"Oh, quite sure, sir," she replied; "for I washed and whitened the steps with my own two hands, and cold work it was; and I must have seen steps if there had been any."

After this answer she was dismissed, courtesying low, and not ungracefully.

"I dare say he will soon come back," said Colonel Manners, when the woman was gone; "and, at all events, if he be with the person who gave me the letter, he is in no danger, I am sure."

Both Mrs. Falkland and her daughter perceived that Manners, at least, if not Marian, spoke with a slight touch of mystery concerning the letter and its sender, but, of course, they asked no questions; and Colonel Manners's a.s.surance that his friend was in no danger served in some degree to tranquilize Marian. The breakfast, as may be supposed, pa.s.sed over dully enough, for every one was more anxious than they chose to show, and their anxiety was, of course, increased by every minute as it flew. Each pa.s.sing step that made itself heard in the breakfast-room, the sound of every opening door, caused Marian's heart to beat, and Isadore to look round, but still the person for whose return they were so anxious did not appear; and however slowly the minutes flew, so many of them pa.s.sed away at length as to justify serious alarm.

The time had now lingered on till eleven had struck by the clock in the hall, and some very painful remembrances of all that had taken place at the death of her beloved brother were recalled to the mind of Mrs. Falkland by the unaccountable absence of her nephew. Isadore, with all her natural cheerfulness, was anxious and silent; but it was scarcely possible to express all the painful emotions that thrilled in the bosom of Marian de Vaux. Manners, for his part--though his feelings as a man were, of course, essentially different from those of the persons by whom he was now surrounded--was far more alarmed about his friend's absence than he liked to admit, and somewhat undecided in regard to what he should do himself, under existing circ.u.mstances. He wished much to go and seek his friend; but he did not like to do so till the length of time was sufficient to warrant the conclusion that some accident must have befallen him; and at the same time he reflected, that during his absence some news might arrive which would render his presence and a.s.sistance necessary at Morley House. At length, however, he could master his impatience no longer; and, ringing the bell, he said, with as much appearance of unconcern as he could command, "I think, my dear madam, that it may be as well for me to go and see if I can hear any thing of De Vaux, in the direction which his fair cousin imagines that he has taken. I do not, indeed, think that there is any cause for alarm; but it may quiet your mind."

"Oh yes, yes! pray do, Colonel Manners," cried Marian, starting up, and clasping her hands. "I beg your pardon for asking you such a thing; but, indeed, it will be a very great consolation."

"If it afford you the slightest comfort, my dear young lady," replied Colonel Manners, "it will be the greatest pleasure to me. Will you send my servant?" he added as the butler appeared. The servant came promptly: for the anxiety of the parlour soon finds its way, in a greater or less degree, to the servant's hall; and all the domestics at Morley House were as much on the alert as the garrison of a newly invested fort.

"Put my saddle on the gray directly," said Colonel Manners; "saddle Amherst for yourself, and bid Captain De Vaux's servant get a horse ready to come with me." The man retired. "I will just put myself in riding costume, and be down directly," Manners added; and leaving the ladies still gazing in melancholy guise from the windows of the breakfast-room, he retired to his own apartment.

Long before the horses could be ready, however, he had rejoined them, and was in the act of saying, "Now, I think, Mrs. Falkland, with three old soldiers upon the search, we must soon be able to bring you tidings of your nephew; and, I trust, perfectly satisfactory tidings too," when the butler again made his appearance. The terror expressed upon his countenance, and his first exclamation of, "Oh, ma'am!"

instantly sent every drop of blood from Marian's cheek back to her heart. Colonel Manners would fain have stopped a communication which was evidently alarming, and which might not only be a confirmation of their worst fears, but be told in the most abrupt and most painful manner; but it was too late, and the old man went on, "Oh, madam, here is John Harwood, who has the cottage on t'other side of the point, come up to say, that last night, about one o'clock, he heard shots fired in the wood, and he's afraid there's been bad business there."

Marian dropped down where she stood, as if she had been struck with lightning, and for the time all attention was called towards her.

Colonel Manners aided to carry the fair unhappy girl to her room; and then leaving her to the care of her female relations, he returned to question both the butler and the peasant, whose intelligence had so much increased their alarm. On inquiry, however, he found that old Gibson's taste for the sublime and horrible had given greater effect to John Harwood's tale than it deserved.

