and covered his eyes with a feeling 
 of shame and degradation that was hardly sup- 
 portable. It was not alone one well of bitter- 
 ness that was opened upon him ; but, in what- 
 ever direction he turned his thoughts, new gall 
 and wormwood was poured into his cup. If 
 there had been aught on earth of which he had 
 been proud — and, in that instance, his pride, 
 though bridled and restrained by better feel- 
 ings, had been great ; — if there had been any 
 thing on earth of which he had been proud, it 
 had been of his clear descent from thirteen 
 
2S2 
 
 generations of noble ancestors. He had taken a 
 delight, even from boyhood, in tracing the re- 
 corded history of each ; and in proving that 
 there had not been one, from the founder of 
 the family to his own immediate parent, v^ho 
 had not been weYL deserving of the rank and 
 station that they held in their native land. 
 He had drawn from his noble birth the moral 
 which noble birth should always afford ; and 
 had determined that he, too, would deserve the 
 title that they had received, for great deeds — 
 that he, too, would transmit the jewel of here- 
 ditary virtue to his children as an heirloom, 
 unimpaired in passing through his hands. He 
 knew that, in the words of a great natural 
 poet, — 
 
 " The rank is but the guinea's stamp ; 
 The man's the gold for a' that." 
 
 and he felt that, to bear the name of noble, 
 vsdthout being noble in his heart, was but to 
 carry the die of value upon inferior metal, and 
 pass upon society a base and worthless coun- 
 terfeit. But all such thoughts, such remem- 
 brances, and aspirations, were now at an end. He 
 could no longer look back to mighty men amidst 
 his forefathers ; for the world's law cut the link 
 
233 
 
 between him and them. He had no longer a 
 proud name to keep up and adorn with noble 
 actions, for he was an illegitimate son, who had 
 unrightfully usurped the name and station which 
 belonged not to him. His best support, his 
 noblest designs, his most generous purposes, 
 were cast down, and his heart was laid prostrate 
 along with them. 
 
 But this was not all — he was now a beggar ! 
 the estates were entailed, and descended with 
 the title ; and though his father lived in some- 
 what gloomy retirement, yet the state with 
 which he had surrounded his solitude De Vaux 
 well knew could have left little accumulation 
 from the revenues of his property. Here, 
 then, were new evils to be encountered. Ac- 
 customed to luxury, and ease, and plenty, 
 without one thought of that sordid ore, the 
 want of which cramps so many a noble spirit, 
 and stifles so many a great design, he had lived 
 free from one of the greatest burdens upon 
 man. He had never been lavish or extravagant, 
 for such was not a part of his nature ; but he 
 had been generous and liberal to others, as well 
 as at ease himself: and now he felt that every 
 expense must be measured, and gauged by 
 considerations of economy ; that every guinea 
 
234. 
 
 must be weighed and estimated before it was 
 parted with ; that he must look upon money 
 in a light that he had never done before ; that 
 he must make it a continual object of thought ; 
 that his mind, like the traveller in the land of the 
 Lilliputians, must be painfully pinioned down on 
 every side by the irritating ties of petty cares ; 
 that his ease must be at an end, and his gene- 
 rosity cease. 
 
 There was more, however, far more bitter 
 kept mingling in the draught. Romid the 
 idea of one's mother the mind of man clings 
 with fond affection. It is the first, sweet, deep 
 thought stamped upon our infant hearts, when 
 yet soft and capable of receiving the most pro- 
 found impressions, and all the after-feelings of 
 the world are more or less light in comparison. 
 I do not know that even in our old age we do 
 not look back to that feeling, as the sweetest 
 we have known through life. Our passions 
 and our wilfulness may lead us far from the 
 object of our filial love — we learn even to pain 
 her heart, to oppose her wishes, to violate her 
 commands — we may become wild, headstrong, 
 and angry at her counsels, or her opposition ; 
 but when death has stilled her monitory voice, 
 and nothing but calm memory remains to re- 
 
235 
 
 capitulate her virtues and good deeds, affection, 
 like a flower beaten to the ground by a past 
 storm, raises up her head and smiles amongst 
 the tears. Round that idea, as we have said, 
 the mind clings with fond affection ; and even 
 when the early period of our loss forces memory 
 to be silent, fancy takes the place of remem- 
 brance, and twines the image of our dead parent 
 with a garland of graces, and beauties, and 
 virtues, which we doubt not that she possessed. 
 Thus had it been with De Vaux : he could 
 just call to mind a face that had appeared 
 to him very beautiful, and a few kind and 
 tender words from the lips of her he had called 
 mother, but he had fancied her all that was 
 good, and gentle, and virtuous ; and now that 
 he was forced to look upon her as a fallen 
 being, as one who had not only forgotten vii'tue 
 herself, but, in sin, had brought him into the 
 world, to degradation and shame, what could 
 be his feelings towards her ? 
 
 Horrid ! horrid is it to say ! that the world 
 should take unto itself that awful power, 
 claimed by Almighty Omniscience, of visiting 
 the sins of the fathers upon the children, and of 
 making the guiltless offspring more than share 
 the punishment inflicted on the offending parent : 
 
2S6 
 
 but so De Yaux felt that the world does, and 
 that, in his instance, it was not alone the usual 
 contemptible sneer, or still more contemptible 
 neglect, that he was destined to meet ; but 
 that he must expect all the venomous pity and 
 mahgnant compassion, which his fall, more than 
 his situation, would excite, and which the hard 
 and unfeeling beings of the earth affect to 
 experience for those they wish most powerfully 
 to depress. 
 
 Such accumulated feelings were all bitter 
 enough ; but there was one more bitter still, 
 more filled with agony and degradation. De 
 Vaux, as we have seen, was engaged to a being 
 full of beauty, and grace, and gentleness, by 
 promises which united them to each other, not 
 alone as persons of high rank and fortune, 
 having found a fitting alliance ; but as two 
 people who had known each other from infancy, 
 had grown up in affection, and had for many a 
 year looked forward to their marriage as the 
 means of securing to both the utmost degree of 
 human happiness for life — as the binding on 
 of a talisman, that would shut out from their 
 domestic hearth all the evil things of earth. 
 With De Vaux, these feelings, these anti- 
 cipations, were even stronger. He loved 
 
^37 
 
 Marian with the fullest, deepest, most pas- 
 sionate attachment. Towards her his heart 
 was all fire and thrilling energy ; and, though 
 there were times when he somewhat doubted 
 that her feelings were of as powerful a kind 
 towards him, yet he beKeved that she loved 
 him, as much as she could love ; and, perhaps, 
 even her shght reserve made him love her the 
 more ardently. The day for their marriage 
 was already fixed, the bridal ornaments were 
 all prepared, their future life had, in the con- 
 versation of that very day, been laid out before 
 them, as on a map ; and Edward de Yaux had 
 as much doubted, when he sprang from his 
 horse, that Marian, in all her beauty, was to be 
 his bride within three short weeks, as he 
 doubted of his own existence. 
 
 Now, however, what were his feehngs? — 
 now that his situation was changed in every 
 particular, — that in fortune, and in station, he 
 had fallen at once from the situation in which she 
 had promised him her hand ; and when he felt 
 that he had no right to claim from Marian de 
 Vaux the execution of a promise which she 
 had made under different circumstances, and to 
 which he believed that all her friends would, of 
 course, be opposed, as soon as his real position 
 
238 
 
 became known ? He felt that he had no right 
 either to ask, or to expect it ; and the darkest 
 image that presented itself to his mind was, the 
 loss of her he loved, for ever. Nor did this 
 image come before him vague and undefined, as 
 a thing of remote possibility, — though even 
 then the apprehension would have been terrible 
 enough, — but, in his present state of despond- 
 ency, it appeared as an undoubted and inevit- 
 able certainty — as a thing that must and would 
 take place. He felt as if Marian were already 
 lost to him for ever, and the bright bubble of 
 his happiness irreparably broken. He fancied, 
 also, — he could not help imagining, that some- 
 thing like contempt would mingle in the pity 
 that she felt for him. She was herself so pure, 
 — delicacy, modesty, and virtue so characterised 
 her every movement, and her every word, — that 
 he tortured himself with believing that a part of 
 the reprobation and scorn with which she must 
 think of his mother, would fall upon himself. 
 " She will look upon me as the child of vice," 
 he thought ; " she will see in me the offspring 
 of guilt and shame, and will easily make up her 
 mind to the separation. She is always so rea- 
 sonable, and so willing to do what she considers 
 right, at any sacrifice, that her mind will soon 
 
S39 
 
 be tutored to forget Edward de Vaux. Were 
 she of that warm, ardent, deep-feeling nature 
 that casts fate and happmess upon one die, I 
 might hope that she would still cling to me: 
 but it is in vain thinking of it — I have no 
 reason to hope it. She will follow the dictates 
 of common sense and prudence, and abandon 
 an alliance which all her friends would now 
 oppose." 
 
 Poor Marian ! thus did her unhappy lover 
 contrive to wring his own heart even with her 
 very virtues. After thinking for at least an 
 hour in gloomy silence, a faint hope crossed 
 his mind, that he might have mistaken the 
 import of the letter — that his apprehensions 
 might have deceived him. Experience, gained 
 from the consequences of our faults, almost 
 always, sooner or later, gives us a vague, 
 unsatisfactory consciousness, that such things 
 exist in our bosom ; and Edward de Vaux 
 did know that he was given to torment himself 
 jieedlessly. He therefore read the letter over 
 again, and read it carefully ; but, on doing 
 so, his first impression was but the more con- 
 firmed. 
 
 ** Yet it might be false," he thought ; *' the 
 whole tale might be false, or might refer to 
 
^40 
 
 something else, and be the mere blunder of 
 some ignorant and presumptuous person." But 
 then the remembrance of his father's words 
 returned, and all that had before seemed 
 strange regarding his mother came up before 
 his mind; and he once more gave himself up 
 to despair. 
 
 What was to be done, became the next 
 question. There was just a sufficient portion 
 of doubt mingled with his feelings to hold him 
 tortured in suspense, without being enough to 
 approach even the limit of hope. This state, of 
 course, he could have borne no longer under 
 any circumstances ; but his situation in regard 
 to Marian rendered it absolutely necessary 
 that he should put an end to all doubt upon 
 the business. And yet it was terrible, most 
 terrible, to feel, that it must be his own hand 
 which tore away the veil that concealed the 
 obstacles to his marriage — that it must be his 
 own hand that cast away his happiness for ever. 
 The thought might cross his mind of letting 
 things take their course — of choosing to dis- 
 believe the letter — of treating it with con- 
 tempt, and of proceeding with Marian to the 
 altar, to secure the blessing of her hand, at 
 least, before the rest was snatched from him. 
 
241 
 
 But if it did cross his mind, it was but as the 
 image of a thing that might be with some men, 
 but could never be with him. It occupied not 
 a moment's consideration — it left no trace be- 
 hind it. To investigate the matter instantly, 
 and to the bottom, became his determination ; 
 and, having done so, to make the result known 
 to those interested, and at once place himself 
 fearlessly in the situation which he had alone a 
 right to fill. He did not forget that there might 
 be circumstances in the story which he was about 
 to hear which might render it necessary to con- 
 ceal it from the public ear, in consideration for 
 the feelings of his father, or of others. But to 
 Marian, at least, the facts must be told : she 
 was too deeply implicated in it all to be left in 
 ignorance of what touched her whole future 
 happiness ; and De Vaux resolved that not only 
 should she be told, but that no lips but his 
 own should tell it, as he well knew how a few 
 explicative words, or a well-turned round of 
 phrases, may pervert a plain tale from its true 
 meaning. '' 1 will trust none," bethought; 
 " and, whatever the truth may be, from my lips 
 alone shall she first hear it." 
 
 The course to be pursued in his investigation 
 became the next question. Two were pointed 
 
 VOL. 1 . M 
 
242 
 
 out in the letter itself; but from the first, that 
 of applying to his father, he shrank with irre- 
 sistible repugnance. It was not alone that De 
 Vaux, as is common — we might almost say 
 universal — amongst men, possessed more phy- 
 sical than moral courage ; that he feared the 
 fierce and angry mood of his father, irritated as 
 he had been by late opposition, and loved not 
 to venture upon a discussion with him, which 
 would rouse every dark and stormy passion 
 into fiery activity ; but he feared himself 
 also : he feared that anguish and anger, and the 
 haughty irritation with which he was sure to be 
 encountered, might make him forget himself, 
 and say words that no after -sorrow could recaL 
 There might still be a doubt, too, upon even the 
 very subject of his fears, and he felt that were 
 those fears unfounded, his father might justly 
 look upon it as little better than a gross per- 
 sonal insult, were he asked, if he had passed his 
 illegitimate son upon the world ^s legitimate, 
 and promoted his union with the heiress of a 
 large fortune, under the pretence of his being 
 heir to an honourable name and great pos- 
 sessions. 
 
 De Vaux might believe that such conduct was 
 not impossible; he might also think that his father 
 
243 
 
 was not actuated in so doing by the mean and 
 sordid views which, at first sight, seem the only 
 .motives assignable for such behaviour. Various 
 circumstances might have occurred, in earlier 
 years, to make his father acknowledge an unreal 
 marriage with his mother : considerations for 
 her feelings, or for his own respectability, might 
 be amongst the rest. Once having said so, and 
 spoken of himself as of a legitimate child, 
 Edward de Vaux knew well that his father's 
 proud and reserved nature might have made 
 him ever after silent upon the subject, till ex- 
 planation became almost impossible : and the 
 deceit he had practised or permitted might have 
 been rather the result of haughty reserve than 
 of cunning artifice. 
 
 De Vaux felt, however, that, ere he presumed 
 to insinuate to his father a bare suspicion of his 
 having committed such an act, he must have 
 much better information and clearer proof to 
 justify the charge. When such evidence was 
 once obtained, he might communicate the dis- 
 covery he had made to Lord Dewry by letter, 
 and thus avoid that painful collision which a 
 personal discussion of the matter must induce ; 
 or, if he found that the evidence was faulty or 
 inconclusive ; that there was motive for sus- 
 M 2 
 
244 
 
 picion against the person wlio tendered it, or 
 that the whole was an interested calumny, he 
 might lay it before his father, as an affair which 
 required him to investigate the assertions, and 
 punish the authors of them. 
 
 The determination, therefore, was taken to 
 visit the gipsy himself; and the only consider- 
 ation that remained was, whether to go alone, 
 or to ask Manners to accompany him. From 
 the latter idea he shrank, as, in that case, he 
 must have exposed to his friend doubts and 
 apprehensions which were bitterly humiliating, 
 and might even compromise the secrets of others, 
 to whom his friend was a stranger, in a manner 
 which he had no right to do. The letter, also, 
 bade him come alone ; and, on reading it over 
 once more, every thing tended to make him 
 give credence both to the sincerity of the writer 
 and the accuracy of the facts. He had a faint 
 remembrance, too, of having heard the name of 
 Pharold mentioned by his aunt, as connected 
 with the early days of her family ; and the fact 
 of the writer having referred him, in the first 
 instance, to his own father, tended to show that 
 there existed no design against himself per- 
 sonally. Besides, De Yaux was *hot a man to 
 entertain fears of any kind for his own safety ; 
 
245 
 
 and, as he clearly saw that Manners was totally 
 ignorant of the contents of the letter which he 
 had brought him, he determined to go alone, 
 and investigate the matter thoroughly. 
 
