I know no reason why we--the readers and the writer--should not now quit those characters which have lately been occupying us, and return to others not less worthy of our care, till we have brought their actions and their feelings up to the same point of time whereunto we have conducted our other personages. The best form, perhaps I might say the most classical, in which a tale like the present can be related, with the exception of the autobiographical, is the dramatic; and holding strongly with the liberty accorded to British dramatists against the straight-waistcoat of Aristotelian unities, I believe that he who sits down to write a book like this has as much right to shift his scene and change his characters when he pleases as a playwright.

The necessity of so doing exists in the very state of being in which we live in relation to one another. Everyday we find that in five or six families, the actions of each of which have mutually a great influence on the others, events are occurring, and words are being spoken, which bring about great and important results in the general fate and relative position of those five or six families, and, in fact, work out their united history, without one house knowing at the time what was doing in the other. The task, then, of the writer, if he would follow the best of guides, nature, is to take such a group of five or six families, whose fate some common bond of union has linked together; and, changing from house to house as soon as the interest of the events in each requires the scene to be shifted, to paint what he there sees passing; and thus, in a series of pictures, to give the general history of the whole. Stupid must be the man, and impotent the imagination, weak the judgment, and treacherous the memory, which cannot bear the change of scene without a long refresher in regard to the people about to be seen again, or the events of which the writer is once more going to take up the thread!

Could not this change be made, the circumstances which were taking place at Morley House, and, what is still more important, the feelings which were thrilling in the bosoms of its inhabitants, would of necessity be all left untold, or be related in a long unnatural resume. In truth, the feelings of which we speak are worth some consideration; as feelings, indeed, always are: for, could one write the history of man's heart and its motives, how much more interesting, and instructive too, would the record be, than the brightest volume that ever was written upon man's actions!

For some time after Colonel Manners quitted Morley House, Marian de Vaux continued to sleep under the influence of strong opiates, which the medical man had found it necessary to give her in the morning. Whether he did right or wrong--whether it would have been better to let her meet grief boldly face to face, or was better to shield her from the violence of its first attack--each must judge as he feels; but he had known her from a child, and he had a notion that hers was a heart which would be easily broken if sorrow was suffered to handle it too roughly. At all events, while this state continued, she enjoyed a cessation from grief and apprehension; but still, how different was her slumber from the calm and natural repose of a heart at ease! The dull poppy with its leaden weight seemed to keep down and oppress feeling and thought, not to relieve and refresh them; and in her beautiful face, even as she slept, there was something which told that the slumber was not natural. Oh! the sweet profound sleep of infancy, how beautiful it is! that soft and blessed gift of a heart without a stain or a pang, of a body unbroken in any fibre by the cares and labours of existence, of a mind without a burden or an apprehension. It falls down upon our eyelids like the dew of a summer's eve, refreshing for our use all the world of flowers in which we dwell, and passing calm, and tranquil, and happy, without a dream and without an interruption. But, alas! alas! with the first years of life it is gone, and never returns. We may win joy, and satisfaction, and glory, and splendour, and power--we may obtain more than our wildest ambition aspired to, or our eager hope could grasp; but the sweet sleep of infancy, the soft companion of our boyish pillow, flies from the ardent joys as well as the bitter cares of manhood, and never, never, never returns again.

The apothecary had ventured on large doses of the drug, and Marian's slumber continued for many hours; but at length she woke, pale, languid, sick, with her ideas all confused, and yet her heart not the less ill at ease. "Is that Isadore?" she said, gazing towards the window at which some one was standing, and over which the shades of evening were coming dim and fast. Isadore approached her bed, and Marian asked eagerly, "What news?" She could not put her question in a distinct form, for her mind refused to fix itself precision upon anything; and besides, with the common self-cheatery of fear, she loved not to give her apprehensions voice.