The man had simply heard shots fired, and his own natural conclusion had been, that poachers were busy in the wood, of which, as a dependent on Mrs. Falkland's family, he found himself bound to give information. Colonel Manners, however, sent another servant to the stables to hurry the horses, and then returning to the breakfast-room, wrote down a few words in pencil to inform Mrs. Falkland that the story had been exaggerated; but he was almost instantly joined by Isadore, who a.s.sured him that her cousin was better.

Moments of grief, anxiety, and danger are wonderfully powerful in breaking down all the cold and icy barriers which society places between us and those we like; and Isadore Falkland came forward, and laid her fair hand as familiarly upon Colonel Manners's arm as if she had known him from her infancy. There was an earnestness in her fine eyes, too, and an appealing softness in her whole look, that was very irresistible. "Colonel Manners," she said, "this state of apprehension and uncertainty is very dreadful, especially to us poor women, who, having but little knowledge of the world and its ways, have little means of judging whether our fears be reasonable or not. I can see that you have put a restraint upon yourself before Marian; but I beseech you to tell me, at least, if you have any friendship for a person you have known so short a time, what is your real opinion! Do you think there is any serious cause for apprehension?"

"You and your family, Miss Falkland," replied Manners, "have taught me how soon one can feel the deepest interest and friendship for those who deserve it; but in regard to De Vaux, I really see no cause for apprehension."

"Nay, nay, Colonel Manners," said Isadore, "I shall not think you have much regard for me if you try to sooth me by false hopes respecting my cousin. There is an anxiety in your look, which could not be there if there were no cause for alarm."

"Indeed, Miss Falkland," he replied, with a smile which was not of the gayest character in the world--"indeed, I have the deepest regard for you, and would not deceive you for a moment. De Vaux's absence is strange, undoubtedly. His never having gone to bed is strange. But in regard to these shots which have been heard--as the man himself believed till your old butler infected him with his own miraculous mood--they have been undoubtedly fired by poachers; and I see not the slightest reason for believing that they are in any way connected with your cousin's absence."

There had been a degree of earnestness in Manners's profession of regard that had called a slight glow into Isadore's cheek, and made her heart beat a little quicker, though Heaven knows he had not the slightest thought of making her heart beat with any but its ordinary pulse, and Isadore herself never suspected that he had. It was only one of those slight pa.s.sing emotions which sometimes move the heart without our well knowing why, like the light ripple that will occasionally dimple the surface of a still, sheltered water from some breath of air too soft and gentle to be felt by those who watch it from the banks. Whatever caused the glow, it was all gone in an instant; and she answered, "Perhaps what makes us all the more uneasy is, that none of us can forget that my uncle, Marian's father, was murdered many years ago in this neighbourhood; and the first news of his death came upon mamma by surprise, in the same way that this has done upon poor Marian."

"I trust in Heaven, and believe most firmly, Miss Falkland, that you will find no further resemblance between the fate of your cousin and that of his uncle," replied Colonel Manners: "but, at all events, I will lose no time and spare no exertion in endeavouring to satisfy you as to his fate; and, if it should cost me my life, I will discover him before I give up the search."

"Nay, nay, you must take care of your life," said Isadore; "it must doubtless be valuable to many, and therefore must not be risked unadvisedly."

"It is valuable to none that I know of, Miss Falkland," said Manners, with a melancholy smile, "and to myself least of all; but, nevertheless, I never trifle with it, looking upon it but as a loan from that great Being who will demand it again when he himself thinks fit. But I antic.i.p.ate no danger from my visit to the gipsies."

"Are you going, then, to the gipsies in search of Edward?" exclaimed Miss Falkland, in evident astonishment. "Good Heaven, I had no idea of that!"

"It was from one of them that I received the letter to which Miss de Vaux referred," replied Colonel Manners; "and I may add," he continued, "to you, Miss Falkland, that the impression that letter made upon your cousin was such as to induce me to believe that if news is to be heard of him anywhere, it will be from them that I shall obtain it."

"This is all very strange, indeed!" cried Isadore. "But tell me, Colonel Manners, do you know the contents of the letter?"

