The peer was somewhat startled by the eagerness of his tone; for it is impossible for men to confederate in villany without being more or less suspicious of each other. "Cannot I find them for you. Sir Roger?" he demanded. "If you will intrust me with the key of your valise, I will bring them over with me to-morrow."

A grim smile checkered the expression of pain on the countenance of the wounded man, and he replied, "Your lordship is very good; but as I shall require a number of things contained in my valise, I think it would be better if your lordship were to have the goodness to order some of your servants to send me over every thing which I left in the apartment a.s.signed me at Dewry Hall."

"Certainly, certainly," answered the peer, who saw that he must press the matter no farther--"certainly, it shall be done this very night.

But do you not think, Sir Roger," he continued, with renewed apprehension lest the unhappy man, if left unwatched by his own eye, should discover his real situation, and be persuaded to make inconvenient confessions--"do you not think, Sir Roger, that you yourself might bear removal to the hall? I do not like your remaining in this damp old house, which has not been inhabited for many years, and in which there is but little that can render you comfortable, during your convalescence. If you could bear the motion--"

"Impossible, my lord," replied Sir Roger sharply; "I wonder you do not see that I can bear no motion at all. This place will do very well: I have lain in worse quarters; and if you will order my valise to be sent, it is all I want. To tell the truth," he added, "I am somewhat tired, and am afraid that to speak much more would injure me."

"Then far be it from me," replied the peer, "to prolong our conversation, Sir Roger. I shall take care that everything that circ.u.mstances admit be done for your accommodation, and that you be not again teased by our fanatical rector, as you were this morning."

There was a degree of anger in his tone which, had it not been repressed by many a potent consideration, might have flashed forth in a very different manner; but it was still sufficiently perceptible to make the wounded man add some deprecatory sentences, which the peer received in good part, and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Sir Roger Millington placed his hand over his eyes, and gave way to thoughts of a very mixed, but all of a melancholy character.

"His compa.s.sion and his regard," he thought, his mind turning to the crafty man who had just left him--"his compa.s.sion and his regard are all false and affected, that is clear enough. To think of his wishing to move me fourteen or fifteen miles in this terrible state! I should like to know what his object is. He has some deep object, beyond doubt. Can he be afraid of my betraying him? Perhaps he may. His schemes are villanous ones enough, that is certain: but he knows that if I were to peach, I should lose the annuity from him, and get nothing from any one else; so he cannot be afraid of that." Then came a long interval of confused and rambling speculations on the motives of the peer, which had something of delirium in their vague and unconnected whirl; but then a more terrible image rose before the mind of the sick man. "Can he think me dying?" he asked himself. "Can the surgeon have told him that I am dying? No, I won't believe it. I feel as strong as ever, notwithstanding all this pain! I cannot be dying!

No, no, I will live to revenge myself upon those cursed gipsies.

Doctor," he continued aloud, as the surgeon now re-entered the room, "are you sure that you are not deceiving me about my condition? Are you sure that I am not in danger?"

The surgeon was a good but an easy-tempered man; not indifferent to religion; but still not very certain, at all times, in regard to the precise line of conduct which it dictated. Although he thought it wrong, as a general principle, to depress the spirits of a patient, by telling him his danger, yet he had conceived that the clergyman had done but his duty, as a man of religion, in letting the wounded knight know what he, as a medical man, had thought it his duty to conceal.

The arguments and injunctions of the peer, however, coming in support of his own opinion, he maintained his first a.s.sertion to Sir Roger, telling him that, although it was impossible to answer for contingencies, and that he could not exactly tell what might be the ultimate result of his wound till he had examined it on the following day, yet he saw no reason whatever to apprehend any _immediate_ danger.

With this a.s.surance Sir Roger satisfied himself, and pa.s.sed a feverish and painful night, in murmurs at the agony he suffered, in curses and imprecations upon the whole race of gipsies, and in vague speculations upon the motives and views of Lord Dewry, in his conduct of that morning. At times his mind seemed to ramble a little; and he would mutter vague sentences, referring to many a different object, which would excite both the attention and wonder of the medical man, and make him believe that his patient wanted the aid of religion more than he had imagined at first. When spoken to, however, his replies became instantly clear and precise, and all his faculties appeared again as perfect as ever.