"I have no news, dear Marian?" replied Isadore, sitting down by her. "Sorry I am to say that Colonel Manners has returned without any tidings; and he has since gone over to my uncle's, to see whether anything may be known there in regard to these extraordinary circumstances."

Isadore had framed her answer, with a view of alone hiding from Marian that anything had been discovered to confirm their fears, and of turning her mind from the search on which Colonel Manners had been employed: but the result went further than she had expected, or even wished; for it was her purpose only to break the force of grief, not to raise expectations which were likely to be disappointed. Hope, however, is the most adroit of diplomatists, and takes hold of the slightest word or circumstance in its own favour with skill and agility unparalleled. The words of Isadore, simple as they were, lighted again in a moment the half-extinguished flame in the bosom of her cousin. She remembered the suspicions concerning the illegitimacy of his birth, with which Edward had gone to visit the gipsies; she remembered his fiery and impatient nature, and the agitation into which even the apprehension had thrown him; and hope instantly suggested that he might have found his fears confirmed, and, wild with anger and distress, might have flown instantly to his father's house.

It is true he was on foot; it is true he had quitted the house during the night; it is true that he was not likely to take such a step without writing to relieve her mind; but it is the quality of hope to trample on improbabilities, and Marian de Vaux obtained a momentary relief. Still she would fain have had her hopes confirmed by the opinion of others: but she could not expect to do so without explaining the reason why she entertained them; and that reason could not be explained without entering into some details in regard to Edward's communication with the gipsy, which she knew not whether she were justified in making. Her mind was so confused with the effect of the remedies employed to obtain sleep, that she was long in determining what was the best to do, and remained silent, while Isadore kindly and gently strove to suggest as many motives for consolation as she could imagine. At length, however, as Marian revolved all the probabilities in her mind, she recollected that other causes might render the disclosure of Edward's feelings and intentions necessary; that he might not be found at his father's house; that strict and immediate investigation might be required; and that, under those circumstances, a knowledge of all that her lover had proposed to do previous to his sudden disappearance might be requisite to those who were employed in searching for him, in order to render that search at all effectual; and although she shrunk from the idea of betraying, in the slightest degree, the confidence he had reposed in her, yet she felt it necessary to give every information in her power which might lead to the result they sought. She determined, then, at length, to speak of what had passed between De Vaux and herself on the preceding day; and only hesitated whether to relate it to her aunt or to her cousin. Mrs. Falkland's kindness and strong good sense were not to be doubted; but yet Marian knew Isadore thoroughly, and knew that there was more judgment and tact under her usual gayety than was apparent. She knew, too, that with her she should be able to relate and to keep back just as much as she thought proper; while her aunt's keen and rapid questions, she felt, might draw from her more than she was justified in communicating.

"Do you know, Isadore," she said, at length, "I am in some hopes that Edward may be heard of at his father's house: it would not surprise me if he had gone thither."

Isadore felt that she had a delicate part to play. She was glad to see that Marian was more composed than she could have expected; and, of course, she would have wished to maintain that state of composure, till apprehension gradually changed into grief, without any new shock to her feelings: but she still felt that she had no right to encourage hopes which must soon be broken; and she replied, "I am very happy, dearest Marian, that you do think so; but is it not strange that he should go thither, and be so long absent, without letting any one know, when he must have felt that so many would be uneasy?"

"It is strange," replied Marian; "but I think I can account for that. I am about to tell you something, Isadore, which you must make what use of you think fit, in case Colonel Manners has not found poor Edward at Dewry Hall; but as it refers to matters which he might not wish told to any one, you must ask me no more than I am inclined to speak; and unless it be necessary, perhaps, had better not mention it to any one but my aunt."

"I will obey you to the letter, dear cousin," replied Isadore; "but I foresee that you are going to speak of his visit to the gipsy, which, indeed, surprised us all."

"It is the cause of that visit I am about to tell you," answered Marian; "for perhaps the facts connected with it may throw some light on the business, if Edward be not at his father's. But you remember, Isadore, that Colonel Manners went up yesterday morning to the gipsies--I believe, because you teased him about them."