"Not in the least," he replied; "but certain it is, that whatever they were, they affected your cousin sensibly. I had it from a gipsy-man, certainly of a very superior stamp to the rest, although I found him consorting with a gang of as ruffianly fellows as ever I beheld."

"Oh, then, for Heaven's sake, take more men with you!" cried Isadore, eagerly: "you may get murdered, too, and then--"

"Nay, nay, I have no fear," answered Manners, "and there, you see, are the horses. Three strong men on horseback might surely contend with a whole legion of gipsies."

"Must I plead in vain, Colonel Manners?" said Isadore, really apprehensive for his safety, and desirous of persuading him, but blushing at the same time from feeling conscious that she was more apprehensive for him than she had often before felt for any one. "Must I plead in vain? or must I ask you for my sake, if you will not for Heaven's sake? But consider what we should do if we were to lose your aid and a.s.sistance at such a moment. Take two or three of our servants with you also."

"For your sake, Miss Falkland, I would do much more difficult things,"

replied Manners, earnestly; "but listen to my reasons. It would delay me long to wait till fresh horses are saddled, and longer to take men on foot with me. In many cases speed is everything: I have lost more time than I can well excuse already; and I can a.s.sure you, that with the two strong and trustworthy fellows who accompany me, there is nothing on earth to fear. Adieu! I doubt not soon, very soon, to bring you not only news, but good news."

Thus saying, he left the room, and sprang upon horseback, while Isadore returned to the apartment of her cousin, who was now in bed by the orders of the village apothecary, and in the act of taking such medicines as he judged most likely to calm and sooth the mind by their sedative effect upon the body. Here Isadore communicated in a low voice to her mother all that she had gathered from Colonel Manners; and placing herself at the window of her fair cousin's room, watched the dark edge of the hill where it cut upon the sky, till at length she saw the figures of three horses straining with their riders up the steep ascent. The next moment they came upon the level ground at the top, changed their pace into a quick gallop, were seen for a minute or two flying along against the clear blue behind, and then, pa.s.sing on, were lost entirely to her sight.

CHAPTER XIV.

We must now beg leave to retrograde a little in regard to time: and, in order to bring every character in our story to the same point, must turn for a while to a personage of whom we have heard nothing since the day after Edward de Vaux's arrival at Morley House.

The beautiful world in which we live, the mult.i.tude of blessings by which we are surrounded, and that beneficent ordination by which the human mind in its natural state is rendered capable of resting satisfied with whatever portion is allotted to it, would make the earth that we inhabit an Eden indeed, if Satan had not supplied us with easy steps to lead us to misery. Our pa.s.sions form the first round of the ladder; then come our follies close above them; then follow next our vices; these, with brief intervals, are succeeded by crimes; and all beyond is wretchedness. Every crime, too, is prolific in miseries--its legitimate children--who not only return to prey upon their proper parent, but ravage far and wide the hearts of thousands of others. Not only is it on the grand scale when the glory-seeking felon calls the dogs of war to tear the prostrate carca.s.s of some peaceful country, and, by his individual fault, render millions wretched; but each petty individual crime, like the one small seed from which mighty forests spring, is but the germ of gigantic and incalculable consequences; and no one knows to what remote and unforeseen events each trifling action may ultimately lead: no one can tell to whose bosom the error he commits may not bring despair, or how many hearts may be laid desolate by the sin or the folly of the moment.

The father of Edward de Vaux--for to him we must now turn--had gone on in the usual road by which small errors grow into great crimes. He had committed follies, and yielded to pa.s.sions. Pa.s.sions had hardened into vices, and vices had ultimately hurried him beyond what he would at first have dreamed possible for a reasonable creature to perpetrate.

In the story we have heard told by the gipsy, the part that he had acted was in no degree overdrawn by the narrator, though there were some secrets in Lord Dewry's breast alone, which neither, indeed, justified nor even palliated his crime--for such deeds admit not of palliation,--but which showed, at least, that the crowning act itself was not accompanied by many of the circ.u.mstances which seemed to aggravate it. Overwhelmed by a debt that he could not pay, disappointed of relief from a source that had never before failed, Mr.