In the mean while, the peer, after leaving such directions as the circ.u.mstances and his own particular plans required, placed himself once more in his carriage, and returned to his usual abode; but he determined that on no consideration should the wounded man be left longer in Dimden House without his presence. "Those meddling priests,"

he thought, "think themselves privileged to obtrude and to persevere in their obtrusion; but I do not think the rector will presume to set his foot within the doors of Dimden while I am there, without my especial desire; and if he do, he shall soon be disposed of. I dare say, however, that Sir Roger himself said enough to prevent his speedy return; but that surgeon, that Swainstone, is a weak fellow, and I will trust nothing to circ.u.mstances."

There were other things, however, to be accomplished, which required no small skill and cunning to bring about; but the mind of Lord Dewry was all activity and eagerness, now that the strife had actually commenced, and that he felt that the struggle between him and the only witness of the crime he had committed was so far advanced that it could only end in the destruction of one or the other. There was no more hesitation now--there was no more fear or doubt--there was none of that wavering between many feelings and many emotions. He had plunged in, and he was resolved to make his way through. The news of his son's death had decided him; and the burning longing for revenge went hand in hand with all his other motives. He had hesitated at the first step; but that irretrievable first step was now taken, and he did not regret it. He had chosen his path; he had begun the contest, and his whole thoughts and mind were bent to take advantage of every circ.u.mstance in order to terminate it in his own favour.

Again and again, as the carriage rolled on, he revolved in his own mind the various means that could be used to induce the dying man to make such a declaration of what he had witnessed during the affray in Dimden Park as would give an irresistible grasp of Pharold; and yet how accomplish this purpose without letting Sir Roger know that he was dying, and that the crimes to which he was making himself a party would soon appear in the dreadful account against his disembodied spirit? It was a difficult task, and yet he thought he could accomplish it, if he were for any long time present in the knight's sick-room; but on another point he saw, and saw with a glow of triumph, that he could turn the very refusal of the papers, which for a moment he had considered as detrimental, to the very best account.

Although it was late, and he had not dined, yet he ordered the carriage, ere it proceeded home, to pa.s.s through the neighbouring village, and stop at the vicarage. It was an honour which the proud, cold, irreverent peer had seldom paid to the poor minister of a religion that condemned him; and with some surprise the vicar beheld him enter his little study. But the struggle in which he was engaged, like all other struggles of base interest, whether they be for the purposes of political ambition or of private avarice, was one that mightily tamed pride, and rendered coldness warm and affable. He was anxious to buy golden opinions from all sorts of men: and although he had a further purpose at present in view, he addressed the clergyman with that sort of courtesy which his situation prompted him to use towards every one whose word might be of value in the opinion of the world.

"My dear sir," he said, "I come to you for the purpose of requesting a favour." The vicar, who neither loved nor approved the man who spoke to him, answered coldly that he should be happy to do any thing to serve his lordship; and the peer proceeded to explain.

"The fact is," he said, "that last night, in a terrible deer-stealing affray, which took place at Dimden, a poor friend of mine was severely wounded, and is not expected to live from hour to hour. Among his baggage, which remains here at the hall, he tells me that there are papers of great importance; and, indeed, he wished me to bring them to him; but as his mind is not itself, and his faculties wander from time to time, I do not conceive I should be justified in placing papers of importance at his disposal. At the same time, of course, I cannot presume to examine them, and I wish much to seal them up in your presence, if you have time to get into my carriage with me, and accompany me to the hall. It is for this purpose that I have now called here as I pa.s.sed from Dimden on my way home."

The vicar thought that the matter might have been more simply arranged; but as there was nothing in the peer's request which was unreasonable, he consented to accompany him; and in few minutes they were at the door of the mansion. Leaving the cook to fret over his delayed ragouts, the peer instantly ordered sealing-wax and lights to be brought; and, accompanied by the clergyman, proceeded to the apartments which Sir Roger Millington had occupied for so short a time, and in which various articles of apparel were still lying about.

The valise, however, firmly locked, was in one corner of the room; and what was still more pleasing in the sight of the peer, there appeared on one of the tables a small portable letter-case, in which, beyond all doubt, the knight had placed the papers which were of so much consequence to Lord Dewry.

Lord Dewry took the wax, and bidding the servant who brought it hold the taper, he sealed first the letter-case, and then the valise, and requested the vicar to do the same with his own seal. "I am induced,"

he said, in a frank tone, "to take all these precautions, by a conversation which I had with my poor friend this morning, in which he spoke of these things as of the most vital importance. It might be the mere rambling of delirium, but it might be more correct; and, therefore, as this caution costs me nothing but the wax, and you, my dear sir, nothing but the loss of a few minutes' time--though I know your time is valuable--I thought it best not to neglect a line of conduct, which I might regret not having pursued hereafter."