"Yes, indeed, I believe it was one of my silly jests," replied Isadore, with a sigh, "that made him go at all. I shall leave off jesting for the future, Marian."

"Nay, nay! never, Isadore!" replied Marian, shaking her head. "However, Colonel Manners brought Edward down a letter from one of them called Pharold, which distressed him a great deal; for it told him things concerning our own family, and his part of it particularly, which would be very terrible if true. He determined, after speaking to me upon the matter, to go up to the common this morning, in order to investigate the whole; and if he found any reason to believe that the gipsy spoke the truth, his mind, I am sure, would be in such a state that he would hardly know what he was doing. Under these circumstances, it is very likely that he might go over at once to inquire more of his father, without thinking of anything else in the pain and anxiety of the moment."

"No, Marian, depend upon it, he would think of you," cried Isadore, somewhat incautiously.

"I could easily forgive him for not doing so," replied Marian, "notwithstanding all the pain I have suffered, if I could be sure that he is safe at the Hall."

"Pray God it maybe so!" replied Isadore; "and if it be, we shall undoubtedly hear from Colonel Manners to-night."

There was something so despairing in the tone with which Isadore pronounced--"Pray God it may be so!" that Marian took alarm. "Isadore," she said, looking at her steadily, "I hope you are not deceiving me. Your heart is not one to be so easily cast down; your lips, dear cousin, are not accustomed to such sad sounds. Tell me the truth, Isadore, I beseech you. Have you heard anything of Edward?"

"No, indeed, Marian!" replied Isadore, glad that she had put her question in such a shape that she could give it a negative; and yet hesitating a little at the utterance of one word approaching insincerity, a vice that her mind had never known. "No, indeed," she said, "no one has heard anything of him as yet."

Marian marked her hesitation, however, and replied, in a low voice, "I should always like to know the truth, Isadore; and I am sure you would tell it me, dear cousin. You know how I love Edward; and I think it no shame to acknowledge to you, Isadore, that I do not believe there ever was a human being that loved another as I have loved him." She paused; and though she knew that Isadore needed no new insight into her heart to see how totally that heart was given to Edward de Vaux, yet, as she spoke, the crimson came again into her cheeks, and mottled her brow and temples, even to speak her love in the hearing of one who already knew it so well. "Nevertheless, Isadore," she continued, "feeling afraid of my own heart, and my own great happiness, I have schooled myself to remember that the blessings of this world are anything but permanent, and have prepared myself to say, if God should require me to yield them, 'Thy will be done.' Of course, since Edward went into active service, I have felt it the more necessary to be always thus prepared; and though I have tried not to imbitter existence by apprehensions, nor to keep myself in continual fear, I have endeavoured never to forget that Almighty Wisdom may hourly require sacrifices, at which we must not repine."

"You are indeed a sweet creature!" cried Isadore, casting her arms round her cousin's neck; "I wish that I were half as good!" Marian leaned her brow upon her cousin's shoulder; and when Isadore again looked at her, she found that Marian was weeping.

In a few moments Marian wiped away her tears, and went on: "You will think that, after boasting of all this preparation, I ought not to be so overcome now--nor, indeed, so much as I was this morning; but the truth is, when Edward returned, half my fears vanished. I thought that all danger was over; and little remembered that he who had escaped from battle and from storm, might be snatched from me in the bosom of peace, and in his own home. But I am better now, Isadore, and firmer, and stronger; and therefore I will beg you and my aunt to let me hear at once everything that occurs; for though you are interested too, I know, deeply and sincerely, yet you can neither of you feel as I do."

"Perhaps that is the very reason, dear Marian," replied Isadore, "why it would be better to keep from you all the rumours and reports, which could only rack all your feelings with alternate hopes and fears, without leading you even to any certain conclusion."