 His next question to his own heart was, 
 " and, in the mean time, what shall be my con- 
 duct towards Marian ? How shall I behave 
 while I expect and believe that a few more 
 hours will alter our situation towards each other 
 for ever, and render that conduct wrong which 
 was perfectly consistent with our engagement 
 towards each other ? If I change my manner, 
 she may think my affection cooled, and feel 
 herself unkindly treated. But then," he thought 
 again, bitterly enough, " but then that will but 
 serve to smooth the way to the change which is 
 ultimately to take place ; and perhaps it had 
 better be reached by some such intermediate 
 step," The next moment, again, his wavering 
 thoughts turned to the other side, and he de- 
 manded whether he had any right to give her 
 one instant's pain more than necessary. The 
 reply was ready : ** No, no ! that were cruel 
 and unkind indeed ; and should I do so, and my 
 fears prove false, my behaviour would necessa- 
 rily, from all the circumstances of the case, 
 remain unexplained — a dark blot upon my 
 M 3 
 
S46 
 
 affection towards her. Yet, hereafter, if she 
 should learn that such tidings have been in my 
 possession, — that such doubts have been justly 
 working in my mind, — will she not think it 
 vn:ong, and even deceitful, of me to treat her 
 as my promised bride, when I know that she 
 never can be such ? " 
 
 What was to be done ? De Vaux, according 
 to the old scholastic term, had got himself be- 
 tween the horns of a dilemma ; and we must 
 pause for one moment, in order to enquire how 
 far he was art and part in putting himself into 
 that situation. It is wonderful, most wonderful, 
 how people deceive themselves in this world, 
 and how they go on arguing with themselves on 
 both sides of the question for an hour together, 
 affecting to be puzzled, and asking themselves 
 what is to be done, when, from the very first, 
 they have determined, in secret counsel, what 
 to do ; and all this logic and disquisition has 
 solely been for the purpose of bewildering 
 reason, or duty, or conscience, or any other of 
 those personified qualities of the soul, which 
 the great parliament of man's passions choose 
 to look upon as the public, the spectators. 
 
 Now, at that point of De Vaux's cogitations, 
 wlierein he thought, and rej^ected the idea, of 
 
247 
 
 admitting Manners to his confidence in the 
 matter before him, as is fully displayed three or 
 four pages back, a fancy struck him, which in- 
 stantly changed into a secret resolution, not to 
 make Manners his confidant in the business, but 
 to open his whole heart to Marian de Yaux ; and 
 although it needed scarcely any argument to 
 prove that she, whose fate was the most strictly 
 bound up with his own, whose affection he cer- 
 tainly possessed, and whose good sense he never 
 doubted, was the person, of all others, in whom 
 he ought to confide ; yet some idle cant, that 
 he had read in some foolish book, or heard from 
 some fooKsh people, about the absurdity of 
 trusting a woman ; some silly sneer or insigni- 
 ficant jest, magnified into a bugbear through 
 the mist of memory, had power enough to make 
 him hide his own determination from himself, 
 and, in the first instance, go the roundabout 
 path we have traced, in order to prove that he 
 had no other resource but to tell her the whole 
 affair, ere he boldly admitted his resolution 
 even to his own heart, and brought forward the 
 true and upright motives on which it was 
 founded. So weak is human nature ! 
 
 As soon as this was done, the matter was no 
 longer difficult : all embarrassment in regard to 
 M 4 
 
248 
 
 his conduct was removed, and he felt that what 
 was kindest and what was most aifectionate, 
 was also the most just and the most reasonable. 
 Whatever was the truth of the assertions con- 
 tained in the letter he had received, and to 
 whatever facts it alluded, it pointed principally 
 at his union with Marian, and the disparity of 
 fortune and rank which the writer affirmed to 
 exist between them. She, therefore, was a 
 person principally concerned ; and on her ulti- 
 mate decision their fate must rest. De Yaux 
 feared not that any loss of fortune could affect 
 Marian's regard : he could not have loved her 
 had he supposed it Would ; but he did fear that 
 the stigma, which he believed might rest upon 
 his birth, and which he himself felt as so deeply 
 humihating, might make a difference in her 
 feelings, and, when backed by the counsel and 
 arguments of some of her maternal relations, 
 might make her resolves unfavourable to his 
 hopes. But stiU, in telKng her all, from the 
 beginning, in concealing nothing, in acting at 
 once affectionately and candidly, he felt that he 
 was establishing the best claim to continued 
 affection and esteem : he felt, too, that, if there 
 had been deceit on any part, such conduct 
 would be the best proof to all that he was as 
 
249 
 
 free as day from any participation in it, and 
 that, whatever were the result, his honour and 
 his name would be clear. 
 
 His determination, therefore, was backed by 
 every motive ; but still it required great deHcacy 
 in executing it. It was necessary not to shock 
 or to pain her, — he loved too much to do so, 
 — and yet to be perfectly explicit. It was re- 
 quisite to tell her all, and to leave her fully 
 comdnced of his unalterable love ; yet perfectly 
 free to form her ow^n decision on her future 
 conduct. The hour, too, and the manner, were 
 matters for consideration, and he resolved not 
 to delay, but let the communication be made 
 immediately, and as a matter of importance. It 
 would require time, however ; and, as it was 
 already late, he was obliged to make up his 
 mind that the visit to the gi^jsy must take place 
 on the following morning : he only paused, then, 
 to recover his composure completely, and to 
 think of the best method of telling Marian the 
 whole, in such a manner as to give her the least 
 pain, yet show his confidence and affection the 
 most clearly. 
 
 He accordingly sat still, and laid it out like 
 the plan of a battle : but in this he was very 
 wrong ; as, by so doing, he naturally presented 
 M 5 
 
250 
 
 Marian to his fancy in the light of the enemy. 
 The consequences were, that his own private 
 little demon instantly saw his advantage, and, 
 whispering in De Vaux's ear, made his irritable 
 and irritated spirit believe that Marian would 
 act in a thousand different ways, which he could 
 not blame, yet did not like. The fiend, who 
 well knows how to seize probabilities, took 
 hold of every particular point in Marian's cha- 
 racter which could give him any thing to cling 
 to ; and De Vaux saw, in the glass of fancy, her 
 beautiful comitenance looking upon him as 
 calmly and as reasonably as ever, without a 
 shade of agitation passing over its placid sweet- 
 ness during the whole time that he, with diffi- 
 culty, and hesitation, and agony of spirit, and 
 humiliation of heart, was telling her all his 
 anxieties and apprehensions. He saw, in the 
 same magic glass, the very spot of the room 
 where she would stand, and the fine easy hne of 
 her figure, all displaying perfect composure and 
 graceful ease ; and he heard the soft, sweet 
 modulations of her voice, calm, gentle, but 
 unaltered ; and, at length, he thought, ** I 
 know perfectly what she will say when she 
 hears it : she will declare that I am too hasty 
 in my conclusions ; that I must see the gipsy, 
 
251 
 
 or whatever he may be, and hear the whole of 
 what he has to say ; for that the matter is too 
 important to be judged of hastily, and that 
 when we know the whole, and have had time to 
 consider, we can decide : or she will speak of 
 consulting my aunt, or her great uncle. Lord 
 Westerham ; or any other of those cold, disin- 
 terested people, who can give proper advice 
 upon the subject : and yet I do my aunt in- 
 justice ; for, though of a decided nature, she is 
 not of a cold-hearted one." 
 
 Thus, then, did he torment himself for some 
 minutes, taking as much pains to make himself 
 miserable, as if there were not quite enough 
 pain in this world without our seeking ito Nor 
 did he stop here, but went on in the same train 
 till lie had almost wrought himself out of the 
 determination of telling Marian at all ; though he 
 ultimately came back to his first resolution. It 
 is not to be concealed, that all this hesitation, 
 and a great deal of this anguish, proceeded 
 from his having fallen into the common error 
 of giving the reins over to imagination, and 
 believing that he had placed them safely in the 
 hands of reason. Had he acted wisely, he 
 would not have sat down to fancy any thing 
 upon the subject at all, but he would have 
 M 6 
 
252 
 
 risen up, on the contrary, as soon as his reso- 
 lution was taken, and, seeking out her he loved, 
 would have told her all his doubts and fears, 
 without thinking at all previously either of 
 what he would say, or what she would say. 
 Nature, left alone to work her own way, in 
 a thousand instances out of a thousand and 
 one, does it gracefully ; but if one calls in to 
 counsel her, all the host of man's passions, 
 prejudices, faults, and foibles — though judg- 
 ment may be present too — yet, nine times out 
 of ten, the multitude of counsellors, in this 
 case, produces any thing but safety. Neither 
 is there ever any use of long consideration in 
 circumstances like those we have mentioned. 
 What we will do always requires thought — 
 how we will do it, seldom, if ever. Trust to 
 your own heart, if you have a good one ; and if 
 it be bad, the sooner you hurry it through the 
 business the better. It is equally vain thinking 
 what we will say ourselves, for we are sure 
 never to say it ; and still more fruitless to fancy 
 what other people will say, for we know nothing 
 about it. 
 
 De Vaux, however, was, in some respects, a 
 curious compound of very different principles. 
 With all his errors, and with all his faults, he 
 
253 
 
 had a great deal of candour ; and, however keen 
 he might be in investigating and lashing the 
 motives of other people, he was not half so 
 strict an inquisitor into their failings as he was 
 into his own. As a consequence of this, though 
 the knowledge often lay dormant, he did know, 
 as we have before hinted, with extraordinary 
 accuracy, all the turnings and windings, the 
 intricacies and the absurdities, of his own 
 nature ; and, as soon as the rush of passions 
 was over, his conscience — like the power of 
 the law restored after a popular tumult — 
 would mount the tribunal, and sit in judgment 
 on his own heart. Often, too — like the 
 same power exerting itself to repress anarchy — 
 his better judgment would rise up against the 
 crowd of wild images presented by an irritable 
 fancy, and, after a short struggle, would regain 
 its power. 
 
 Thus, in the present instance, he felt, after a 
 while, that he was but anticipating more misery, 
 when he had already sufficient to endure ; and, 
 doing in the end what he ought to have done at 
 first, he started up, and went to seek Marian, 
 in order to give her the opportunity of letting 
 her own conduct speak for itself. 
 
254< 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 De Vaux had calmed himself as much as he 
 possibly could ; and, as he was not blessed with 
 a face possessing that general expression of 
 jocund felicity which is usually denominated a 
 smiKng countenance, whatever degree of gravity 
 and care was left in his look at present, excited 
 no particular notice in the drawing-room, whither 
 his steps were first directed. The party there 
 assembled now consisted of Mrs. Falkland and 
 her daughter, with Colonel Manners ; and the 
 latter alone saw that the agitation which he 
 had beheld the gipsy's letter produce in his 
 friend, had ended in permanent distress. 
 
 ** Where is Marian," said De Vaux, as he 
 entered, not very much disappointed, perhaps, 
 to find that she was not with the rest of the 
 family, " where is Marian? do you know, 
 Isadore ? " 
 
 ** I left her drawing in the little saloon at 
 the other end of the house," repHed Isadore ; 
 *' but that was a full hour ago, Edward ; and if 
 she expected a gay knight or wandering trou- 
 
255 
 
 badour to come and sooth her, either with his 
 gaie science, or his bien dire, she may have left 
 her solitude by this time in disappointment." 
 
 De Vaux smiled somewhat bitterly, as he 
 felt how much more painfully he had been em- 
 ployed than he would have been in the occu- 
 pations to which Isadore referred; and, again 
 leaving the drawing-room, he sped along the 
 same passages which, with a Hght and bounding 
 heart, he had often trod in search of her upon 
 some joyous errand, whom he now sought with 
 feelings of care, anxiety, and sorrow. Marian 
 was still where her cousin Isadore had left her ; 
 and though, perhaps, she did think that DeVaux 
 might have found her out sooner, when he had 
 no ostensible motive for being absent from 
 the side of her he loved; yet, Hke a wise girl, she 
 received him with as sweet a smile as if no such 
 slight reproach had ever crossed her fancy. 
 The next moment she rejoiced that she had 
 done so ; for the expression of anguish in her 
 lover's eyes did not escape her, and she felt at 
 once that, for whatever other occupation De 
 Vaux had yielded the pleasure of her society, 
 it was for no agreeable one. 
 
 " Look at this drawing, Edward," she said, 
 as he came in : "do you not think that I have 
 
256 
 
 made my liermit look ver}^ melancholy sitting 
 on that rock ? " 
 
 '^ Not so melancholy as my thoughts, dear 
 Marian," replied De Vaux, gazing over her 
 shoulder, apparently at the drawing, but in 
 truth hardly seeing a line that the paper con- 
 tained ; " not so melancholy as my thoughts." 
 
 " And what has occurred to make them so, 
 Edward?" she asked, turning round to read the 
 answer in his face, before his lips could reply. 
 " Surely, I have a right to know, if any one 
 has, what it is that makes you unhappy." 
 
 " You have, dear Marian, you have," he re- 
 plied, " and I have sought you out here to make 
 you share in all I feel, though the task be a 
 painful one. But come here, and sit with me 
 on the sofa by the window, and I will tell you 
 all : " and, taking her by the hand, he led her on 
 towards one of the windows that looked out 
 over the park ; for, however strange it may be, 
 there are undoubtedly particular positions, and 
 particular situations, in which one can tell a 
 disagreeable story more easily than in others. 
 
 Marian was alarmed, and she was agitated, 
 too, within ; for she suffered not her agitation 
 to appear upon the surface, when she could 
 help it ; and, as is very natural, she anxiously 
 
257 
 
 strove to arrive at some leading fact as quick zs 
 possible. " Something must have occurred very 
 lately, Edward," she said, " for you were very 
 gay and cheerful during our ride this morning. 
 Have you heard any thing from your father to 
 distress you ? " 
 
 " No, dearest girl," he answered, " I have 
 heard notliing from him ; but I have heard from 
 some one else much that distresses me : but I 
 had better show you what I have received, 
 which will explain the matter more briefly than 
 I could do." 
 
 So saying, he placed the gipsy's letter in her 
 hand. Marian took it, and read it through ; 
 but, as she knew none of the circumstances 
 which tended in the mind of De Vaux to cor- 
 roborate the doubts insinuated by the letter, 
 she viewed its contents in a different light ; and, 
 returning it Avith a smile, she asked, " And is 
 that all that has made you uneasy, Edward? 
 But it is evidently all nonsense, my dear 
 cousin. If that foolish man, who teased me 
 so much two years ago, were not out of the 
 country, I should think it was a plan of his to 
 annoy you; but depend upon it, that this is 
 the trick of some one who wishes to disturb 
 our happiness. What have we to do v^th gipsies, 
 
258 
 
 Edward ; and how could gipsies know any thing 
 about you and me, unless they were instructed by 
 somebody else ? And if any person in our own 
 rank had real information, they would of course 
 bring it forward themselves, and not send it 
 through a set of gipsies." 
 