"I think your lordship is quite right," replied the vicar, placing his seal also on the cases. "In matters of worldly prudence, and in our religious duties, where there is any thing to be done which may produce good, and cannot produce evil, to neglect it is, in the one case, a folly, and in the other, a sin."

The peer repressed the sneer that began to curl his lip; and, perhaps, felt at his heart that the good man's words were true, though through life he had neglected the rule they taught. He then bade the servant close up the apartment, and lock the door, till the death of the unhappy knight should render the things that it contained the property of others; and descending the stairs with the vicar, he begged that he would favour him by remaining to dinner, which was about to be placed upon the table. The clergyman replied that he had long dined; and in answer to the offer of the peer's carriage to take him back to the vicarage, he answered that he would rather walk.

"He is stern and repulsive!" thought the peer as the clergyman left him: but there was still a lingering gleam of better feeling, which occasionally lighted up his darkened heart, and he added, almost instantly, and aloud; "but he is loved by the poor, and he is a good man; and I would rather have such a one near me than a pampered voluptuary."

"Sir!" said the servant, who was standing by.

"Pshaw! nothing!" replied the peer, and walked back to his dressing-room.

Early the next morning he returned to Dimden, where he received, as we have seen, the tidings which Colonel Manners sent him of the security of his son, which, though it poured some balm into his heart, came too late to effect any change in his purposes against the gipsy.

CHAPTER X.

"The time was," thought the gipsy, as he climbed the hills once more, after leaving Colonel Manners at the house of Sir William Ryder,--"the time was when these limbs would have undertaken double the toil that they have undergone this day, as a matter of sport. But now they are weary and faint, like those of some sickly dweller in cities--of some slave of effeminate and enfeebling luxury. Age is upon me: the breaker of the strong sinew--the softener of the hard muscle--the destroyer of vigour, activity, and power has laid upon me that heavy hand, which shall press me down into the grave. But it matters not--it matters not. I have outlived my time; I have changed, and the things around me have changed also; but we have not changed in the same way. They have sprung up, new and young, while I have grown weary and old; and, in the midst of the world, I am like a withered leaf of the last year among the green fresh foliage of the spring. It is time that I should fall from the bough, and give place to brighter things."

As he thus thought, whether from corporal weariness, or from the listlessness of the dark melancholy which oppressed him, he turned from the high-road into the first plantation that he met with; and without such care for personal comfort as even a gipsy usually takes, cast himself down under the trees, and sought to refresh himself by sleep. Gloomy ideas, however, still pursued him long; and, with the superst.i.tious imaginations of his tribe heightening the universal propensity to superst.i.tion in our nature, he fancied that the melancholy which disappointment, and anxiety, and difficulty, and failure, had produced, was but some supernatural warning of his approaching fate. The bravest, the wisest, the best, as well as the most hardened and the most skeptical, have felt such presentiments, and have believed them; and very often, also, either by the desponding inactivity of such belief, or by rash struggles to prove that they did not believe, have brought about the fulfilment of that which originally was but a dream.

Sleep, however, came at length; and it was daylight the next morning ere the gipsy awoke. He rose refreshed; and his dark visions, perhaps, would have vanished, if he would have let them: but there is nothing to which one so fondly clings as superst.i.tion; and to have cast from him as untrue a presentiment in which he had once put faith, Pharold would have held as treason to the creed of his people. He rose, then; and, pursuing the paths through the plantations and the woods, avoiding all public ways, and never venturing farther from the covert than to follow the faintly-marked track through some small solitary meadow, he mounted the remaining hills, and bent his steps towards the thick wood in which he had left his companions, revolving, as he went, what might be the probable fate of those to whom he had so perseveringly clung, when he, himself, should be no more.

He found the other gipsies all on foot, and busied about the various little cares of a fresh day, with the light and careless glee of a people to whom the sorrows of the past week are as a half-forgotten tradition. The old were talking and laughing at the entrances of their tents, the young were sporting together by the stream, and the middle-aged were employed in mending this or that which had gone wrong about their carts and baggage, and whistling as lightly at their work as if there were no such thing as grief in all the world.

"And thus will it be," thought Pharold, as he approached--"thus will it be with them all, ere I am a week beneath the earth. But it matters not, it matters not. So be it. Why should I wish tears shed or hearts bruised for such a thing as I am?"

