The room was, as we have said, quite dark, with the exception of a narrow line of light, which found its way under a door on the opposite side of the chamber; and by the time that Manners had been there two minutes he heard voices speaking in that direction. What was said by the first speaker, whom he concluded to be Pharold, did not make itself heard in the apartment where Manners stood; but the moment after another voice was distinguished, saying, in a louder tone, "You have done wrong, you have done wrong, Pharold. My mind was still undecided; and this will force me to act whether I will or not."

Pharold's voice replied at considerable length, and was apparently still going on, when the other exclaimed, hastily, "But, good God, did you not let her know? Did you not send her the note I despatched to you for that purpose?"

"What note? When did you send?" demanded Pharold, eagerly, "I had no note."

"This is most unfortunate," replied the other. "I sent up a note to you, intended to be conveyed to her for the purpose of putting her mind at ease; and it should have reached you beyond all doubt; for I gave it, with my own hand, to the youth Dickon, yesterday morning, when he came with the message from you."

"Ay, that is it, that is it," answered the gipsy. "I chose him as my messenger to keep him out of evil; but ere I could get back to my people, I found that, on some pretence, strangers on horseback were watching for us on the common, and I betook me to the wood again. But they set a watch round the wood; and it was long ere I could slip through unseen; and when I did so, and got to the tents under Dimden wall, I found that this very Dickon had seduced several others to go and shoot the deer in the park. Deer were killed, the keepers were met, blood was shed, and I drove the offender out from among us, that he might not lead others again into evil, and draw down the rage of the powerful upon us. Thus I saw him but for a moment, and he went without giving me your letter."

Now Manners, although he could not help hearing what was passing, had a great objection to so doing; and he had therefore from the very beginning contrived to make as much noise as possible, by every means that suggested itself, in order both to render the sounds which reached him indistinct, and to make the speakers aware that their conversation might be overheard. Their first eagerness, however, prevented them from taking warning; but at length their tone was lowered, and for the next five minutes Manners heard nothing further than a low indistinct murmur, which sufficiently showed that the conference was continued, but did not betray the matter thereof.

At length, however, the second voice spoke louder, in the sort of marked manner with which one ends a private conversation, by words which have little meaning to any ear but that of the person to whom they are addressed. "Well, well, it is time that such a state should be put an end to! As to this other business, there is nothing to fear from Colonel Manners: I know him well, as I told you before; and were I to choose any man in whom to confide, it would be him. Now rest you, Pharold; rest you while I go and speak with him. Would to God that you would quit this wandering life, and now in your age wisely accept from me what you foolishly rejected in your youth from one long dead; but rest you, as I have said, and I will return in a few minutes to hear out your account."

Pharold's reply was not distinct; but the next moment the door opened between the two rooms, and Manners was joined by a gentleman whom we have seen once, and only once, before in the course of this history. It was, in short, the same hale, handsome old man whom we last heard of conversing with the gipsy Pharold, in the beginning of the first volume of this book, who now advanced with a light into the dark room in which Manners had been left. He could not be less than sixty-three or four years of age; but his frame appeared as vigorous as if twenty of those years had been struck off the amount. His figure was tall and upright, and his step had in it a peculiar bold and firm elasticity, that spoke the undiminished energy of both mind and body. He was, in short, a person whom, once seen, it would be difficult to forget; and although the light he carried dazzled Manners's eyes a little, yet the instant he entered the room his visiter advanced towards him, holding out his hand, and exclaiming, "My dear Sir William Ryder, I am delighted to meet you again, and to meet you in England."

"Not less delighted than I am to see you, Manners," answered the other, "although we meet under somewhat strange circumstances, and though I am obliged to bid you, for a short time, forget that I am Sir William Ryder, without forgetting that I am a sincere friend. My name, for the present, is Mr. Harley; and now, having introduced myself as such, let us sit down, and talk over old stories."

"But, first, my dear sir," said Manners, "a word or two of new stories, if you please. I am most anxious to inquire after my poor friend De Vaux, though no longer anxious in regard to his situation, now that I find he is in hands so kind and so skilful as yours. Indeed, the first sight of your servant, though I caught but a glimpse of him, set my mind at ease regarding my poor friend, as far as it can be at ease till I hear how he is, and what is the matter with him."