 " You argue well, Marian," answered De 
 Vaux, ** and I would fain believe that you 
 argue rightly ; but I am sorry to tell you that 
 several things have previously occurred, which 
 tend to confijm the assertions contained in 
 this." 
 
 Marian turned a little pale from anxiety for 
 him she loved. " Tell me all, Edward," she 
 said, " tell me all ; I am sure you will conceal 
 nothing from me." 
 
 " Nothing that I know, indeed, Marian," he 
 answered: " I came vdth the purpose of opening 
 my whole thoughts to you ; for you have every 
 right, that either true love or our mutual situ- 
 ation can give you to know every thing that I 
 know. Well, then, my beloved, the fact which 
 most completely tends to corroborate the as- 
 sertions in this letter, occurred in a conversation 
 between myself and my father yesterday morn- 
 ing. It was when he was angry in regard to 
 his unfortunate quarrel with Manners and my 
 
259 
 
 opposition of the view he had taken : and he 
 said sternly, and bitterly enough, that though 
 the estates were entailed, I could be deprived 
 of them by a word." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Marian thoughtfully, " in- 
 deed!" but the next moment she added, ** No, 
 no, Edward, it must have been said ifi a moment 
 of passion, without reason, and without truth. 
 Depend upon it, your father and my uncle 
 would never have spoken about our marriage to 
 me, and to all my mother's family, as he has 
 often done, calling you somewhat particularly 
 the heir of his titles and estates, if you were 
 neither, as that letter says." 
 
 '* But yet the letter and his words confirm 
 each other," said De Vaux : " they both tell 
 the same tale, dear Marian. Many a true word 
 is spoken. in a moment of passion, that a man 
 has concealed for years, and would give worlds 
 afterwards to recal. Besides, I think I have 
 heard the name of this Pharold before : have 
 you not heard my aunt speak of some gipsy 
 boy that my grandfather wished to educate ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, not my aunt," answered Marian. 
 " All that happened when she was very young, 
 quite a child, I believe. It was poor Mrs. Dick- 
 inson, the old housekeeper, who used to tell us 
 
260 
 
 stories; about that gipsy when we were children ; 
 and his name was Pharold, I think. She spoke 
 of him as of a fine creature, but very wild." 
 
 " You see, dear Marian," said De Yaux, with 
 a gloomy smile, ** every thing tends to the 
 same result. My father's words confirm the 
 story of the gipsy, and what we know of the 
 gipsy would show that he had some acquaint- 
 ance with the history of our family." 
 
 Marian mused : " It is very strange, Edward," 
 she said at length, " and I suppose there must, 
 indeed, be some foundation for all this. But 
 yet I cannot understand it : if the estates are 
 entailed, what is there on earth that can pre- 
 vent yom- inheriting them ? If the title goes to 
 the sons, you must have it ; and if it had gone 
 to the daughters, I must have had it, you know, 
 which would have been all the same thing. If 
 you do believe this story, as I am afraid you do, 
 tell me how it can be." 
 
 Edward de Vaux paused ; for he had never 
 calculated upon going farther, or being more 
 explicit than he had been. He had thought it 
 would be enough to explain that he was likely 
 to lose the lands and honors of Dewry, and that 
 Marian would naturally draw her own con- 
 clusion, and perceive the only cause which could 
 
261 
 
 produce such a result. Her question, therefore, 
 embarrassed him, for he would wilKngly have 
 sealed his lips upon liis mother's shame ; and, 
 though he had felt himself bound to tell her all 
 he was Hkely to lose, without concealment, yet 
 he hesitated at reveahng the most painful part 
 of his o^vn suspicions, till those suspicions had 
 been rendered certainties. 
 
 Marian saw him hesitate, and, raising her 
 beautiful eyes to his face, she said, " Edward, 
 you have promised to tell me all, and you must 
 make it all you think, as well as all you know." 
 
 It was not to be resisted. " Well, beloved, 
 well!" he said, ** I will, though it is very, very 
 terrible to do so ; and, in truth, I hardly know 
 how to do it. Marian, did you ever see my 
 mother?" 
 
 ^' No, Edward, never that I know of," she 
 replied: " why do you ask?" 
 
 " Did you ever hear my aunt speak of her ?" 
 continued De Yaux, without replying to her 
 question. 
 
 " Let me think," said Marian. " I believe I 
 have : but no, I cannot remember that I ever 
 did, now I reflect upon it : no, I never did." 
 
 f' Nor my father either ? " asked De Yaux. 
 
262 
 
 "No, never; certainly never," ansvrered 
 Marian. 
 
 " Well, then " said De Vaux, and he 
 
 paused abruptly, fixing his eyes upon her face. 
 Instantly a colour of the deepest crimson rushed 
 up over the whole countenance of Marian de 
 Vaux, dyeing cheek, and neck, and forehead, 
 with the blush of generous shame — the shame 
 that every pure, virtuous, inexperienced woman 
 feels, when the idea of vice in her own sex is 
 suddenly brought before her. 
 
 Edward de Vaux turned deadly pale, as he 
 both perceived that Marian had now caught 
 his meaning, and comprehended most pain- 
 fully the feelings in which that bright blush 
 arose. The shame that Marian felt for the de- 
 gradation of her sex touched the most agonised 
 spot in De Vaux's heart. All that hatred for 
 vice, and scorn for the vicious, and the pity 
 which comes near contempt, could produce in 
 a woman's bosom, seemed to De Vaux ex- 
 pressed by that blush, and pointed, more or 
 less directly, towards himself; and, as I have 
 said, he turned very pale. 
 
 The deep emotion that he felt overpowered 
 him for an instant ; but then he made a great 
 
26S 
 
 exertion, and, rising from the sofa, " Marian," 
 he said, " I have now told you all, even to my 
 innermost thoughts ; and I have but one vi^ord 
 to add, my dear, dear cousin. Nearly three 
 years ago, you assured me of your love, and 
 promised me your hand ; and every member of 
 your family willingly consented to our ultimate 
 union ; but then I was the Honourable Edward 
 De Vaux, the heir to one of the most ancient 
 peerages in England, and to twenty thousand 
 per annum. Things have now changed ; and, 
 if the assertions in this letter, and my own 
 suspicions be correct, I am now a nameless, 
 illegitimate beggar, without a right to any thing 
 on earth, but my sword and my reputation — 
 with shame upon my mother's head — with 
 nothing to claim from my father, and without 
 even a name that I can offer you. Under these 
 circumstances, though I shall love you to the 
 last day of my life, and think of you through 
 every moment in the whole course of time, I 
 give you back your promise, I free you from all 
 engagement, and leave you totally untied to a 
 connection, from which your friends will na- 
 turally be glad enough to separate you." 
 
 He spoke calmly, slowly, and distinctly ; but 
 the deadly paleness of his coimtenance showed 
 
264 
 
 how deeply he was moved at heart ; and Marian 
 gazed upon him, with her long dark eyelashes 
 raised high, her beautiful eyes full upon his 
 face, and her lip slightly trembling while he 
 went on. As soon as he had ceased, she rose 
 from the sofa ; and, with agitation, and ardour, 
 all unlike her usual calmness, cast herself at 
 once upon his bosom, with her arms circling his 
 neck, her lips pressed upon his cheek, and her 
 tears falling rapidly upon him. " Edward, 
 Edward 1" she cried, " I am yours — all yours ! 
 Could you — could you do such injustice to your 
 own Marian ? You have given me back my pro- 
 mise, and I here give it you again — so that, 
 whatever comes, I may never hear from any one a 
 single word against our union. Nay, nay, let me 
 speak — it is seldom that I am vehement; but 
 I must speak now — you have my promise, most 
 solemnly, most strictly; and I consider myself 
 as much bound to you as if I were your wife. 
 Not only shall no other person upon earth ever 
 have my hand ; but, whatever happens, and 
 whoever opposes it, you shall have it, when and 
 where you choose to ask it." 
 
 Need I say how tenderly he pressed her to his 
 heart ? Need I say how ardently, how sincerely 
 he thanked her ? But still there was some sHght 
 
265 
 
 hesitation in Ms mind. He almost doubted that 
 she fully appreciated his situation, and he felt 
 that he could not receive such a promise as she 
 had made till she comprehended all. He bade 
 her think, then, of the whole ; and conjured 
 her to remember, that it was not alone the loss 
 of name and station, but that, if his anticipations 
 were correct, every thing like wealth, or even 
 competence, would also be lost to him. 
 
 But all Marian's reserve was now gone ; and 
 the long-restrained feehngs of her heart flowed 
 forth altogether. *' Nay, nay, Edward!" she 
 said, again seating herself on the sofa, without, 
 however, withdrawing the small soft hand he 
 held in his : '^ nay, nay, Edward, have I not 
 enough for us both ? — enough to give us every 
 comfort. Nay, every luxury that we ought to 
 have, we shall still possess ; and why need we wish 
 for more ? Do you think that the coach and six, 
 and the golden-coated coachman, and the three 
 lackeys on the foot-board, ever entered into my 
 calculations of happiness ? " 
 
 " No ; but, dearest Marian," he rephed, " it 
 is only painful to me to think, that I bring 
 nothing to unite to your property. Your large 
 fortune renders it only the more necessary that 
 I should have one too " 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
Q66 
 
 " Hush, hush, hush ! " cried Marian, eagerly ? 
 but still he went on: — " I have to owe you every 
 thing, Marian ; love, and happiness, and rank, 
 and station, and fortune too." 
 
 " And will you, Edward, you talk so proudly 
 to Marian de Vaux?" she exclaimed. "Will 
 you be too haughty to enjoy all the blessings 
 that we possess, because it is Marian that gives 
 them ? Is not that which is mine, yours ? Has 
 it not been so since we were children? Do 
 not distress me, Edward, by one thought of such 
 a kind. Indeed, I shall think you do not love 
 me— 'that you are going to refuse my offered 
 hand " 
 
 " Oh, Marian, Marian ! " he cried, kissing it 
 a thousand times, while something very bright, 
 and not unHke a tear, glittered in his eye. " I 
 would not lose it for a thousand worlds ! Dis- 
 tress you ! dearest girl ! I grieve to have dis- 
 tressed you for a moment ; but I felt myself 
 bound to tell you all." 
 
 " Oh, that does not distress me at all," re- 
 plied Marian : " the only thing that could dis- 
 tress me would be to see you grieve, or to think 
 that you should make a difference, even in 
 thought, between what is yours and what is 
 mine. I declare, Edward, I never knew what 
 
267 
 
 it was to feel glad of a large fortune before ; 
 but now I am thankful, not only for what my 
 mother left me, but for every shilling that my 
 good old grand-uncle and guardian has scraped 
 together for me, by his economy thereof. Three 
 thousand a-year, Edward — consider, we shall 
 be as rich as princes ; and if it had not been for 
 that, this misfortune might have obhged us to 
 wait on for many a year, till you had made a 
 fortune in India, and very likely have lost your 
 health, which no fortune could have compen- 
 sated." 
 
 Marian de Vaux spoke in a manner totally 
 different from that which her cousin had seen 
 her display for many a year. Her beautiful 
 eyes were full of light and feeling ; a smile, half 
 tender, half playful, hovered over her lip, and 
 her voice was full of eager kindness and thrilling 
 affection. He had remembered her thus as a 
 girl ; but, as she had grown up towards woman- 
 hood, either the feehngs which had animated 
 her bosom with such a warm and enthusiastic 
 glow had passed away, or the expression of 
 them had been gradually suppressed. Now, 
 again, she was all that he remembered her, and 
 to see her so plunged him into a sweet vision 
 of the past— 'Connected, though, by some fine 
 N 2 
 
^68 
 
 golden tlireads, with the present. He had seated 
 himself on the sofa beside her ; and, still holding 
 her right hand in his, he had glided his left arm 
 round her waist, and then, with his eyes fixed 
 on a distant spot of the floor, he remained in 
 silence for two or three moments after she had 
 done speaking. Unless man were a cold, unfeel- 
 ing piece of ticking mechanism, like a watch, 
 our measures of time would always be by our 
 sensations ; and as Marian had at that moment 
 given way to all the eagerness of her heart, the 
 two moments that Edward de Vaux remained 
 in tliought seemed to her an age. ^^ What is 
 the matter, Edward?" she said. " Are you 
 still unhappy ? " 
 
 " No, my beloved," he answered, looking up 
 in her face with a glance that fully confirmed 
 his words : *' no, my beloved ; I am most 
 happy ! so happy, indeed, that, were I placed as 
 I was before, I would almost again undergo the 
 pain which this discovery first caused me, to 
 enjoy the delight which my Marian's conduct 
 has bestowed." 
 
 '* And did you doubt what that conduct 
 would be, Edward ? " she demanded, half re- 
 proachfully. Edward de Yaux coloured, and 
 might have hesitated ; for conscience, that bitter 
 
269 
 
 smiter, wlio always finds his time to apply the 
 lash, now struck him severely for all those 
 images which an irritable fancy had suggested 
 concerning Marian's conduct. But she saved 
 him the pain of a reply, which must either 
 have been mortifying or insincere. '* And did 
 you doubt what my conduct would be?" she 
 asked ; and in the next moment she added, — 
 " But never mind, dear Edward ; you see what 
 it is, and do never doubt it again." 
 
 " I vdll never doubt, as long as I live, — my 
 own beloved girl," — he answered, ardently; " I 
 will never doubt, as long as I live, that it will 
 on every occasion be all that is good, and noble, 
 and generous : but it was not that alone, my 
 Marian, that made me so happy — so very, very 
 happy." 
 
 " What was it, then, dear Edward?" she 
 asked, in some surprise ; for Marian, vdth all 
 the quickness of a woman's perception, had no- 
 ticed the passing colour that came into De 
 Vaux's cheek ; and, knowing him, and all the 
 little intricacies of his heart, better than he 
 thought, — better, perhaps, than she thought 
 herself, — she had instantly set down the blush 
 to its right cause, and said in her own heart, 
 '* Edward has been tormenting himself with 
 N 3 
 
270 
 
 fancies." Now, however, his words puzzled 
 her, though a latent consciousness of having — 
 in the urgency of the moment, and in the desire 
 to sooth and render Edward patient under his 
 misfortune — a latent consciousness of having 
 given free course to feelings and enthusiasms 
 which she had long held close prisoners in her 
 bosom, made her now feel embarrassed in turn ; 
 and a bright warm blush, partly from curiosity, 
 partly from that consciousness, mantled for a 
 moment in her check. 
 