"Oh, no!" said Marian; "no! let me hear all, Isadore! I am now again prepared. I do not say that I shall not weep--I do not say that I shall not be anxious--I do not say that I shall not tremble with hope and fear: but I do say, Isadore, that the knowledge of whose hand it is that guides the whole--and my firm, perfect, undoubting, unchangeable belief that His will is mercy, and His way is wise--will be my support and consolation to the end."

"And I will never believe," said Isadore, warmly, "that He will leave such confidence unrewarded and unprotected."

"Oh, no!" answered Marian; and she then added, in a sadder tone, "But He, seeing more wisely than we do, may yet think fit to afflict us, Isadore. However, I am still prepared, and will meet whatever may come, as little repining as I can."

The conversation proceeded for some time in the same tone, nor was its effect small in soothing the mind of her who suffered; for, in moments of grief, the human heart forgets all the treasured consolations which reason, and philosophy, and religion have garnered up in years of tranquillity; and it is not till we examine the stores that we have gathered that we remember the sources of comfort which we ourselves possess.

Marian then expressed her intention of rising, and begged Isadore to send her maid from the dressing-room. Her cousin would fain have dissuaded her; and proceeded to inform her mother of Marian's intention of coming down to the drawing-room; but Mrs. Falkland did not disapprove of the idea, especially when she learned from Isadore the state of her niece's mind. "We must endeavour," she said, "to keep any sudden tidings of evil from our poor Marian; but in other respects, perhaps, occupation of any sort may do her good; for I know too well, Isadore, that nothing can be worse than the fears and the pains with which our own imagination fills up the interval of suspense, when, alone and sleepless, we sit and watch away the weary hours, till doubt and fear have grown into the too painful certainty."

Marian was not long in following her cousin to the drawing-room; and though a few tears rolled over her cheeks as Mrs. Falkland pressed her to her bosom, she soon regained at least the appearance of composure. By degrees she learned all that Colonel Manners had discovered, except the indications which most strongly tended to confirm his apprehensions for De Vaux; and she heard, also, all that he had done towards obtaining further and more certain information. Marian, however, inferred, from the measures that had been taken, that both her aunt and Manners did entertain serious fears; and her heart sunk to find her own alarm confirmed by that of persons so much more thoroughly acquainted with the world than herself. Soon after she had come down, the servant, who had been despatched to Mr. Arden, returned with the tidings that he was absent from his own house, and was not expected back till the next morning. Inquiries, too, were made by the people who had been left to guard the wood, whether it were necessary to keep up their patrol all night; and in Manners's absence, Mrs. Falkland ordered it to be done at any expense. Many a rumour, too, of many a likely and many an unlikely occurrence, reached the drawing-room through the old butler, who, with one other man-servant, had been retained in the house while the rest had been despatched to reinforce the people on watch round the wood.

Thus passed the evening, but no tidings arrived from Colonel Manners; and as minute after minute and hour after hour went by after the period which they calculated might have brought them the news of De Vaux's being at his father's house, the hopes of all the party sunk lower and more low, and at a late hour Mrs. Falkland persuaded Marian again to go to bed.

Sleep, indeed, visited Morley House but little during that night; and the next morning early, a note was received from Colonel Manners, informing Mrs. Falkland that nothing as yet had been heard of De Vaux. So far Mrs. Falkland communicated the tidings she had received to Marian, before she had risen; and, notwithstanding all the fortitude she had endeavoured to assume, and the most careful guard she had been enabled to put upon her heart, yet Marian had so far encouraged hopes which now suffered disappointment, that medical aid was again obliged to be called; and it was judged expedient once more to dull her sense of grief and fear by strong opiates. The latter part of Colonel Manners's communication, which spoke in plain terms of the murder of poor De Vaux, Mrs. Falkland did not, of course, read to her unhappy niece. In it, however, he informed her, that when he arrived at Dewry Hall, he had found measures already in progress for arresting the supposed murderers upon another charge, and had waited to know the result. They had proved, unfortunately, without effect, he said; as no one had been taken but a lad, from whom he was afraid little satisfactory information was likely to be gained: but still it was his purpose, he added, to go over to Dimden with Lord Dewry, previous to returning to Morley House, in order to hear personally what evidence could be extracted from the prisoner. In conclusion, he recommended, if Mr. Arden had not taken measures for searching the wood in which the gipsy had been seen, before his letter arrived, that such a step should be resorted to directly; as the messenger who brought the news of the affray at Dimden had not been able to say whether Pharold were present or not.