"He is better, he is better," answered Sir William Ryder; "and so far banish all anxiety, for he will do well. I know such affairs of old; and as he has been neither scalped nor tomahawked by any of my children of the Seven Nations, I will answer for his recovery. But I dare say you wonder at his being here with me; and, indeed, it is altogether an odd coincidence, for I can assure you that it is by no plot or contrivance of mine that I have got you and him once more under my roof together, when the last time we so met was in my wigwam on the very farthest verge of the inhabited world."

"But first tell me what is the matter with him," said Manners; "and then I will put all sorts of questions to you, which you shall answer or not as you think fit."

"What is the matter with him!" cried Sir William Ryder; "did not my friend Pharold tell you that he had got a pistol-shot in his side, which had broken two of his ribs?"

"Good God! no," cried Manners: "I am excessively sorry to hear it; but how did it occur--in a duel?"

"No," answered the other; "no: he did it himself; but understand me--not intentionally--he is not such a fool. However, he will do well: the ball has been extracted; he has very little fever: no organ important to life has been touched, and all promises fairly."

"But, indeed, my dear Sir William, you must tell me more," said Manners. "How did this happen? for though I have seen accidents enough of different kinds, yet I cannot understand this affair at all."

"Why, I do not very well know how to explain it," said the other, musing, "without entering into unnecessary particulars. However, the fact is this: he went out at night, it seems, to see my friend Pharold, who, I need not tell you, is no ordinary person. However, your friend did not know his character or his worth, and he placed a brace of horse-pistols in his bosom. He must certainly have had one of them cocked, too, though he will not acknowledge it: but the end of the matter was, that he heard some very bad news; and being, like all his race, subject to violent fits of passion, he cast himself down like a madman, the pistol went off, and the shot was within a few inches of his heart. Pharold, who was present and alone, did not very well know what to do with him; but carrying him in his arms as far as he could, he called some of his own people, bound up the poor boy's wounds as well as circumstances admitted, and brought him here, knowing that in other years I was upon terms of intimacy with his father, and loved him still, notwithstanding one or two little causes of misunderstanding between us."

Manners listened in silence, and he certainly did not forget the terms in which Lord Dewry had spoken of the very person who now alluded so mildy to him; but as he was by no means fond of making mischief upon any pretence, and knew that Sir William Ryder was not a man in whom personal fear would act as any check upon resentment, he felt no inclination to mention one word of the peer's vituperation of his former friend. At the same time, the kindly tone in which Sir William Ryder spoke did not at all lead Manners to believe that he was the person in fault. The thoughts which crossed the gallant officer's mind, however, must have had some visible representatives in his countenance; for his companion looked at him with a smile, adding, "I know well what you are thinking--that probably Lord Dewry does not speak so gently of Sir William Ryder as Sir William Ryder does of him. I have heard so before. Nevertheless, Manners, I shall not call him out, and amuse the world with two men of sixty fighting a duel. Nor is Colonel Manners one to think the worse of me for acting as I do, nor to doubt my motives, though my conduct be a little eccentric. Is it not so, my friend?"

"It is, indeed," answered Manners; "and be you quite sure, my dear sir, that so firm is my confidence in your honour and integrity, from personal knowledge--which is better than all the gossip in the world--that I would never hear the name of Sir William Ryder mentioned with disrespect without taking the liberty of resenting it."

"I believe you, I believe you, Manners, from my soul," answered his companion: "but to return to our poor friend De Vaux--as soon as he was brought here, I of course sent for the best advice that was to be procured, the ball was extracted, and, as I have said, he is better. He is at present, I am happy to say, in a sound and comfortable sleep; but if you will take up your abode with me till to-morrow, you shall see him, and judge of his condition for yourself. A room shall be prepared for you immediately."

"I will willingly lie down to take a little rest," answered Manners. "But let me beg you, my dear sir, to have me called as soon as De Vaux wakes, and is willing to see me; for I left a poor young lady, his cousin--and there are ties of affection stronger than those of mere relationship between them--waiting anxiously to hear some tidings of him; for until this very night we have all imagined him murdered."

"Ah, poor girl, poor girl!" said Sir William Ryder, in a tone of deep sympathy. "She must have suffered dreadfully, I am afraid; but I can assure you that her having been kept even an hour in suspense is neither to be attributed to me nor to her cousin. His first thought was of her, his first words, after he saw me, were to beg that I would instantly write to her, in order to tell her what had occurred, and to sooth her mind as far as possible. Nay, more, though suffering much pain till the ball was extracted, he insisted upon writing a few words with his own hand, to comfort her as far as possible. Though I would fain have prevented an exertion which might injure him, I loved him for his obstinacy, Manners. The note was sent to Pharold, with directions to forward it to her; but neither note nor directions, it seems, ever reached the gipsy."