 Edward de Vaux gazed upon her as she put 
 her question with a smile, full of deep, fond 
 affection — with a sort of triumphant happiness, 
 too, in his look that made her inclined, she 
 knew not why, to hide her eyes upon his bosom, 
 as she had done long ago, when first she had 
 acknowledged to him the love that he had won, 
 and witnessed the joy that it called up in his 
 countenance. " I will tell you what it is, dear- 
 est," he answered, " that makes me now so 
 happy, that I should have considered any thing 
 but yourself a light sacrifice to obtain such joy. 
 It is, that the misfortune which has befallen me 
 has called forth my beloved Marianas true and 
 natural character, and shown her to me fuEy, as 
 the same, dear, excellent, feeHng, enthusiastic 
 
271 
 
 girl that I have always pictured her to my own 
 imagination — such as her feelings as a child 
 gave promise that she would be — such as I re- 
 member her appearing constantly, not many 
 years ago." 
 
 Marian blushed, and looked down ; and there 
 was a swimming moisture in her eyes, which a 
 Kttle more might have caused to overflow in 
 tears : but they would not have been unhappy 
 ones. She felt 
 
 But it is difiicult to say what she felt. It 
 was not that she felt detected, for that word 
 would imply a shade of culpability which she 
 did not feel ; but she felt that she had betrayed 
 herself — that a veil which she had cast over the 
 true features of her mind, from many a deep 
 and complicated motive, had been raised — had 
 been snatched away, and could never be dropped 
 effectually again. The effect which the raising 
 of that veil had produced was all glad and grati- 
 fying, it is true ; but still there was that flutter- 
 ing emotion at her heart, which the disclosure of 
 long-hidden feehngs must always produce : she 
 felt as if she had told her love for the first time 
 over again ; and she knew, too, that she might 
 be called upon to assign motives, and give rea- 
 sons, which would be difficult to explain, but 
 N 4 
 
27^ 
 
 which she determined not to withhold, for many 
 a good and sufficient cause. But all this agi- 
 tated her. She blushed, she almost trembled ; 
 and Edward de Vaux was but the more con- 
 vinced, from the agitation which he beheld, 
 that the concealment of her real character, and 
 the repression of her finest feelings, had been a 
 conscious and voluntary act on the part of her 
 he loved. 
 
 He became curious, as well he might be, to 
 leam more ; and, as Marian still sat silently 
 beside him, he tried the tacit persuasion of 
 a gentle kiss upon the blushing cheek, that 
 almost touched his shoulder. She turned round 
 towards him with a thoughtful smile ; but, as she 
 did not speak, he asked more boldly, *^ Why, 
 Marian, why, dearest, after having given me 
 your love, and promised me your hand, have 
 you let that dear little heart play at hide and 
 seek with me, till I have sometimes almost 
 doubted whether it was my own ? " 
 
 " You should not have doubted that, De 
 Vaux," Marian answered ; " but, if you really 
 wish to know why I have somewhat changed 
 my conduct since I was a girl, and why I have, 
 in some degree, repressed feelings that I have 
 not experienced the less warmly, I will let y^u 
 
273 
 
 into some of the secrets of a woman's heart ; 
 but you must promise me, Edward, never to 
 abuse the trust," she added, smiling more gaily; 
 " and you must promise, too, not to be angry 
 with any thing I shall say." 
 
 " Angry ! angry with you, Marian ! " said 
 De Vaux ; "do not beHeve such a thing pos- 
 sible." 
 
 Marian smiled again, for there is often a 
 sort of prophetic presentiment in the breast of 
 woman, which teaches her that, however much 
 she may rule and command the lover, the 
 husband will not receive the power in vain ; and, 
 perhaps, it is this knowledge of the shortness 
 of their reign which sometimes makes women 
 abuse it a little while it lasts. Marian smiled 
 again at De Vaux's words, and then replied, 
 " Well, then, Edward, keep your part of the 
 compact, and I will tell you all. You say I 
 have changed very much since I was a girl; 
 and that is but natural, Edward ; for, depend 
 lipon it, every woman does change, if she feels 
 and thinks at all deeply. As a girl, her worda 
 and her actions are all of but httle importance 
 in the eyes of those around her, or in her own, 
 unless she be nourished in conceit and afiect* 
 ation from her cradle ; and, during the first fifteen 
 n5 
 
^74 
 
 or sixteen years of her life, though she may be 
 taught to act like a lady, yet she sees no reason 
 for concealing any thing she feels, or any thing 
 she thinks, if it be not hkely to hurt the feel- 
 ings of others. As she goes on towards woman- 
 hood, however, the world changes its conduct 
 towards her, and she finds it necessary to change 
 towards it. She learns to look upon trifles in 
 her own conduct, and in the conduct of others 
 towards her, as matters of importance ; the 
 world and society assume a different aspect i 
 she trembles lest she should say, or do, or 
 feel what is wrong; and very often she ex- 
 presses too little of what she feels, lest she 
 #iould express too much. Then, too, Edward," 
 continued Marian, with the colour which had 
 partly left her cheek while she spoke com- 
 ing richly up again, and spreading over her 
 whole face, *' then, too, Edward, if §he learns 
 to love, all those fears and apprehensions are 
 a thousand fold increased. She is terrified at 
 her own sensations, and almost thinks it wrong 
 and sacrilegious to suffer that one being by 
 whom her affections are won to take that sta- 
 tion in her heart, above all the rest of the world, 
 which she has hitherto devoted solely to a being 
 beyond the world. Perhaps before that time. 
 
275 
 
 slie may have longed to love and be beloved ; 
 but the first moment she feels that it is so, — 
 especially if it come upon her suddenly, — de- 
 pend upon it, her feelings are, more or less, 
 those of terror." 
 
 De Vaux smiled, but his hand pressed ten- 
 derly upon Marian's as he did so ; and she felt 
 it wsis as much a smile of thanks, as if he had 
 accompanied it with words of ever so much 
 gratitude for the picture of her feelings that 
 she had given him. She paused, however, for 
 she was coming to matter which she feared 
 might not please him so well ; and his thoughts 
 turning, too, in the same direction, he said, after 
 waiting for a few moments to see if she would 
 go on, " But, dear Marian, this happens to 
 every woman without producing such a change 
 as I have seen in you ; and besides, what I have 
 seen to-4.ay, Marian, has shown, me fully that 
 there has been some more distinct and indi- 
 vidual motive. Tell it me, Marian, tell it me, 
 my beloved ; and believe me, I will not abuse 
 your confidence." 
 
 " Nor be angry?" she said, smiling again, 
 
 *' Remember, that is a principal part of our 
 
 agreement. Well, then, I will go on. When 
 
 first we were engaged to each other, Edward, 
 
 K 6 
 
276 
 
 my cliief thought — as, indeed, it ever has been 
 since — was how to make the man I loved 
 most completely happy, as far as my own con- 
 duct was concerned ; and I was reading at that 
 time a very clever book, which recommended 
 women, on their marriage, to study, not alone 
 the general character of their husband, but all 
 his individual opinions and thoughts, in order 
 to make their own behaviour completely con- 
 formable thereto ; it asserted, also, that such 
 was the surest way of winning happiness for 
 both. I believed it, and resolved to try to 
 follow the advice even before marriage. I lis- 
 tened to every thing you said, concerning the 
 conduct of other women that we knew, with a 
 determination of trying to acquire the qualities 
 that you praised, and to avoid all that you 
 blamed." 
 
 "But, good God! my dearest Marian!" 
 exclaimed Edward, warmly, " surely I did not 
 blame them for suffering the beauties or the 
 excellences of their natural characters to ap- 
 pear, nor praise them for assuming a coldness 
 that was the most opposed to the general warmth 
 of their nature ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, Edward," replied Marian ; 
 ** but I win tell you what you did, which came 
 
g77 
 
 much to the same purpose. Though whatever 
 I did seemed to give you pleasure, yet, when 
 you spoke of any of our acquaintance, you were 
 so severe upon what appeared to me very slight 
 mistakes in their demeanour ; you were so rigid 
 in your ideas of what was right in general be- 
 haviour ; you even once censured so heavily a 
 display, rather too open, of attachment to her 
 husband, on the part of a lady whom we both 
 knew, that I began to find that your opinions 
 on such subjects were very nice indeed: and 
 knowing," added Marian, with a smile, which 
 De Yaux felt fully, " and knowing that my 
 lover, with these nice opinions, was peculiarly 
 sensitive to every thing that he thought could 
 draw the slightest degree of ridicule upon him 
 or his, I determined so to school my own con- 
 duct, and to repress the expression of my own 
 feelings, as to insure his heart against the 
 slightest annoyance, concerning a word, or a 
 movement, or a look of his wife." 
 
 Marian paused, and Edward de Vaux, with 
 his eyes bent upon the ground, remained si- 
 lent, for two or three minutes, till she became 
 alarmed. ** You promised me, Edward," she 
 said, '* not to be angry." 
 
 '* Not to be angry with you, my beloved 
 
278 
 
 girl," he said ; " but I did not promise not to 
 be angry with myself; and well, well do I 
 deserve it." 
 
 ** Nay, nor must you be angry with yourself 
 either, Edward," replied Marian ; ** if you are, 
 I shall still think some of it lights upon me. 
 If in seeking the means of rendering you happy, 
 I have made you unhappy, I shall meet with 
 punishment instead of reward." 
 
 *^ Dearest Marian," answered De Vaux, *' it 
 were vain to deny it. I have been a fastidious* 
 fool hitherto; and. Like the other sneerers of 
 this world, have been seeking the mote in my 
 brother's eye, while I have forgot the beam in 
 my own. But henceforth I will take example 
 by you, dearest Marian, and so school my own 
 heart as to get over that feeling of the ridi- 
 culous in others, and terror for it in myself, 
 which I now find and believe to be a vice, and 
 not a quality." 
 
 Marian shook her head with a doubtful smile, 
 as if she would have said, " It is in your nature, 
 Edward." 
 
 " I will, indeed, Marian," he continued; 
 *^ and you shall see what a strong resolution 
 can do even with Edward de Yaux. But you 
 must promise me in return, dearest, to reward 
 
^79 
 
 my efforts, by casting off the reserve that my 
 foolish fastidiousness has drawn over you. The 
 qualities of my Marian's heart and mind are 
 too beautiful to be hidden beneath such a 
 veil." 
 
 Marian smiled again, but looked a little 
 thoughtftd, for she felt that the task her lover 
 would impose was no easy one. " I will do 
 my best, Edward," she said ; " but it must be 
 by degrees. In the first place, all the world 
 would think me mad, if I were to change sud- 
 denly from the quiet still-life demeanour of 
 Marian de Vaux, and take up the gay, lively, 
 enthusiastic character of Isadore Falkland ; and, 
 in the next place, it would be impossible, for I 
 have now been training myself to this beha- 
 viour so long, that it has become quite habitual 
 to me ; and, whatever are the emotions that I 
 feel at heart, my first effort — even before I 
 know I am making one — is to keep those 
 emotions from appearing. Sometimes, indeed," 
 she added, laughing, ** they break through all 
 restraint, as they have done to-day; but that 
 is only on great occasions. However, I will do 
 my best to change back again ; and, perhaps, 
 as I have overdone the quiet and composed, I 
 may find the happy medium, in returning to 
 
S80 
 
 my old thouglitlessness. But, in the mean time, 
 Edward, never you be deceived in regard to 
 what I feel. You have seen the veil, as you 
 call it, cast away ; and you know entirely what 
 is beneath it." 
 
 " A thousand, thousand thanks, for letting 
 me see it, Marian," he replied : " but I can 
 never thank you enough, my beloved, for all 
 that you have done this day — for showing me 
 your heart, and for giving me a glimpse, too, 
 of my owQ." 
 
 " But I owe you thanks, too, Edward — 
 deep and many thanks," rephed Marian, " for 
 the generous candour of your conduct ; and for 
 not shrinking, even for a moment, from making 
 me a sharer in your thoughts and feelings, how- 
 ever painful they might be to communicate. 
 And oh, Edward, let me entreat you ever to 
 pursue the same course hereafter. Let me be 
 the sharer of all your thoughts; let me hear 
 every thing painful or to be feared, from your 
 own lips, and the tale will lose half its bitter- 
 ness; and I promise you that, if I cannot 
 assist you vdth advice and support, I will not 
 embarrass you by womanly fear, or weak ir- 
 resolution." 
 
 " I will, Marian, I will!" replied De Vaux; 
 
^81 
 
 " for I can contemplate no case in which what 
 I had to communicate would combine half so 
 many sources of pain and anxiety as that which 
 is just past : and now, dearest, then, give me 
 your advice in regard to the course I ought to 
 pursue in investigating this very painful bu- 
 siness." 
 
 '^ Do you not think, Edward," said Marian, 
 " that you had better not investigate it at all ? 
 If, by letting it rest, and treating this inform- 
 ation with contempt, you were likely to injure 
 any one, of course I should say, sift it to the 
 last grain. But it seems that these people, who- 
 ever they are, that send you such disagreeable 
 tidings, hold out our approaching marriage as 
 the only motive for your enquiry farther ; and, 
 as you have told me the whole without reserve, 
 and I am perfectly satisfied, I see no reason why 
 you should trouble yourself farther about it. 
 If you are to lose the titles and estates of your 
 father on any pretext, let the gipsies send their 
 information to the person who is to benefit by 
 your loss. I would think no more of it." 
 
 De Vaux shook his head, for his vivid ima- 
 gination and exciteable nature did not fit him 
 for sitting down quietly under such a load of 
 suspense. *' No, no, Marian !" he said, I could 
 
28^ 
 
 not bear such uncertainty ; I should not know 
 an hour's peace, and whenever a letter was put 
 into my hand, whenever a stranger desired to 
 speak vdth me, I should dread some evil tidings. 
 Investigate the matter thoroughly I must. If 
 I j&nd these insinuations false, my peace will be 
 established upon a surer rock than ever ; and 
 my disposition may not be the worse for the 
 ordeal I have undergone, and the lessons I have 
 received. If my fears prove just, and these 
 tidings true, I think, dear Marian — I think," 
 and he drew her nearer to his heart — '^ I think 
 that, wdth the assurance of such love as yours, I 
 can see all the rest that was bright in my lot 
 pass away from me without a sigh." 
 
 Marian's heart was relieved, for she had 
 doubted how Edward de Vaux would endure 
 the certainty which might soon be forced upon 
 him, of the severe reverses which were yet un- 
 confirmed. She had doubted, and, wdth all the 
 skilful tenderness of a woman's heart, she had 
 at once perceived that the most open assurances 
 of her own love were the surest antidotes 
 that she could ofier him .against the evils 
 of the day. She had acted, it is true, by 
 impulse ; but there is always some rapidly 
 operating motive even at the bottom of impulse 
 
283 
 
 itself, wliich, nine times out of ten, works with 
 wonderful sagacity. There are many moments 
 in the life of man, when his boasted reason — 
 which is but a slow and considerate personage 
 — has not time to act; and when, if there 
 were no power but this same reason to save us 
 from drowning, we might drown beyond re- 
 demption for any thing that reason would do 
 to help us : but God, who gives their never- 
 faiHng instinct to the beasts, does not leave 
 man without resource in those moments when 
 haste, and need, and apprehension, render him 
 little better than a judgment-less animal, and has 
 afforded liim also a kind of instinct — a power 
 which only acts, on sudden emergencies, when 
 reason has not time ; which power we call 
 impulse, but which is neither more nor less than 
 the instinct of a hurry. 
 