After the receipt of this letter, Mrs. Falkland waited anxiously for the arrival of Mr. Arden; but it was late ere he came. He then asked eagerly what further discoveries had been made, and Mrs. Falkland communicated to him the substance of Colonel Manners's letter. The old gentleman, whose heart was warm and kind, notwithstanding a certain degree of severity of manner, and a persevering adherence to the letter of the law, which often made him appear harsh and unfeeling, sympathized truly with De Vaux's family; and spoke of Marian, and the state of bereavement and distress into which her cousin's loss must have cast her, with words of tenderness and pity which brought a bright drop or two even into his own eyes. He then touched as delicately as his nature permitted upon the subject of Lord Dewry's letter to him, which he had received that morning; and triumphed a little in the accuracy of the opinion he had formerly given in regard to Pharold the gipsy being the real murderer of Mrs. Falkland's late brother.

Mrs. Falkland started, and combated the idea with various arguments, which had been satisfactory to her own mind at the time. Mr. Arden, however, informed her, that in his letter of that morning, Lord Dewry had asserted, that he had acquired positive proofs of the gipsy's guilt; and Mrs. Falkland was silent, but not convinced. That Pharold, either in some fierce dispute, or in some accidental affray, might have killed her unfortunate nephew, or that his companions might have done so, without his will or concurrence, Mrs. Falkland did not doubt: but she had heard too much of his character and behaviour in youth to believe that, twenty years before, when he was still a young man, he could have been so hardened in guilt as, for the purpose of paltry plunder, to take the life of the only man for whom, with the exception of his own tribe, he had shown affection. For Lord Dewry's fierce accusation on the present occasion, she accounted easily by a knowledge of his character, and conceived it very possible that the rage and hatred which he felt at the very idea of the gipsy having murdered his son, might make him regard as proof positive any slight additional suspicions which he had found cause to form against Pharold in regard to his brother's death. However, as she took no pleasure in speaking of her brother's weaknesses, she made no answer; and Mr. Arden began his proceedings for the purpose of causing the wood in which Colonel Manners imagined he had seen Pharold to be so thoroughly searched as to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the gipsy still remained in it or not.

As all those who have attempted to search a wood must know the task is not an easy one; and before a sufficient number of people could be collected, and all the orders and directions could be given, it was late in the day. As the men, however, who had kept patrol for so many hours were now weary of the task, and there existed many doubts whether any inducement would make them undertake it during another night, there was no possibility of delaying the search till the following morning; and Mr. Arden accordingly set out, taking as many of Mrs. Falkland's servants with him as could by any means be spared, in order to make their proceedings as effectual as the short remaining space of daylight permitted.

During his absence Mrs. Falkland and her daughter remained in that painful and exciting state of suspense in which every minute has its expectation, and every minute its fear; and as Marian still slept, Isadore walked out into the garden, in hopes of finding some refreshment in the cool air of the autumn evening. When she had passed about half through the garden, with her eyes turning mechanically from time to time upon the flowers, but with her thoughts far otherwise occupied, she perceived a boy of about ten years of age, who worked under the gardeners, approaching her, cap in hand.

"Please, miss," he said, "I think I have found out something."

"And pray, what have you discovered, Harry?" demanded Isadore, as he paused.