De Vaux had set out from London to meet his brother in a state of mind which approached insanity, and was, in fact, despair. Hardened by many years of vice, he had retained very few of those Christian principles which had not been wanting in his early education; and there remained, certainly, not sufficient virtue of any kind to make him view an escape from disgrace, by an act of suicide, as any thing unmanly or infamous in itself. He had determined, then, either to obtain from his brother the full sum he demanded, by whatever means might suggest themselves at the moment--threats, supplications, or remonstrances--or to terminate his own existence on the spot,--princ.i.p.ally with a view to avoid the shame he antic.i.p.ated in London if he could not discharge his obligations, but partly, also, with a savage desire of inflicting bitter regrets upon his brother for the obduracy of his refusal.

As the most retired spot for executing this purpose, he had chosen the point where we have seen that he had waited his brother's coming; and there a busy devil, that had been stirring at his heart all the way down, renewed its suggestions with tenfold importunity. He saw before him some of the rich lands of Lord Dewry; he saw them smiling with the promise of abundance; all seemed happy in the world but his own heart; all seemed prosperous but himself. His brother, notwithstanding his late loss, appeared in his eyes peculiarly blessed; and again and again the fiend within asked him what right by nature had his brother, because he was the elder, to the sole possession of all those advantages which, the same evil spirit lyingly told him, would have kept him from vice and misery, had they been equally divided between them? His brother arrived while he was in this mood. The first means he employed to obtain what he wanted were entreaty and persuasion; and when these failed, he had recourse to threats and violence. Lord Dewry retorted with reproach and reprehension; and his brother, in a moment of frantic pa.s.sion, brought the curse of Cain upon his own head.

The agony of remorse was the first thing that succeeded; but self-preservation and the enjoyment of that which he had so dearly purchased, became the next considerations, and he bent all the energies of a keen and daring mind to that purpose. He mastered his own feelings, both bodily and mental; and, after returning to London with a degree of speed and perseverance that killed the horse which bore him, he overcame both personal fatigue and anguish of heart, and showed himself on the evening of his return at two private parties and one public place; and, what is more, he showed himself with a smiling countenance and an unembarra.s.sed air. But when it was all over--the examination of the facts, the taking possession of the property, and the removal of those who could betray him--the excitement which had been caused by danger pa.s.sed away; that bubble, the hope of happiness without virtue, burst under his rude touch, and left his heart to remorse for ever.

Knowing that he must often see his brother's child, though at first the sight was full of agony, he forced himself, by a great effort, to endure it, till he had overcome the pain by habit; and at the same time the lingering remains of some better feelings in his heart made him look upon every generous or kindly thing that he could do towards her as an act of atonement for the crime he had committed.

Such were some of the motives, or, rather, such were some of the facts, which had influenced Lord Dewry in all his actions for the last twenty years. For a time, indeed, he had affected gayety which he did not feel, and mingled in society which had lost all charm for him; but the revellings of the never-dying worm upon his heart's inmost core would make themselves felt, and gradually he drew back from the world, gave himself up to solitude and stately reclusion, forgot what it was to smile, and only mingled with his fellow-men to pour forth upon them the gall and bitterness that welled from an everlasting source in his own bosom.

Remorse, however, was not the only fiend that preyed upon his heart: fear, too, had its share. We have said, and said truly, that he was corporeally as brave a man as ever lived: he knew not what bodily fear is; but that is a very, very different affection of the complicated being, man, from the mental terrors, the daily doubts, the hourly apprehensions, that crowded upon him in solitude and retirement.

Corporal pain, the simple act of dying, he feared not, and there yet lingered in his mind some faint traces of his early faith, suggesting vague ideas of atonement made for man's crimes, which led him to believe that the anguish which he suffered below might be received in place of repentance, and procure him pardon hereafter; so that, on ordinary occasions, he felt no tangible dread even of the awful separation of soul and body. But this was not all: the torturing uncertainty of his fate was a bitter portion of his curse. He knew that there were two men in the world who could, at any time, doom him to disgrace and death; or at least, if, by the precautions he had taken, their success in any attempt of the kind had been rendered doubtful, yet their knowledge of the dreadful secret of his state rendered all that he possessed--honour, fortune, rank, even existence itself--precarious; and he felt, as he looked around him, that he was living in a gilded dream, which the next moment might vanish, and leave him to misery and despair.