 Marian de Vaux had, in the first instance, 
 acted upon impulse, but as she went on, finding 
 that impulse was quite right, and that the only 
 means to sooth and to strengthen her lover 
 imder his misfortunes, was to let him see 
 throughout the full extent of her love for him, 
 she cast away, as we have seen, every reserve, 
 and showed Edward de Vaux that he could 
 but lose little, whatever he lost, compared with 
 
284 
 
 that inestimable affection which was still his 
 own. 
 
 Marian's heart was relieved by perceiving 
 that her conduct had been successful, and that 
 De Yaux was nerv^ed against the worst ; and, 
 as she had no particular taste for suspense her- 
 self, any more than he had, she now recalled 
 her words, and advised him, if his feelings were 
 such as he expressed, to pursue the investigation 
 at once. 
 
 *' That, Marian, for all our sakes and on 
 every account, I must do," he replied ; " but 
 the only question with me is, in which way 
 had I better follow the enquiry. Here are two 
 courses pointed out in this letter, — to apply at 
 once to my father ; or, in the first place, to visit 
 this gipsy, and to ascertain precisely what in- 
 formation he possesses. I have already con- 
 sidered, and believe that the latter course 
 would be the best ; but my Marian has every 
 right to guide me. 
 
 *' Oh ! do not go to the gipsy," cried Marian 
 on the first impulse — but impulse was wrong 
 in this instance, and Marian soon found that it 
 was so. Edward himself paused, and thought 
 over the matter again ; but, on consideration, 
 Marian remembered many an objection to the 
 
^85 
 
 plan of seeking information from Lord Dewry 
 himself. She knew his haughtiness and his 
 violence, and she knew, too, that De Vaux, 
 tingling under a sense of degradation, and feel- 
 ing that such degradation was attributable to 
 his father, was in no state of mind to submit to 
 the proud and insulting tone Lord Dewry too 
 often employed, or to speak calmly and dispas- 
 sionately upon a subject, in regard to which 
 his whole heart was bleeding, and every better 
 feeHng deeply wounded. She dreaded the col- 
 Ksion which might ensue between the two, and 
 she thought it also very probable that Lord 
 Dewry might refuse all information on the sub- 
 ject. ** I am afraid I am wrong, Edward," she 
 said at length ; " I have a dread of those gip- 
 sies, — I do not know why ; but still, perhaps, 
 you should be more sure that such insinuations 
 as these are not mere calumny, before you speak 
 to your father about it." 
 
 " That is true, my love," repHed De Vaux ; 
 *' and, besides, I have just remembered, that, if 
 I wish to have the gipsy's information at aU, I 
 must ha-tte it before I see my father. He here 
 in this letter tells me to come either this even- 
 ing, or to-morrow early. Now, it is too late to 
 go to my father this evening, and before I 
 
^86 
 
 could be back, if I went over to-morrow, tbe 
 time would be expired, and the gipsy gone. I 
 think my best plan will be to go early to the 
 gipsy camp to-morrow morning, hear all the 
 man has to say, and then, if necessary, I can 
 ride over to the hall and speak with my father 
 ere he goes out. 
 
 " Yes, I doubt not, that such is the best 
 course, replied Marian ; '* but for God's sake, 
 Edward, take care of those gipsies. They are, 
 I beheve, a terrible race of savages ; and you 
 told me that this was a large encampment which 
 you saw in the wood. They might murder you, 
 Edward, for your purse or your watch." 
 
 " Oh, no fear, no fear, dearest ! " replied De 
 Vaux ; ** you see they never attempted to 
 murder Manners to-day, though he was there 
 at five or six in the morning, and his purse is 
 likely to be much better filled than mine ; and 
 as they knew him, and know me, they must 
 know also that his fortune is larger than mine 
 ever "will be." 
 
 " But they may have some motive of re- 
 venge against you, Edward," repeated Marian, 
 contriving to increase her fears most wonder- 
 fully, by thinking over them : ",ithey have evi- 
 dently some greater knowledge of our situation, 
 
287 
 
 and some deeper motive for their conduct, than 
 is apparent : and may they not wish to entrap 
 you for some purpose of revenge ? " 
 
 " I never injured one of them by v^ord or 
 deed, Marian," replied De Vaux ; " and if you 
 will consider for a moment, dearest, you will 
 see that they can have no evil intention, at least, 
 towards my person. In the first place, they 
 sent the letter by Manners, and therefore must 
 feel assured that other people will know of my 
 visiting their encampment; and in the next 
 place, this man — this Pharold, leaves the matter 
 open to me to come to him, or to speak with 
 my father on the subject. Had they any de- 
 sign against me, they would have contrived to 
 convey the letter to me secretly, and would 
 have taken care to tell me that I could get the 
 information they offer nowhere but from them- 
 selves. Besides, they cannot be sure that I may 
 not make the whole matter public, and come 
 up with half a dozen companions." 
 
 This reasoning calmed Marian de Vaux not 
 a little ; but still she was fearful, and could not 
 banish from her mind a kind of foreboding 
 that evil would come of Edward's visit to the 
 gipsy. She knew, however, what absurd things 
 forebodings axe; and she felt how natural it 
 
^88 
 
 was to be anxious and apprehensive for an 
 object in which all her affections centered, the 
 moment that a situation of danger presented 
 itself, without seeking for any supernatural in- 
 spirations to justify her fears. At every re- 
 ported movement of the armies, during her 
 lover's absence, she had too often felt the same 
 alarm to give any great w^eight now to the 
 fear she experienced, against the voice of reason 
 and conviction ; and seeing that De Vaux had 
 every probability on his side of the argument, 
 she ceased to oppose him by a M^ord. 
 
 ** At all events, Edv^ard," she said, " for my 
 sake, do not go unarmed : that precaution can- 
 not be very burdensome." 
 
 *^ Certainly not," replied he, " and I will 
 take my pistols vdth me, with all my heart, as 
 well as my sword, if it will give you the slight- 
 est pleasure, Marian ; though I am sure, my 
 beloved, I shall have to use neither." 
 
 " Well, you shall do it for my sake, Ed- 
 ward," said Marian ; *' and I think that to 
 know it is so, will lighten the weight upon 
 you." 
 
 De Vaux's answer was the precise^ one 
 which any other man would have made in the 
 same situation ; and some farther conversation 
 
289 
 
 ensued of no great import, in the course of 
 which Marian proposed to her cousin to make 
 Colonel Manners the companion of his expe- 
 dition. She understood fully, however, the 
 objections which, in reply, he urged against 
 imparting to any one but herself a suspicion 
 which so materially aifected his station in 
 society, his fortune, and even his happiness ; 
 and those objections ha\dng been stated to the 
 reader before, it may be unnecessary to repeat 
 them here. Suffice it to say, that their con- 
 versation continued so long that Marian's toilet 
 for the dinner-table was far more hurried than 
 her maid approved. Marian, however — safe in 
 beauty and secure in love — felt that she could 
 go down to dinner, even if a curl or two did 
 stray from its right place ; and there was some- 
 thing in her heart that made her never regret 
 the moments given to Edward de Vaux. 
 
 YOL. I. 
 
290 
 
 CHAP. X, 
 
 We left Colonel Charles Manners standing at 
 the library door, with his hand upon the great 
 brazen ball, embossed with sundry figures, which 
 served as the handle to the lock. It may be re- 
 membered that Colonel Manners, being some- 
 what troubled with the internal contention 
 between feeling for his friend's uneasiness, and 
 wonder for its cause, was seeking an empty room 
 to let those two emotions calm themselves : but 
 when he turned the above brazen ball, and the 
 door opened to his will, he found that he had 
 been mistaken in looking for solitude there ; for 
 the first things he saw were, a very beautiful face, 
 and a pair of bright gay eyes, looking up at 
 him, from the other side of the little table on 
 the left hand, with the hat and feathers, which it 
 was then customary for ladies to wear in riding, 
 thrown somewhat back from the forehead, 
 so as to show the whole countenance of Isadore 
 Falkland, raising her face with a look of half- 
 laughing vexation, as if askmg, ** Who is about 
 
291 
 
 to disturb me now, when I came here in search 
 of solitude?" 
 
 The interpretation of the expression was so 
 self-evident, that Colonel Manners paused with 
 a smile ; and Isadore, finding that her face had 
 told the truth somewhat too plainly, laughed 
 and begged him to come in. " Nay, Miss Falk- 
 land," said Manners, " I will not disturb you. 
 Your look, I can assure you, said, Not at 
 home! as plain as those words ever were spoken," 
 — and he took a step back as if to withdraw. 
 
 " The servant made a mistake, then," replied 
 Isadore ; ** I did not bid him say. Not at home, 
 to Colonel Manners. But the truth is, I am 
 endeavouring to compose my mind." 
 
 " Indeed ! " he exclaimed in some surprise, 
 *' I am very sorry to hear that any thing has 
 occurred to agitate it." 
 
 " And can you say so. Colonel Manners," 
 asked Isadore laughing, " when you, yourself, 
 were art and part in the deed ? " 
 
 Manners was stiU more surprised ; but, as he 
 saw that the agitation of which Miss Falkland 
 complained was of no very serious nature, it only 
 affected him so far as to bring him two steps 
 farther into the room. 
 
 *' If I am one of the culprits," he said, ap- 
 o 2 
 
proaching nearer the table, where Isadore sat 
 enjoying his astonishment, — for hers was one 
 of those light and happy hearts that can win a 
 drop of honey from every flower, however small, 
 — '' if I am one of the culprits, I claim the right 
 of an Englishman to hear the charge fairly read. 
 Miss Falkland. Otherwise I refuse to plead." 
 
 " Well, then, Colonel Manners," she replied, 
 " you stand arraigned of having galloped as 
 fast, when riding with two ladies, as if you had 
 been at the head of your regiment ; and of being 
 art and part with Edward de Vaux in shaking 
 the little brains possessed by one Isadore Falk- 
 land out of their proper place. The truth is," 
 she added more seriously, " that after riding 
 very fast, my ideas, which are never in a very 
 composed and tranquil state, get into such a 
 whirl, that I am always obliged to come and 
 read some good book for a quarter of an hour 
 ere I dare venture into rational society. Do 
 you feel the same, Colonel Manners ? " 
 
 '^ Not exactly," answered Manners smiling, 
 ^' but I rather fancy that I am more accus- 
 tomed to galloping than you are. Miss Falk- 
 land ; and that had you been as much used to 
 that exercise as I have been, during eighteen 
 years' service, you would find your ideas quite 
 
293 
 
 as clear, after tlie longest gallop that ever was 
 ridden, as they were before you set out." 
 
 By this time Colonel Manners had so far 
 carried on his approaches that he was in the 
 midst of the library, the door shut behind him ; 
 and a sofa in the window — not very far from 
 Miss Falkland's left hand, with two or three 
 books upon a console hard by — within one step 
 of his position. What Isadore rejoined to his 
 reply matters little. It was just sufficient to 
 seat him on the sofa, with a book in his hand, 
 which he had not the slightest intention of 
 reading ; and a conversation began, which, 
 though it had no particular tendency, and was 
 of no particular import, stretched itself over 
 full three quarters of an hour. It was, however, 
 one of those conversations which are the most 
 pleasant that it is possible to imagine — one of 
 those conversations, when an intelligent man 
 and an intelligent woman sit down, without the 
 intention of talking about any thing in par- 
 ticidar, and end by talking of every thing under 
 the sun. They must, however, feel convinced, 
 like Isadore and Colonel Manners, that there 
 is not the slightest chance on earth of their 
 falling in love with each other ; for the least 
 drop of love, or any thing like it, changes the 
 o 3 
 
whole essence of the thing, and it is no longer 
 conversation. But Isadore and Colonel Man- 
 ners never dreamt of such a thing ; and went 
 on, letting subject run into subject, and thought 
 follow thought, as they liked — not like a regi- 
 ment of infantry, indeed, advancing in single 
 file, one behind the other, with measured step 
 and stiff demeanour, but like a bevy of rosy 
 children rushing from a school-room door, some- 
 times one at a time, sometimes two or three 
 linked hand in hand together, sometimes half 
 a dozen in a crowd tumbling over one another's 
 shoTilders. Thus ran on their ideas, gaily, 
 lightly, of every variety of face and complexion, 
 without ceremony and without restraint. It is 
 true it required some activity to keep up the 
 game with spirit, for both were rapid; and 
 Isadore, when she could not easily express 
 herself in one way, often took another, more 
 fanciful and flowery, so that had not Manners's 
 wit been as agile as her own he might often 
 have been left behind. 
 
 The moments flew rapidly tiU, as we have 
 said, three quarters of an hour had passed, as 
 it were a minute ; and neither Colonel Man- 
 ners nor Isadore Falkland would have known 
 that it had passed at all, had not a clock struck 
 
295 
 
 in the hall hard by, and Isadore suddenly 
 thought that somebody — that great bugbear 
 Somebody — might deem it strange that she sat 
 talking to Colonel Manners alone in tho li- 
 brary, while the rest of the family were pro- 
 bably in the drawing-room. She now remem- 
 bered, also, that she had still her riding-habit to 
 change ; and having by this time quite for- 
 gotten that Colonel Manners was an ugly man, 
 she made the alteration of her dress an ex- 
 cuse to leave him, though, to speak truth, 
 she broke off their conversation with regret, 
 and felt inclined to look upon the moments 
 she had thus spent as one of the pleasantest 
 things she had yet met with in the garland of 
 time — that garland which begins in buds and 
 blossoms, and ends in blighted flowers and 
 withered leaves. 
 
 Manners, for his part, — though he had from 
 the first thought her a very beautiful girl, and a 
 very charming one, too, — had by this time de- 
 termined that she was possessed of many a more 
 admirable quality of mind and grace of person 
 than he had even believed before ; and an in- 
 voluntary sigh, which broke from his lips when 
 she left him, taught him to feel that it was as 
 well, upon the whole, that he was so soon to 
 o 4 
 
take his departure. It was a part of his policy 
 never to encourage regrets in regard to a state 
 of life which he had made up his mind could not 
 be his ; and he found that to live long in the same 
 house with Isadore Falkland might cultivate 
 those regrets much more than was desirable. 
 
 When she was gone, he thought for a moment 
 over what had just passed, gave another moment 
 to memories of the long gone, spent two or 
 three more in trifling wdth the book he held 
 in his hand, and then, after changing his boots 
 in his own room, proceeded to the drawing- 
 room. Mrs. Falkland was now there alone, but 
 it was not long before Isadore again appeared ; 
 and, in a few minutes after, De Vaux, as we 
 have before shown, entered the room for a single 
 instant to enquire for Marian. Neither his 
 aunt nor his cousin perceived that any thing 
 had occurred to disturb his equanimity : but 
 the eyes of his friend, quickened perhaps by 
 what he already knew, discovered without difli- 
 culty that the pain which had been given him 
 by the letter he had himself delivered was not 
 at all diminished by reflection ; and although 
 he felt that he could ask no questions, he was 
 not a little anxious for the result. 
 