"Why, ma'am," answered the boy, "I heard the gentleman yesterday, and all the folks, indeed, talking of footsteps, and asking where there were any to be seen, in sorts of unlikely places--"

"And have you found any?" exclaimed Isadore, speaking eagerly, from some of those vague, and often fallacious anticipations which rush upon the mind in thousands when it is excited by any strongly-moving cause.

"Why, yes, ma'am, you see," replied the boy; "the gardener, when he was going away to search the wood, sent me down to the other side of the park to cut some box for the borders; and by the little door close by the river, which has not been opened these two years, I saw the marks of a gentleman's foot in the gravel, which is softish down on that walk, and greenish, too, for it ha'nt been turned this autumn."

"But how do you know it was a gentleman's foot?" demanded Isadore. "It might be either the gardener's, or the under-gardener's, or the gamekeeper's, for anything you know, Harry."

"No, no, miss," answered the boy; "I know it was a gentleman's, for they have little feet, and this was not bigger than mine; and it was not a woman's foot, because the heel was different."

"And a boy's?" said Isadore; "why might it not be a boy's?" The youth rubbed his head, saying, "It might be a boy's, miss; but I do not think it, miss, any how: I am sure it was a gentleman's--quite sure."

Isadore endeavoured to discover the grounds of this certainty; but when people whose ideas are not very clear upon a subject are pressed by those who would fain help them to disentangle the ravelled skein of their thoughts, they not unfrequently take refuge in a sort of blank stolidity, which prevents others from finding out the causes that they themselves are not able to explain. Such was the case in the present instance, and the only answer that Isadore could obtain to her questions, shape them how she would, was, that he--the boy--was sure that the footmarks were those of a gentleman.

With these tidings, however, with every willingness in the world to believe that they were true, and with a long train of phantom hopes to boot, Miss Falkland returned to her mother, taking the boy to the house with her. Mrs. Falkland listened with attention, and replied that it would be at least worth while to send down the old butler directly, to ascertain the facts more precisely.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, do not send him, mamma!" exclaimed Isadore. "He is so fond of miracles, that he will declare it is the foot of an elephant. We shall never come at the truth from him."

"But whom can I send, then?" demanded her mother. "All the other servants are away; and both the gardener and under-gardener are with Mr. Arden."

"I will go myself, mamma," replied Isadore. "I shall have plenty of time to get there and back before it is dark; and I will take the boy with me to show me the place."

"You are right, Isadore," replied Mrs. Falkland: "the fact may be of no importance, but it may be of much; and, consequently, it is worth our own examination. I will go with you, my love, if Marian be still asleep. Wait one moment, and we will go and judge together."

Mrs. Falkland was not long absent. Marian was still lying overpowered with the opium; and the two ladies, having joined the boy in the hall, set out upon the search. While her mother was absent, however, Isadore called her own maid, and stationed her at one of the windows, whence she could see the spot to which the boy referred, and the path leading to it. She gave her also directions to remain there, and, in case of either Mrs. Falkland or herself making a signal, to send or come down to them in all haste. "I feel a sort of presentiment," thought Isadore, as she gave the orders, "that this expedition will end in something of importance."

Whatever it was likely to end in, the maid obeyed her orders as punctually as such orders generally are obeyed; that is to say, she remained two minutes at the window; and having seen Mrs. Falkland and Isadore walk about a hundred steps upon the path, she thought, "Dear me! I can just get the cap I was trimming, and be back again here long before they are at the other side of the park." But, as she crossed the hall, she met with the old butler, who detained her just to ask her where his mistress and Miss Falkland were gone; and then told her a story, which he had heard when he was young, and the incidents of which were very like those connected with the fate of poor Mr. Edward de Vaux. Every hair on the maid's head stood on end, and gave her so much occupation, that, ere she could get back to her post, it was too dark to trim the cap any further; she therefore, immediately and punctually, turned her eyes on the spot which her mistress had directed her to observe, and watched most carefully, now that she could see nothing at that distance.