At first, when, perhaps, it might have been in his power to implicate the gipsy as the murderer of his brother, and, by pursuing him as such, to have crushed one strong source of evidence against himself, two powerful causes had operated to deter him from such a course. He knew that Sir William Ryder, though implicated by accidental circ.u.mstances in his crime, was of too generous a nature to connive at any further evil to which the desire of concealing it might lead him.

But it would be doing him injustice not to say that he himself had shrunk from the very thought. His heart was not hardened enough for that: he felt that there was too much blood upon his hand already; and although the idea did cross his mind, yet at that time remorse was stronger than fear, and even had Sir William Ryder not existed, he would have chosen rather to bear apprehension than a greater load of regret.

Time, however, had now altered such feelings; he was accustomed to remorse, but no time can harden the heart to fear; and the first imagination which crossed his mind, when, at the end of twenty years, he again saw the gipsy, was to destroy him. The reader may recollect a conversation in the beginning of this work, wherein Pharold detailed the particulars of an interview he had had with the peer; and it may easily be conceived, that from that interview Lord Dewry perceived at once that the moment was come when he must try his strength with those who had the power to injure him, and silence them for ever, or yield for ever to his fate; and with a strong determination, but a mind fearfully agitated, he instantly resolved to crush those he feared, if human ingenuity, backed by wealth, and power, and a daring disposition, could accomplish such an object.

Such had been the state of his mind when he so unexpectedly visited the house of Mrs. Falkland, and found new cause for apprehension in the conversation of Colonel Manners. But his coming thither had not for its sole object to meet and welcome his newly-returned son. He had learned, by instant and close inquiry after the gipsy had left him, that parties of his race had been seen lying in the neighbourhood of Morley Wood, with the view, it was supposed, of poaching on the open and ill-protected grounds in that district; and suspecting, from his conversation with Pharold, that on the refusal he had given, Sir William Ryder himself might return to England, he hastened over to his sister's house, which lay within a few miles of his property of Dimden, in order, if possible, to pursue means of destroying the actual witness of his crime, before the arrival of the only other person who even suspected it.

Let it not be supposed--although there were in reality no means at which Lord Dewry would now have hesitated to effect his purpose--that he deliberately, and boldly, and undisguisedly proposed to his own heart to bring about the gipsy's death. No, no: the great power of evil is too well aware how horrible his naked suggestions are, not to furnish them with a veil, flimsy enough, it is true, but still sufficient to cover some part of their deformity. No! Lord Dewry only proposed--at least, he cheated himself into thinking so--to detect the gipsy or his comrades in some unlawful exploit, which might give an excuse for removing them for ever from the country, and at the same time might render any evidence they might tender against himself, not only suspicious, but almost inadmissible.

The severe laws in regard to poaching, and the loose and lawless habits of the gipsies themselves, he doubted not would furnish the means; and his great object was to discover an offence of such magnitude, and to obtain proofs so clear, that great severity would be warranted and the justice of the accusation undeniable. It might cross his mind that, in the pursuit of these views, a gipsy or a keeper might be killed, that the charge of murder might be added to that of poaching, and that a felony might rid him of the enemy of his repose for ever. Such a thing might cross his mind, and be viewed with no great dissatisfaction; but, at the same time, he denied to himself that such was his object. "No: G.o.d forbid! But, if it did happen, he should of course take advantage of it to silence for ever the voice of one who had been witness to the _unfortunate accident_ by which, in a moment of hasty pa.s.sion, his brother had been deprived of life, and who seemed disposed to abuse the knowledge he unhappily possessed."

Such had been the thoughts of Lord Dewry as he travelled over to Mrs.

Falkland's house on the night of his son's arrival, and such were the thoughts that again took possession of him as soon as the pa.s.sion in which he had left her subsided on the following morning.

"With Sir William Ryder," he thought, as the carriage rolled rapidly on towards Dimden--"with Sir William Ryder I shall easily be able to deal single-handed, if once I can remove his confederate. He used to be a simple, frank-hearted, foolish fellow; but I must, by some means, keep him from any further meeting with Edward. I have already remarked that the boy sees there is some mystery; and a bare hint would awaken suspicions that I would rather die than he should even dream of. But this man--this Pharold--must be my first care; and my next must be to procure such proofs of my having been in London at the time of my brother's death that suspicion itself shall be silenced, if either of the villains dare to open his lips."