 Some time passed, ere it was necessary to dres§ 
 
^97 
 
 for dinner, without any thing of importance, 
 either in word or deed, occurring in the drawing- 
 room, except inasmuch as Mrs. Falkland in- 
 formed Colonel Manners that a lady was to 
 dine with them on that day who had also en- 
 joyed the advantage of his mother's acquaint- 
 ance in her youth. Isadore pronounced her a 
 foolish, tiresome woman ; and Manners, on 
 hearing her name, said he had met her some 
 years before, but did not venture to dissent 
 from Miss Falkland's opinion. 
 
 Mrs. Falkland smiled, and tacitly acknow- 
 ledged that her own judgment of the good lady's 
 qualities was not very different, by saying that 
 she had merely invited her because she knew 
 that she would feel hurt were she to hear that 
 Colonel Manners had been long at Morley 
 House vrithout her having seen him. " And 
 I never wish to hurt people's feelings. Colonel 
 Manners," she added, ** unless when it is very 
 necessary indeed." 
 
 '* It is never worth while, my dear madam," 
 replied Manners ; " and I believe that, with a 
 little sacrifice of our own comfort, without any 
 sacrifice of sincerity, we can always avoid it, 
 however disagreeable people may be." 
 
 Manners was in the drawing-room amongst 
 o 5 
 
^98 
 
 the first after dressing, and he looked with 
 some degree of anxiety for the appearance of 
 De Vaux, in order to see whether the tidings 
 he had received still continued to affect him so 
 strongly. But when De Vaux came in his 
 manner had wholly changed. His conversation 
 with Marian had had the effect which such a 
 conversation might be expected to have. The 
 recollection of it, too, as a whole, while he had 
 been dressing, had done as much as the con- 
 versation itself. It had shown him a sweet 
 and consoling result, unmingled with any of 
 the painful feelings, to which all he had him- 
 self been called upon to communicate, had 
 given rise in his own breast. The gipsy's letter, 
 and the suspicions which it called up, had 
 shaken and agitated him, had taken away the 
 foundations from the hopes and expectations of 
 his whole life ; but that which had past between 
 him and her he loved had re-established all, 
 and fixed the hopes of future happiness on a 
 surer and a nobler basis than ever. He trod 
 with a firmer, ay, and vdth a prouder, step, 
 than when he had fancied himself the heir of 
 broad lands and lordships ; and when Marian 
 herself soon after entered the room, his face 
 lighted up with a happy glow, like the top of 
 
S99 
 
 some high hill when it receives the first rays of 
 the morning sun. Marian herself, too, blushed 
 as she appeared, for all the display of her 
 heart's inmost feelings, which she had that 
 morning made to her lover's eyes, had left a 
 consciousness about her heart — a slight but 
 tremulous agitation, which brought the warm 
 blood glowing into her cheek. There was no- 
 thing like unhappiness, however, left in the 
 countenance of either ; and Manners became 
 satisfied that whatever had been the contents 
 of the gipsy's letter, the evil efiects thereof 
 were passing away. 
 
 The Lady Barbara Simpson at length arrived 
 with her husband in her train, and was most 
 tiresomely pleased to see Colonel Manners. 
 She was a worthy dame in the plenitude of 
 ten lustres, in corporeal qualities heavy, and 
 in intellectual ones certainly not light. Vul- 
 garity is, unfortunately, to be found in every 
 rank, — unfortunately, because, where found in 
 high rank, in which every means and appliance 
 is at hand to remedy it, its appearance argues 
 vulgarity of mind, to which the coarseness of 
 the peasant is comparatively grace. Now Lady 
 Barbara Simpson was of the vulgar great ; and, 
 though the blood of all the Howards might 
 o 6 
 
300 
 
 have flowed in her veins, the pure and honour- 
 able stream would have been choked up by the 
 mental mud of her nature. In her youth, no 
 sum or labour had been spared to ornament her 
 mind with those accomplishments and graces 
 which are common in her class ; and as music 
 and drawing, and a knowledge of languages, are 
 things which, to a certain degree, may be hung 
 on like a necklace or a bracelet, the mind of 
 Lady Barbara was perfectly well dressed before 
 her parents had done with her education. But 
 nothing could make the mind itself any thing 
 but what it was ; and the load of accomplish- 
 ments, which masters of all kinds strove hard to 
 bestow, rested upon it, like jewels on an ugly 
 person, fine things seen to a disadvantage. The 
 want of consideration for other people's feelings, 
 or rather the want of that peculiar delicacy of 
 sensation called tact, which teaches rapidly to 
 understand what other people's feelings are, 
 she fancied a positive, instead of a negative, 
 quality, and called it in her own mind ease and 
 good-humour ; and thus, though she certainly 
 was a good-tempered woman, her coarseness of 
 feeling and comprehension rendered her ten 
 times more annoying to every one near her than 
 if she had been as malevolent as Tisiphone. 
 
301 
 
 During dinner, Manners felt as if he were 
 sitting next to somebody clothed in hair-cloth, 
 which caught his dress at every turn, and 
 scrubbed him whenever he touched it ; and his 
 comfort was not greatly increased by finding 
 himself an object of great attention and patron- 
 age to Lady Barbara. Opposite to him sat 
 Isadore Falkland ; and, though it was certainly 
 a great relief to look in so fair a face, yet there 
 was in it an expression of amused pity for Lady 
 Barbara's martyr that was a little teasing. Her 
 Ladyship first descanted enthusiastically upon 
 the beauty of Colonel Manners's mother, and 
 called upon Mrs. Falkland to vouch how very 
 lovely she was. Mrs. Falkland assented as 
 briefly as possible ; and Lady Barbara then 
 took wine with Colonel Manners, and declared 
 that there was not the slightest resemblance 
 between him and his mother, examining every 
 feature in his face as she did so to make herself 
 sure of the fact. 
 
 At this point of the proceedings Manners 
 was more amused than annoyed ; for his own 
 ugliness was no secret to himself, and he there- 
 fore knew well that it could be no secret to 
 others. He laughed then at her Ladyship's 
 scrutiny, and replied, " I was once considered 
 
very like my mother, Lady Barbara ; but what- 
 ever resemblance I did possess was carried away 
 by my enemy, the small-pox." 
 
 " Oh yes," she cried in return, " a dreadful 
 disease that ! Shocking the ravages it some- 
 times makes ! I see you must have had it very 
 bad." 
 
 " Very bad, indeed. Lady Barbara," replied 
 Colonel Manners v^th a laughing glance towards 
 Miss Falkland ; " and, what is worse, I had it 
 at that period of life when one has just learned 
 to value good looks, without having learned to 
 despise them." 
 
 ** Oh, terrible !" exclaimed Lady Barbara, 
 really commiserating him; " it must have made 
 a terrible change in you, indeed. Dear me, 
 what a pity ! " 
 
 Marian de Vaux was pained for Colonel 
 Manners, and she now interposed with a few 
 words, endeavouring to change the subject ; but 
 Lady Barbara was like a hollow square of in- 
 fantry, and could faire face partout, so that 
 poor Marian only drew the fire on herself. 
 Lady Barbara answered her question, and then 
 added, ** And so I hear you are going to be 
 married in a fortnight, Miss de Vaux. Well, 
 I wish you happy, with all my heart ; though 
 
808 
 
 marriage is always a great risk ; God knows, is 
 it not, Mr. Simpson ? " 
 
 " It is, indeed, my dear," replied Mr. Simp- 
 son, a quiet little man with much sterling 
 good sense concealed under an insignificant 
 exterior, and with a certain degree of subacid 
 fun in his nature, which was habitually brought 
 forth by the absurdities of his wife, — " it is, in- 
 deed, my dear;" and he finished with an audible 
 and perhaps not unintentional sigh, which gave 
 point to his reply. 
 
 ** But, for all that, it is a very good, and a 
 very proper state, too," rejoined Lady Barbara, 
 " and a very happy one, after all." 
 
 " I am glad you find it so, my dear," said Mr. 
 Simpson ; but Lady Babara went on, as usual, 
 without attending to her husband. 
 
 ** I would advise all young people to marry," 
 she said, "but not too young though, " — she 
 herself had married at thirty-five, — " not too 
 young though, for then they only have such 
 large families they do not know what to do 
 with them. But now at a proper age every 
 one ought to marry. Now, Colonel Manners, 
 why are not you married ? You ought to have 
 been married before this." 
 
 The reader knows that she was upon danger- 
 
304 
 
 ous ground : but Manners was too good a poli- 
 tician to show that he was touched ; and, there- 
 fore, he determined in reply to put that as a 
 jest, which had a good deal of serious earnest 
 in it. " Oh, my dear madam," he answered, 
 " you forget I am too ugly ; I should never 
 find a wife now." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, nonsense ! " she answered, 
 " ugliness has nothing to do with it; many 
 a woman will marry the ugliest man in the 
 world sooner than not marry at all ; and 
 besides, you ought to have a good fortune, 
 Colonel Manners ; and that is a great thing. 
 But, I can tell you, you will certainly never 
 find a wife, as you say, unless you ask some 
 one." 
 
 The draught was bitter enough ; but Manners 
 was indomitable, and answered still gaily, 
 " Nay, nay. Lady Barbara, I am so diffident of 
 my own merits, and so completely convinced 
 that no one will ever fall in love with my beau- 
 tiful countenance, that I shall certainly never 
 marry till some lady asks me. It would require 
 that proof, at least, to convince me that I had 
 any chance of being loved." 
 
 " And if any lady were to ask you," con- 
 tinued the unmerciful Lady Barbara, " would 
 
305 
 
 you really marry her after all, Colonel Man- 
 ners?" 
 
 ** I believe I may answer that it would 
 depend upon circumstances," replied Colonel 
 Manners with a grave smile ; "as, unfortunately 
 for my happiness, your Ladyship's marriage has 
 put you out of the question." 
 
 " Oh, do not let me be in the way in the 
 least degree," rejoined Mr. Simpson from the 
 other side of the table. 
 
 De Vaux was fairly driven to a laugh ; and 
 Lady Barbara, beginning to find out that there 
 was an error somewhere, paused for a moment, 
 and went on with her dinner. 
 
 However skilfully and courageously a man 
 may struggle against his own feelings, on those 
 points where they have intrenched themselves 
 by long habit and possession, yet, when forced 
 by circumstances to treat as a matter of common 
 conversation subjects that are habitually painful 
 to him, there are slight traits — each almost 
 imperceptible, but making something in the 
 aggregate - — which v^dll betray what is going on 
 within ; sometimes to the eyes of another man, 
 and almost always to those of a woman. A 
 degree of bitterness will mingle with his gaiety ; 
 a sigh will sometimes tread upon the heels of a 
 
306 
 
 smile; and a deeper gravity will follow the 
 transient, superficial laugh, and distinguish the 
 true from the assumed. "Women, by a more 
 refined nature, by a necessity of concealing 
 their own feelings under various disguises, and 
 by the habit of judging others by slight indi- 
 cations, are rendered infinitely more capable of 
 penetrating the veil with which we are often 
 obliged to cover our deeper sentiments. Both 
 Marian de Vaux and Isadore Falkland were at 
 once in Colonel Manners's secret, and com- 
 prehended, without difficulty, how much was 
 jest and how much was earnest in his replies 
 to Lady Barbara. Both felt for him, too, and 
 both were sorry for him ; and as Marian, in 
 consequence of her generous interposition in his 
 favour, had already suffered somewhat too much 
 by her Ladyship's answers touching matrimony, 
 to dare the field again, Isadore entered upon 
 the campaign with greater power, and did her 
 best to effect a diversion. In this she was toler- 
 ably successful, though Colonel Manners did not 
 entirely escape; and the ladies retired sooner 
 than usual, in consequence of Mrs. Falkland's 
 desire to support her daughter. 
 
 De Vaux, anxious for the following morning, 
 in order that all his doubts might be brought to 
 
307 
 
 a conclusion, would willingly have followed the 
 ladies as soon as possible : but, alas ! those 
 were days of hard drinking ; and Mr. Simpson, 
 though by no means given to excess any more 
 than Manners or De Vaux, had his own peculiar 
 method of consoling himself for his lady*s tire- 
 someness during the day, by sitting long in the 
 evening, with the sparkling decanters and the 
 social biscuits, by which he was sure neither to 
 be annoyed nor contradicted. He drank his 
 wine slowly, and with real enjoyment, pausing 
 over every sip as a miser over every guinea, 
 playing with the stalk of his wineglass, saying 
 little smart things, if he had any one to hear 
 him, and if he had not, gazing in the fire and 
 diversifying pleasant thoughts by discovering 
 landscapes and faces therein. 
 
 De Vaux, without any want of charity, 
 wished every glass his last, and Colonel Manners 
 wished himself in the drawing-room : but the 
 leges conviviales of those days were far more 
 strict than in these degenerate times ; and as 
 the party was so small, both felt themselves 
 obliged to sit ceremoniously at table, till sud- 
 denly Mr. Simpson perceived that neither of 
 his companions had touched wine for half an 
 hour, and kindly took the hint. It was now 
 
308 
 
 near ten o'clock : Lady Barbara had far to go, 
 and was compassionate towards the four bright 
 bays that were ordered at that hour ; and thus 
 Colonel Manners was spared the execution of 
 all the manoeuvres he had planned to get out 
 of her way in the drawing-room. The carriage 
 was announced: De Vaux handed her down 
 stairs ; and a glad sound it was when the 
 wheels rolled away from the door. 
 
 There are many people whose disagreeable- 
 ness is of that peculiar kind that one can 
 compensate the annoyance it occasions at the 
 time, by laughing at it with one's friends when 
 it is over : but, unfortunately. Lady Barbara's 
 was of so extensive and tenacious a quality that 
 it outlasted her presence ; and Mrs. Falkland, 
 Isadore, and Marian, all found that they could 
 not talk of it in Colonel Manners's presence 
 without being as disagreeable as herself. As 
 Marian, too, had no inclination to converse 
 upon the risks of matrimony and large families, 
 she was cut off from mentioning her share in 
 the annoyance ; and after a quarter of an hour 
 spent in determining, in general terms, that 
 Lady Barbara Simpson was a very disagreeable 
 person, the family returned to its usual course. 
 Marian was a little anxious about Edward's 
 
309 
 
 proposed excursion of the next morning : De 
 Vaux himself was thoughtful in regard to the 
 conduct he was to pursue towards the gipsy ; 
 and, as if by mutual consent, the whole party 
 separated sooner than usual. 
 
 We have not, however, done with the events 
 of that night, and, consequently, we shall fol- 
 low De Vaux to his room, where he rang his 
 bell ; and on the appearance of his servant, suf- 
 fered him to give him his dressing-gown and 
 slippers. " You need not wait, William," he 
 said, when this operation was concluded ; " I 
 have something to write — give me that desk." 
 
