The ordinary and too well-deserved lamentation over the fragility of human resolutions was not in general applicable to the determinations of Charles Manners, who was usually very rigid in his adherence to his purposes, whether they were of great or small importance. 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 maybe defined the act of persisting in error; and the rectitude and precision of his judgment 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. Nor is there any contradiction in this statement, though it may be inquired, 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 determinations 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 determination which he formed so vigorously on the day we spoke of in the last chapter; and, that he might not be charged with inconsistency, 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.

One resolution, however, and one promise, Colonel Manners certainly did keep, as soon as it was possible, which was, to inquire 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 supposed 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 Falkland'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 extremely beautiful and extremely pleasing, as every man who had been two 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 himself--and as he sat and shaved himself that morning he thought himself uglier than ever--than Napoleon Bonaparte, in the plenitude of power and the majesty of victory, thought of a low grave beneath 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, perhaps, 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 servant 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 gipsies might have quartered themselves, he took his way across the park from that side which formed, in fact, the back of Morley House; and, having assured himself beforehand 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 offered nothing but a bare, open plain, full of pits and ravines, and only further diversified by a few stunted hawthorns, and one single group of tall beeches, gathered together upon a tumulus, which covered the bodies of some of those invading warriors to whom our island was once a prey. The ascent to this plain from the 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 lowered in that part, so as to leave a full view of the picturesque little promontory from the windows of the mansion. Let the reader remember all this, for his memory may be taxed hereafter.

Branching off 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 sterility. It was steep also, but Manners was a good climber; and, knowing that Mrs. Falkland's breakfast hour 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 Common, 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 puzzled which way to take, had not his military 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 little mound, therefore, he gazed round him; but neither gipsies nor tents were visible; and he might have returned 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 climbing 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, put something hastily into the bosom of his long wrapping 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 difference 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-morning! 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 of sticks, and its white smoke curling through the broken ground and amid 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 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 supernatural 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 country, 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. Will you do it?"

"It shall be done," said the gipsy, still gazing at him inquiringly. "It shall de 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 he went away yesterday morning to Dimden, and then before midday back to the hall."

"You are a very singular person," said Colonel 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 will 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 I 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, 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," answered the gipsy; "nor will you find the request 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 reconnoissance of the common; and, as he went, he kept his right hand in his bosom, but spoke not a word. At length, when they were fully out of earshot, Manners himself stopped, thinking that he had humoured his companion's caprices 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 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 desiring to serve him with all my heart, can make me so," answered Manners, now more particularly 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; reserving to myself, of course, the right of telling him where I got the letter, and the circumstances 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 extraordinary," 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 Manners," answered the gipsy; and then added, seeing that something like a cloud was gathering on his auditor's brow, "if I have offended you, sir, I am sorry: such was not my purpose; 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 afterward 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 the delivery of this letter, which is, I suppose, the object that you hold in your bosom."

"It is not a pistol," said the gipsy, producing the letter.

"I did not suppose that it was," replied Colonel 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 like, 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 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 mayst 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 suspicion that he was seeking to play upon credulity.

"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, and affect by a laugh to show they do not believe at all; while some, who really do not believe, 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 inquire afterward 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 silence, 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."

"Far more fortunate than unfortunate," answered 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: but it is the future I wish to hear: what of it?"

"You mock us, sir," said the gipsy, eying 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," replied 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 is 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 unbandaged; 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 fortunes 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, nevertheless it shall be yours: and now, forget not my words, but, when you find them verified, remember him that spoke them."

"But are you going to tell me no more?" demanded 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," answered 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 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 with Voltaire," 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 philosophy, and seems inclined to teach the world, by his example, if not by his precepts, that man should credit nothing that he cannot understand."

"And what should I do with him'?" demanded the gipsy, frowning: "I think you are mocking me--is it not so?"

"No, on my honour," replied Colonel Manners; "I am not mocking you. On the contrary, I think you a very extraordinary person, and fitted for a different station from that in which I find you. Whether you yourself believe that which you have told me concerning my future fortune, or not, I thank you for having 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!" and, turning on his heel, he left Colonel Manners to descend the hill, thinking him more extraordinary than ever, from the last very ungipsy-like act, by which he had terminated their conversation.

The sun was now much higher than when Manners had trod that path before; for, according 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 coffee 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 obliged to go round and enter by the other side of the house; but this proceeding, at all events, tended to solve one mystery connected with 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 promising ÉlÈve in no inferior school of petty larceny; and as Colonel Manners approached, Mrs. Falkland terminated her inquiries, 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 little companion: but the fact is, that, while you were all out walking yesterday, a poor gipsy woman accidentally fell down from the high bank close by the house, and was brought in here, completely stunned. The village apothecary was away; and, as I endeavour to enact my Lady Bountiful, I did what I could for the poor creature, who soon recovered. We had half a dozen of her tribe in the servant's 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 returned; 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 meeting 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 me 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 dexterity of an old soldier, gave us very great assistance in bringing the poor woman to herself. I remarked, too, that her gipsy companions 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 servant's hall, they found somebody 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 injunctions that I went."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Falkland; "and to answer what object?"

"Oh, if you mean Miss Falkland's object, I really cannot tell," he replied; "and my object 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 gayly 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 gipsies and fortune-telling took away something from its weight in his estimation; and had he been only restrained by a sense of its importance, 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 instance, it was long ere he found an opportunity of fulfilling the one he had made the gipsy on the hill.