He believed that he did not wish it; yet where is the man so steeled by nature or philosophy as to look forward to the grave, and not to hope that some kind bosom will sigh, some gentle eye give a tear to his memory when he is gone? and though Pharold believed that he did not wish it, he deceived himself. At the door of his own tent sat she on whom, in this his latter day, he had bestowed the better part of all his feelings; whom he loved, at once, with the tenderness of a father and the tenderness of a husband,--a union of feelings that never yet produced aught but sorrow, for it never can be returned in the fulness of its own intensity.

She was looking lovelier, too, than ever he had seen her; and though, heaven knows, her beauty owed but little to richness of dress, yet there was a something of taste and elegance in her attire, rude as it was in quality, that pleased the eye of one who had acquired a knowledge of what const.i.tutes beauty in other times and circ.u.mstances.

She had twined a bright red handkerchief through the profuse ma.s.ses of her jetty black hair, and had brought a single fold partly across her broad clear forehead. Her full round arms were bare up to the shoulders; and, as if in sport, she had cast her red mantle round her, like the plaid of a Scottish shepherd, contrasting strongly, but finely, with the drapery of a blue gown beneath. Her head was bent like the beautiful head of Hagar, by Correggio; and her dark eyes, their long lashes resting on her sunny cheek, were cast down, well pleased, upon one of the children of the tribe, who, leaning on her knees, was playing with the silver ring that circled one of the taper fingers of her small brown hand.

Lena did not hear the approach of any one till Pharold was within fifty paces; but the moment his well-known step met her ear, she started up and ran to meet him, with smiles that were, perhaps, the brighter because she felt that she had something to atone for, weighty enough to be concealed, and yet not to oppress her very heavily.

Pharold pressed her to his bosom; and whatever he might try to believe, he felt--felt to his heart's inmost core--that there was at least one person on the earth that he should wish to remember him, after the stream of time had washed away his memory from the hearts of others.

He gave but one moment to tenderness, however; and the next, turning to the rest of the gipsies, he inquired, "What news of the boy?" The old woman was instantly called from one of the tents, and came willingly enough to make her report to Pharold, though she grumbled audibly all the way at being hurried, and at such tasks being put upon her at her years.

"Well, Pharold, I have done your bidding," she said, in a tone both cajoling and self-important--"I have done your bidding, and have seen the lad. Poor fellow, his is a hard case, indeed; and such a fine, handsome boy, too, and so happy a one as he used to be--"

"But what said he, woman?" interrupted Pharold, sternly. "Keep your praises of him till he be here to hear them, and thank you for them; for, doubtless, he is the only person who will do so. Tell me what he said of his situation."

"What he said!" replied the beldam; "why, what should he say, but that if he be not got out to-morrow night--that is, this night that is coming,--he will be sent away to the county jail, and hanged for the murder of that fellow that is dying or dead up at the house? That's what he said."

"But did he say how he was to be delivered?" asked Pharold. "That is the question."

"Yes, to be sure he did," answered the old woman. "Do you think I went there for nothing? He may be delivered easy enough, if folks like to try. You know the windows of that there strong room, Pharold, well enough, and I know them too, for I was in there for half a day or more, when old d.i.c.k Hodges swore to my nimming his c.o.c.ks and hens. He lies in the churchyard now, the old blackguard, for that was in the old lord's time. But, as I was saying, you know the windows well enough. When they had you up at the house, and wanted to make a gentleman of you, but found they had got hold of the wrong stuff--"

Pharold's brow grew as dark as a thundercloud. "On, woman, on with your story," he cried, "and turn not aside to babble of the past. What have you or I to do with the past? You were the same then that you are now, only that the vices and follies of youth have given place to the vices and follies of age."

"Well, well, I'm sure I'm telling my story as quickly as it can be told," replied Mother Gray; "but as I was saying, you know the windows well enough, and know that any one that is at all strong could knock off two or three of the bars, and let the boy out in a minute. Any one could do it."

"Oh, but he said that n.o.body but Pharold must come," cried Lena, eagerly, forgetting for the moment all caution, and then reddening, like the morning sky, as soon as she had spoken.

"Ha!" cried Pharold, turning his keen dark eyes full upon her, "said he so? and how know you that he did say so, Lena? Ha!"

The poor girl turned redder and redder, and looked as if she would have sunk into the ground, while Pharold still gazed sternly upon her, as if waiting an answer; but the ready cunning of the old woman came to her aid with a lie. "How does she know that he said so?" cried the beldam: "how should she know it but by my telling her?"