 The man obeyed and retired, and De Vaux 
 proceeded to put down some notes in regard to 
 what he was to demand of the gipsy, and what 
 was to be the exact course he was to pursue, in 
 order — without admitting any fact till it was 
 proved, or committing himself in any way — to 
 arrive both at the most accurate knowledge of 
 his real situation, and the most incontestable 
 proofs of whatever was affirmed by the man 
 he went to visit. 
 
 When he had done this, he thought of going 
 to bed ; but his head ached a good deal, with 
 all the agitation he had gone through during 
 the day, crowned by the conversation of Lady 
 
310 
 
 Barbara Simpson during dinner, and the te- 
 dium of Mr. Simpson after it ; and approach- 
 ing one of the windows, he drew the curtain, 
 opened the shutters, and looked out. It was 
 still moonlight, as when he had handed her 
 Ladyship to her carriage ; and throwing up the 
 heavy sash, he leaned out, enjoying the cool 
 air. The moon was just at her highest noon, 
 and the sky was beautifully clear, except inas- 
 much as, every now and then, there floated across 
 a light white cloud, which the wind seemed play- 
 fully to cast round the planet, like a veil, as 
 she walked on in soft and modest splendour, 
 amongst the bright eyes of all the crowd of 
 stars. The river, gleaming like melted silver, 
 appeared at the extremity of the park, with the 
 line of its banks, broken here and there by 
 majestic elms ; and even beyond the grounds, 
 glimpses of its windings might be caught among 
 the distant fields and plantations. The little 
 wooded promontory that flanked the park, with 
 the higher hill, starting up from the isthmus 
 over which the road passed, rose grandly up, 
 like two towering steps towards the glittering 
 heavens ; and beyond, the sloping fields and 
 their hedgerow elms, with many an undulating 
 line, lay soft and obscure, in the sheeny moon- 
 
311 
 
 light, as far as a spot where, half way up the 
 higher hill in front, the extreme horizontal line 
 of the distant country cut upon the sky. Scarce 
 a sound was to he heard as De Vaux gazed forth, 
 but the whispering of the light breeze amongst 
 the tree tops, and the sweet plaintive belling of 
 the deer in the park below. 
 
 " If I had known that these people would 
 have gone so soon," he thought, *' I would have 
 made my visit to the gipsies' encampment to- 
 night instead of to-morrow. The gipsies sit 
 up, carousing by their fires, I believe, for full 
 one half of the night ; and I might have set my 
 mind at rest about this business without waiting 
 so long." 
 
 The thought of going even then now struck 
 him ; and he paused for a few minutes to con- 
 sider whether he ought to do so or not. " I 
 shall not sleep, even if I go to bed," he thought. 
 " With all these things weighing on my mind, 
 slumber is not very likely to visit me. A couple 
 of hours will be enough to obtain all the in- 
 formation that I want ; and returning home, I 
 may sleep in certainty to-night, and to-morrow 
 have to tell Marian that my apprehensions were 
 groundless, or that our lot, as far as station and 
 fortune go, must be lower than we at one time 
 
312 
 
 expected. I shall then have time, too, to sleep 
 over my information, and to lay out my plan of 
 action for to-morrow deliberately. I wonder 
 if any of the servants are up yet ? " 
 
 The fears that Marian had expressed for his 
 safety crossed his mind for a moment ; but they 
 crossed it merely as apprehensions, which might 
 have given her some pain, if she knew that he 
 was venturing to the gipsies' encampment at 
 midnight. No doubt of his own security ever 
 entered his thoughts ; for, although De Vaux's 
 imagination was a very active one, it was not 
 fertile in images of personal danger. In short, 
 he was constitutionally brave ; and, like his 
 father, did not know what corporeal fear is. 
 *^ I shall only have to tell Marian," he again 
 thought, " that I have been, and that all she 
 was alarmed about is over." 
 
 He gave one more look to the moonlight and 
 then closed his window. His boots were speed- 
 ily drawn on ; his dressing-gown exchanged for 
 a military coat ; his swor5. buckled to his side ; 
 and, in conformity with his promise to Marian, 
 a brace of loaded pistols placed in his bosom. 
 Thus equipped, he opened his door and descended 
 the staircase. All was quiet ; the lamp in the 
 haU was stiU glimmering, though somewhat 
 
313 
 
 faintly ; the servants were all evidently in bed ; 
 and turning the key in the glass door at the 
 end of the lobby, De Vaux opened it cautiously, 
 and stepped out upon the lawn. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
314 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 The moon was shining bright and clear upon 
 Morley Down, covering every rise on which its 
 beams fell with soft and silvery light, and cast- 
 ing every dell and opposite slope into dark 
 broad shadow. From that height a sHght 
 degree of mistiness appeared, hanging over 
 the scene in the valley: but above, all was 
 clear; and the satellite of the earth was so 
 bountiful of her reflected rays, that our fellow- 
 stars could scarcely be seen in the sky, twink- 
 ling faintly, half eclipsed by her excess of splen- 
 dour. The scattered bushes and stunted 
 hawthorns, and the tumulus, with its clump of 
 towering beeches, caught the rays, but, with the 
 peculiar effect of trees by moonlight, the latter 
 seemed more to absorb than to reflect the light, 
 while their long deep shadows, cast upon the 
 neighbouring ground, showed, at least, that they 
 served to intercept the beams. In many of the 
 little pits and hollows of the ground small 
 pools of water had been formed ; and so often 
 did these appear, glistening in the moonshine. 
 
315 
 
 in situations otherwise dark, that it seemed as 
 if the light sought out purposely the objects 
 best calculated to reflect it, and, like active be- 
 nevolence in search of humble merit, followed 
 them into the dim and lowly abodes where they 
 had made their dwelling. 
 
 From these pools, however, the sand-pit in 
 wliich the gipsies had pitched their tents was 
 free ; and the only water it contained was af- 
 forded by a small clear spring, which the labour- 
 ers had cut through in digging for the produce 
 of the pit, and which, welling from the bank, 
 fell into a clear small basin of yellow sand that 
 would, in all probability, have absorbed it speed- 
 ily, had it not foimd a sudden channel amongst 
 some smooth stones and gravel, and thence 
 wound away, forced into a thousand meanders by 
 the irregularity of the ground, till, issuing forth 
 upon the common, it pursued its course down 
 the hill, and, joined by several other brooks, 
 poured no inconsiderable addition into the river 
 in the valley below. It, too, caught the moon- 
 beams, and glanced brightly in them ; but that 
 was not the only light that shone upon it, as it 
 trickled down the bank, and rested in its little 
 basin below. A redder and less pure gleam 
 was reflected from its waters, for at about 
 p 2 
 
316 
 
 twenty yards from the source, close under shel- 
 ter of the high hank and overhanging bushes, 
 the gipsies had pitched their tents ; and now, 
 though the hour was nearly midnight, they were 
 just in the midst of those revels that often rise 
 up from many a moor and many a planting 
 throughout old England, while the rest of her 
 denizens are fast asleep. The evening was as 
 warm as if it had been far earlier in the year ; 
 and although the wind was high, it whistled 
 sheer over the pit, without visiting with its 
 rude search the corner thereof in which the 
 race of wanderers had nested their encampment. 
 The very sound, however, and the freshness of 
 the night air, rendered the idea of a fire any 
 thing but unpleasant ; and in three different 
 spots of the gipsy encampment the blaze rose 
 up, and the sticks crackled, while the pots now 
 withdrawn from the flame, the bottles of various 
 shapes that lay round, and the cups, some of 
 till, som.e of horn, some of silver*, that cir- 
 
 * It is a peculiar trait in the character of the gipsies, 
 remarked, I believe, in every country where they are to 
 be found, that each individual strives to possess himself 
 of something formed of one of the precious metals, deny- 
 ing himself even necessaries to procure it, and guarding it 
 with a degree of care which the race extend to few other 
 things. By some v/riters it is asserted that these cups, or 
 
317 
 
 culated somewhat rapidly, told that the last and 
 merriest meal of the day had commenced. 
 
 Three several groups had assembled round 
 the three fires, and each had its peculiar cha- 
 racter. At that which burned in the middle of 
 the scene appeared Pharold, leaning upon the 
 ground, with his elbow supported by a pro- 
 jection of the bank, with a middle-aged woman 
 on one side, and the beautiful girl we have 
 before mentioned on the other. Two or three 
 stout men, of from forty to fifty years, sur- 
 rounded him ; and though joining boldly and 
 freely in all that passed, it was evident that 
 they listened to him when he spoke with the 
 respect due to experience and command, and 
 Vidthout any of that suUenness which we have 
 noticed in some of the younger members of the 
 tribe who were with him in the forest. Some 
 more women completed that group ; and, though 
 merry enough, it was evident, by their de- 
 meanour, that there sat the elders of the tribe. 
 The next fire, at the door of a tent farther up 
 the pit, was surrounded by a different assem- 
 
 ornaments, or other articles formed of gold or silver, 
 descend from generation to generation, and are never 
 parted with except under circumstances of the greatest 
 necessity. 
 
 p 3 
 
318 
 
 blage, though it was in some degree mixed. 
 At the entrance of the little hut itself ap- 
 peared the beldame whom we have seen acting 
 as cook in the forest, and who on that occasion 
 had shown some inclination towards a resistance 
 of Pharold's authority. Round about her were 
 five or six sturdy young men, from five and 
 twenty to thirty, and five or six women ; two 
 of whom did not appear to be more than eigh- 
 teen or nineteen years of age, while the rest 
 were fine buxom brown dames of thirty -five or 
 six. The worthy lady of the hut, however, 
 seemed now to have lost her acerbity ; and in a 
 gay and jovial mood, with many a quip and 
 many a jest, kept all her younger auditors in a 
 roar ; though every now and then, with a curl of 
 the lip, and a winking eye, she glanced towards 
 the party at the other fire, as if their graver 
 conversation was the subject of her merry sar- 
 casm. 
 
 At the third fire appeared the younger part 
 of the tribe, the boys and girls of all ages, ex- 
 cept those, indeed, who rested sleeping in the 
 huts ; and this circle, — the loud laughter and 
 broad jokes of which were sometimes checker- 
 ed by the sounds of contention and affray, 
 occasioned by an old pack of cards, — was pre- 
 
319 
 
 sided by a strong handsome youth of about 
 nineteen or twenty, whose proper place would 
 have been, apparently, at the second fire. He 
 was here, however, placed much nearer to the 
 first group ; and this proximity gave him, every 
 now and then, an opportunity — in the intervals 
 of teasing his younger comrades — of looking over 
 his shoulder at the beautiful girl we have called 
 Lena, who, as we have said, was leaning beside 
 Pharold, and listening Nvith seeming attention 
 to his discourse. 
 
 The whole three fires had assembled round 
 them a much greater number of the gipsy race 
 than had been congregated in the wood where 
 we first saw them ; and, in truth, a very formi- 
 dable party was there gathered together, who 
 might have given not a little difficulty, and 
 offered — should their need have required it — 
 no insignificant resistance, either to game- 
 keepers, constables, or police officers. Fourteen 
 stout men, in their prime of strength, with nine 
 or ten boys capable of very efficient service, 
 were there met together, as well as a number 
 of women, whose arms were of no insignificant 
 weight, and whose tongues might have been 
 more formidable still. 
 
 As it may be necessary, for various reasons, 
 p 4 
 
to afford a sample of the sort of conversation 
 which was taking place amongst the gipsies on 
 that night, we shall begin, on many accounts, 
 with the second fire, round which it appeared 
 that a liquor, which smelt very like rum, had 
 been circulating vdth no retarded movements. 
 
 " Take it easy, take it easy, Dickon, my 
 chick," said the old dame, of whom we have 
 already spoken, addressing one of the sturdy 
 young vagabonds by whom she was surrounded : 
 " never let 's kick up a row among ourselves, do 
 you see. That 's the right way to bring the 
 beaks upon us. He 's a king of a fellow, too, 
 that Pharold, though he do sometimes look at 
 one, when he 's angry, as if the words were too 
 big for his throat — just as I 've seen a fat cock 
 turkey, when I 've been nimming him off the 
 perch, and got him tight round the neck with 
 both my hands to stop his gabbhng." The 
 simile seemed to tickle the fancy of her auditors, 
 who interrupted her by a roar, which soon, how- 
 ever, died away, and she proceeded. " He 's a 
 king of a fellow though, and it wouldn't do to 
 make a split — besides, he knows more than 
 common ; and the law 's again it, too : so take 
 it easy, Dickon, and I '11 put you up to a thing 
 or two." 
 
3^1 
 
 ** Aj, do, mother, there 's a good soul ! " re- 
 plied the young man. " Do you see, I don't 
 want to split with Pharold ; but damn me if I 
 go out shooting at rabbits, and hares, and little 
 devils like that, if I am to give my word that I 
 won't touch a deer if it comes across me." 
 
 " No, no, Dickie, never you meddle with 
 nobody's dear," said the old woman ; " though 
 Bill there, at the other fire," she added, 
 dropping her voice a little, and grinning signifi- 
 cantly, — *' though Bill there, at the other fire, 
 seems to have a great fancy for Pharold's own 
 dear." A low laugh, whose suppressed tone 
 argued that every one felt themselves on dan- 
 gerous ground, followed her jest, and she went 
 on. " But howsomdever, Dick, never you 
 meddle wdth nobody's deer, when you are bid 
 not — till the person that bade you is out of the 
 way — do you see? eh, Dicky, my boy ?" 
 
 " Ay, that's something like now. Mother 
 Gray," replied Dickon. " Do you see, to- 
 morrow, it seems, we must troop, half one way, 
 and half t' other ; and then, if I be not sent 
 to a distance, and can get some good fellows 
 to help me, I'll bet a bob that I bring home 
 two or three as fat bucks as ever laid their 
 p 5 
 
haunches on the King's table — and that 's a 
 better night's work than ever Pharold will do." 
 
 " Well, well, Dickon, you shall do it," replied 
 the old dame : '' you wait quiet till to-morrow, 
 and seem to think no more about it; and I 
 will get Lena to wheedle Pharold out of the 
 way — if some of his own strange jobs do not 
 take him without ; and you shall have free 
 scope and fair play for a night, my boy, any 
 how — so the keepers may count their deer the 
 next morning if they can." 
 
 " But suppose I am sent away," said the 
 young man ; " I would rather have gone to- 
 night by half." 
 
 " But you know you can't, Dickon," she re- 
 phed; " and it would only make a row to speak 
 about it. We only go ten miles, any of us ; 
 and I will take care of your ten miles, my chick. 
 So keep snug ; and, do you see, there's no use 
 of bringing up the deer to where we pitch. 
 The shiners are what we want ; and Harry 
 Saxon, who bags the pheasants and hares, and 
 who first gave me an inkling about the venison, 
 will take the beasts of us for so much a head, 
 and send them up to the Lord Mayor in London. 
 So to-morrow I will be off early, and get the 
 
323 
 
 job arranged proper, and have a cart and horse 
 ready, do you see, Dickon." 
 
 Dickon rubbed his hands with much glee ; and 
 as it would seem that some people are born to 
 deer-stealing, he felt that satisfaction which all 
 men must feel when a prospect opens before 
 them of their talents at length having a free 
 course. At that moment, however, two shots 
 were heard at no very great distance, but in 
 the direction of the little wooded promontory, 
 near Morley House, and the sound called forth 
 some symptoms of emotion in more than one of 
 the party. Pharold listened, drew in his eyes, 
 and knit his brows hard, while Dickon vowed 
 with an oath, " That fellow Hallet has gone 
 down into Mrs. Falkland's preserves, and will 
 blow us all with his cursed gun. He might 
 have waited an hour or two." 
 
 Pharold listened still, but made no comment ; 
 and those by whom he was surrounded seemed 
 to suspend their own observations on the sound 
 till his were spoken. In the mean time Dickon 
 and the good dame, whom he termed Mother 
 Gray, proceeded with the edifying arrangements 
 they had been making, and had nearly com- 
 pleted their plan for getting Pharold out of 
 the way, stealing two or three deer from some 
 p 6 
 
324 
 
 of the neighbouring grounds, and sending them 
 up to the capital to supply his Majesty's burgher 
 lieges in their necessity for fat venison. The 
 exact park which they were to plunder, and 
 some other of the minor considerations, were 
 undergoing discussion, in which the whole 
 party round the fire took a friendly and zealous 
 share, when one of Dickon's comrades, who 
 had been keeping an eye on Pharold's circle, 
 touched him on the shoulder, saying, " They 
 are going to divide the money." 
 
 " They will not have so much to divide as 
 we shall get to-morrow," said Dickon ; " I will 
 answer for that." 
 
 " I don't know, I don't know, my chick," 
 rejoined the worthy beldame ; " that Pharold 
 is a knowing hand, and always gets more than 
 any one else, work for it how they will. How he 
 gets it, I am sure I don't know, and I often think 
 he must coin his skin into guineas, for my part." 
 
 Now the complexion of the old dame herself, 
 and of every one round her, was as yellow as 
 any one could desire ; but that did not prevent 
 them all from enjoying the joke highly, simply, 
 perhaps, because Pharold's countenance might 
 be a little brighter in hue than their own. 
 Several of them, however, now rose and ap^ 
 
S25 
 
 proached the other fire, at which the proposed 
 division of gains was about to take place ; for 
 it seemed that the tribe in question had re- 
 tained many of the original habits of their 
 people which have been lost amongst other 
 hordes.* One after another, till the turn came 
 to Pharold, the several gipsies poured forth 
 their acquisitions into this general fund : silver 
 and copper were the principal metals that ap- 
 peared in the collection, though a few pieces of 
 gold, consisting in general of coins of the value 
 of seven shillings or half a guinea, sparkled be- 
 tween : the numbers who contributed, how- 
 ever, and the copious contributions of small 
 coin that some of them poured forth, gave the 
 whole sum an imposing amount ; but when 
 Pharold at length received the hat in which it 
 was collected, and drawing forth an old purse 
 added between thirty and forty golden pieces 
 to the store, a murmur of joy and satisfaction 
 ran through the assembled gipsies. 
 
 The partition next began ; but it was not, as 
 may be supposed, perfectly equal. It was per- 
 
 * This habit is said still to exist amongst many of the 
 gipsy tribes ; and some persons have not scrupled to as- 
 sert, though apparently without reason, that they carry 
 their ideas of the community of property to a somewhat 
 licentious extent. 
 
fectly just, however : each received according 
 to the burdens upon him. The married man 
 obtained a share double in amount that be- 
 stowed upon the single man : the mother of a 
 large family, even if her husband was no more, 
 claimed in proportion to the number of her 
 offspring, and each orphan — of which be it re- 
 marked, by one cause or another, there were 
 several — was treated as a single man. The 
 partition was made by Pharold himself with 
 rigorous equity ; and though almost all the 
 gipsies had gathered round, and observed his 
 proceedings with gleaming black eyes and eager 
 faces, none offered a word either of remon- 
 strance or of information, for all were not only 
 convinced of his justice, but every one would 
 have felt shame to grumble at the award of 
 one, who, contributing more than the whole to- 
 gether, only claimed the share of an individual. 
 When he had done, and the whole was dis- 
 tributed, Pharold addressed a few words to his 
 companions, such as the division which liad 
 just taken place suggested. He told them that 
 in this custom, as in all the others which they 
 themselves observed, they followed exactly the 
 manners of their fathers ; and he praised, not 
 without eloquence, the sort of patriarchal state 
 
327 
 
 in which they lived. He lamented grievously, 
 however, that many of their nation were aban- 
 doning their ancient habits ; that some had 
 even established themselves in fixed dwelling- 
 places, had submitted themselves to the laws, 
 and had adopted the manners, of the people 
 amongst whom they dwelt. He besought those 
 who surrounded him to live as all their race 
 had lived, and promised that thus they would 
 continue to be as prosperous as the division of 
 that night showed them to be at present. 
 
 ** A curse upon our children," cried one 
 middle-aged woman, *' if they quit the ways of 
 their fathers, and go to live among the puny, 
 white-faced things of the lands : — a curse upon 
 them all : may their Kne of life be crooked and 
 broken off in the middle, full of crosses, and 
 ending in Gehennel ! " 
 
 A murmur of approbation followed this de- 
 nunciation ; and the rest of the gipsies retiring 
 to their several fires their carousings were 
 renewed, while Pharold related to those who 
 more particularly surrounded him a variety of 
 melancholy facts relative to the degeneracy of 
 various gipsy tribes, who had fallen into the 
 iniquity of fixed dwelling-places, and many 
 other abominations. He spoke of much that 
 
S2S 
 
 he had seen in his own wanderings, and much 
 that he had heard from others ; and his story 
 became so interesting that a good many of the 
 younger of the race crept round to listen. 
 This, however, did not seem to suit his purpose ; 
 for he speedily broke off his discourse ; and, 
 looking round him, exclaimed in a voice loud 
 enough to be heard at each of the neighbouring 
 fires, '^ Come, my men, we are sad to-night, 
 and that must not be. Will," he added, 
 speaking to the young man who, as we have 
 said, presided over the younger circle, — " Will, 
 you are a songster, let us hear your voice." 
 
 William obeyed without hesitation; and 
 while he went on with his song, the old dame 
 at the other fire continued conversing eagerly 
 with her favourite Dickon, in tones wliich were 
 low in themselves, and which were the better 
 cut off from other ears by the rich, fine voice 
 of the singer. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, when the moon has gone down, 
 Ere the sun has got up, over country and town, 
 'Tis the tune for the lover to steal to his dear, 
 In the heart-beating May of the incoming year. 
 
 Chorm. — In the grey of the dawn, &c. 
 
329 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, when the fox is asleep. 
 And the foxes of cities in slumber are deep, 
 'T is the time for the wise from his tent to walk out. 
 And to see what the rest of the world is about. 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, &c. 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, ere the milkmaid trips by. 
 To bring home the milk from the bright-coated kye, 
 Some earlier hand may have taken the pain. 
 To render her milking all labour in vain. 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, &c. 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, if you '11 meet me down by. 
 My own pretty maid with the dark gleaming eye. 
 We '11 wander away far o'er mountain and plain. 
 And leave the old fools to look for us in vain. 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, &c. 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, if you '11 not come to me, 
 My own pretty maid, by the green hawthorn tree. 
 You may stumble by chance o'er the corpse of your love, 
 As you trip with some other along the dim grove. 
 
 In the grey of the dawn, &c. 
 
 " You have changed the song, Will," said 
 Pharold, as the other ended; ** you have added 
 and taken away." 
 
 The young man reddened, but merely re- 
 plied that he had forgot some verses, and been 
 obliged to put new ones ; and Pharold, taking 
 no further notice, continued his conversation 
 with his companions. In the mean time, the 
 consultation between the old lady and Dickon 
 
830 
 
 had gone on throughout the song, and was still 
 continued. 
 
 " Well, well, Dickon, my boy," rejoined the 
 old lady to something that her companion had 
 said under cover of the singing, " keep a good 
 tongue in your head for a while, and we '11 see 
 what we can make of it. It is a shame, indeed, 
 that he should have his own way of getting so 
 much stuff, no one knows how — from the Spirit , I 
 think — and prevent you from following your 
 way of getting some too, specially when it 's all 
 to go with the rest. And he's proud of his 
 way of getting money, too. Did you see with 
 what an air he poured the shiners in ? " 
 
 *« That I did, that I did," replied the other ; 
 " curse him! I'd get as many as he, if he'd letme." 
 
 *' Ay, but you see the thing is, Dick," she 
 answered, " he gets it, no one knows how, 
 without ever saying a word about it to any one. 
 Now, you foUow the same plan, my chick ; and 
 if he asks you, you can then tell him to mind 
 his own business. But, hush, he 's looking at 
 us. Bid Bill give us another stave." 
 
 " Bill," cried Dickon, " give us .another 
 touch of it, there 's a good 'un. Sing us Old 
 t)obbin, and then come here and take a swig of 
 the bingo with me and Mother Gray." 
 
331 
 
 Bill was not at all reluctant; and without 
 the slightest appearance of bashful hesitation 
 again began to pour forth his fine voice in song. 
 The air, however, was of a very different kind, 
 as far as expression went, from that which he 
 had formerly chosen, which had been somewhat 
 more sentimental and solenm than the words in 
 general required, or than might have been ex- 
 pected from the personage by whom it was 
 sung. In the present case, his tones were all 
 lively, and the song seemed well known to all 
 his companions. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. 
 
 Lift your head, Robin ! 
 
 Lift it and see, 
 Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, 
 
 Under the tree. 
 Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, 
 His old noddle bobbing. 
 As if there were strangers upon the green lea? 
 
 2. 
 
 Lie quiet, lie quiet. 
 
 Though danger be near. 
 If we make not a riot 
 
 There 's nothing to fear. 
 If you will but try it. 
 And only lie quiet. 
 There is no harm will happen my own little dear. 
 
33^ 
 
 3. 
 
 I have heard of the fairy 
 
 That walks in the night, 
 With a figure so airy 
 
 And fingers so light. 
 That though watch dogs hairy, 
 May sleep in the airy, 
 She will empt}' your hen coops before morning light. 
 
 4. 
 
 I have heard of the witches 
 
 That ride in the dark, 
 And despite hedge and ditches 
 
 Get into the park ; 
 Nim hares from their niches. 
 Without any hitches. 
 And think man-traps and spring-guns a toothless dog's bark. 
 
 Then lift your head, Robin, 
 
 Lift it to find 
 Why the bells of old Dobbm 
 
 Sound on the night wind ; 
 Then lift your head, Robin, 
 For my heart is throbbing. 
 About witches and fairies and things of the kind. 
 
 6. 
 
 Lie still, *tis no fairy 
 
 That trips the green sod ; 
 To hen coop or dairy 
 
 No witch takes her road. 
 No, no ! 't is no fairy. 
 Nor any thing airy ; 
 Lie still and be silent, the beaks are abroad ! 
 
sss 
 
 This very edifying composition seemed to 
 give infinitely greater satisfaction to the gene- 
 rality of the gipsies than the former song had 
 done ; and especially in those places where the 
 singer contrived to modulate his voice, so as to 
 change the tone from the male to the female, 
 or from the female to the male, as the w^ords 
 required, the approbation of his hearers v^^as 
 loud and vehement. Pharold alone appeared 
 somewhat gloomy upon the occasion ; and were 
 one to look into his breast, which we do not 
 intend to do very deeply on this occasion, one 
 might see a strange and bitter contest between 
 early feelings, habits, and inclinations, and re- 
 finements and tastes acquired from the most 
 opposite sources — a state of things so discordant 
 in all their elements, that nothing but an ori- 
 ginally wild and eccentric nature could have 
 endured its existence in the same bosom. 
 Some one has said, ** Malheureux celui qui 
 est en avant de son siecle ;'' and it certainly 
 might be said, in every class of society, " Mal- 
 heureux celui qui est au-dessus de son etat^ 
 Pharold then became gloomy, and felt disgusted 
 at things which amused and interested his com- 
 panions ; nor, perhaps, was his gloom decreased 
 by seeing that the beautiful young companion 
 
334 
 
 who leaned beside him was as much pleased 
 and amused as the rest. 
 
 ** I thought that I had taught you to despise 
 such things, Lena," he said in a low tone, and 
 with somewhat of a frowning brow. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she replied, colouring brightly ; 
 " and so I do, when I think — but yet " 
 
 She was interrupted by the man named 
 Dickon, who gave a low whistle, and exclaimed 
 at the same time, repeating a part of his com- 
 panion's song, — 
 
 Lift your head, Robin, 
 
 Lift it and see, 
 Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, 
 
 Under the tree ! 
 
 And almost at the same moment, one of the 
 horses, of which the gipsies had several feeding 
 upon the common just above, repeated a low 
 neigh which had been heard, in the first in- 
 stance, by Dickon, as he was called, alone. All 
 was instantly silent; and then the jumping 
 sort of noise which a horse with a clog upon 
 his feet makes, when endeavouring to go fast, 
 was heard from the common; and Pharold's 
 practised ear could also distinguish, proceeding 
 from the gravel of the road, the sound of a 
 
335 
 
 man's footstep, the near approach of which ha^ 
 probably frightened the horse. 
 
 " Jump up, Will," he cried quickly, ad- 
 dressing the singer ; " jump up, and see who it 
 is. Stop him up there ! If he want me, whistle 
 twice ; if you want help, whistle once I" 
 
 The young man was up the bank in a mo- 
 ment; but the length of time that elapsed 
 before they heard any ferther sound made 
 them at first fancy that they had been mis- 
 taken in thinking that any one approached, and 
 then showed them that in the clear silence of 
 the night the sounds had made themselves 
 heard farther than they had at first imagined. 
 All kept a profound silence ; but, after the 
 lapse of about a minute, the murmur of distant 
 voices was distinguished, and then came a low 
 long whistle. Every one started on his feet, 
 but the next moment a second whistle was 
 heard, and Pharold said calmly, " It is for me ! 
 I may be absent, perhaps, for an hour or so ; 
 but as the young man has come to-night instead 
 of to-morrow, we will set off all the earlier in 
 the morning."' 
 
 He spoke to one of the elder men near him ; 
 but in a tone of voice loud enough to be heard 
 by those around. Dickon and Mother Gray gave 
 
3S6 
 
 each other a look ; and when Pharold slowly 
 took his way up the bank she stuck her tongue 
 into her toothless cheek with very Httle of that 
 reverence in her looks which she sometimes 
 professed for the leader of the tribe. 
 
 Soon after he was gone the young man called 
 Will returned ; and was questioned by several 
 of the gipsies regarding the stranger who had 
 intruded upon them at so late an hour. All 
 that he could or would reply was, that he was 
 a young fellow \sdth a sword by his side, and 
 that he had walked away wdth Pharold ; with 
 which tidings they were forced to content them- 
 selves, and their revels went on and concluded 
 much as they had begun. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 London -. 
 Printed by A. Spoitiswuooe, 
 NewIStreet- Square. 
 
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