Manners could not refrain from saying, "It would have been better to have sent it direct to herself, Sir William. You must remember, my excellent friend, that you are no longer among your children, as you call them, the Indians, and that you will meet with another class of vices and virtues also here. What you would trust to a Mohawk, if he promised to perform it, and feel convinced that nothing but death would prevent its execution, is not at all to be confided to a common messenger in England, and--"

"I know all that, my friend, I know all that," interrupted his companion; "but I had no choice. At that time I was not at all certain whether I should let any one know that I was in England or not; and had I sent the note direct to Morley House, such a communication must have been opened as would instantly have put an end to my incognito. One messenger might have failed me as well as another, and it was owing to an accident which no one could foresee that the note was not delivered. So much for your rebuke, Manners," he continued, smiling; "but now tell me how the poor girl is; for the first question of my patient, when he hears that you are here, will be, How is Marian de Vaux?"

"Alarm and agitation had rendered her seriously ill," answered Manners; "so much so, indeed, that the medical man found it necessary, during the whole of yesterday and this morning, to keep her feelings deadened, as it were, by laudanum--to the great risk of her health, as he acknowledged--but it was the lesser of two evils."

"Sad, sad, indeed!" cried Sir William Ryder, rising from his seat, and walking backwards and forwards in some agitation--"sad, sad, indeed! and I am afraid that I have had something to do with the whole business; but I trust she is better now--poor girl! I am grieved, deeply grieved. But say, Manners, how was she when you left her?"

"Infinitely better, I am happy to say," answered Manners; "for your friend Pharold permitted me to inform her that De Vaux was safe at least, though he tied me down to strict conditions. That piece of news, of course, relieved her greatly; but not so much so as to set her mind at ease, till she hears tidings from me of her cousin's exact situation, which I trust to be able to give her early to-morrow."

"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly," answered Sir William Ryder. "Nay, if you think it would be any great comfort to her, we will send off a man on horseback this very night, to calm her with further assurances."

"Unless," answered Manners, "I may be permitted to say that you will give herself and Mrs. Falkland a welcome to visit De Vaux in person, I think that I had better not send, but wait till I can communicate some further information myself."

Sir William Ryder hesitated. "I am afraid," he said--"I am afraid that will be impossible, just at present. But she will believe your assurance, of course; and I think that you may venture to tell her that her cousin is under kind and careful hands, by which nothing will be neglected to promote his speedy recovery."

"I will certainly give the fullest assurances of that fact," answered Manners. "But what reason am I to assign for her being debarred from seeing and attending her cousin, when I have been admitted? She will certainly think it mysterious."

"As you do, Manners," said Sir William, with a smile. "But listen to me, and I will tell you several of the many reasons which have brought me back to a land which I have abandoned for long years; and out of those reasons you shall see whether you can find a motive to assign to Miss De Vaux for my mysterious conduct. In the first place, I, like most men, have some friends and relations; and I was seized with a longing to see them, to assure myself with my own eyes of their fate and their happiness, ere I laid my head down upon its last pillow in another land. The same longing seized me about twelve years since, but then I resisted; for long ago I had met with a sad and severe blow in my private happiness, which led me to forswear, in the bitterness of my heart, any of those ties and affections which are but so many cords to bind us to sorrow and disappointment. In various matters, about that time, I had acted wrong; and I felt that a voluntary expatriation was a good atonement. When I went, therefore, I resolved never to return; and when, as I have said, twelve years ago, the longing to see friends and relations, and scenes that I once loved, seized me, I resisted, strengthened, in so doing, by a feeling that my return to England might be painful to some whom I did not desire to pain, and would only re-awaken, in my own bosom, feelings that had better sleep. Now, however, many other motives have been added to this longing, which returned upon me this spring with more force than ever. I wished eagerly to raise such a sum as would purchase a large tract of land on which to settle for ever, without danger of molestation, the remnant of a nearly-destroyed tribe of Indians, who, after having been massacred and ill-treated by every other white man they met with, at length attached themselves to me, and were living round me like my children, as you saw."

"I did, indeed," answered Manners; "and I trust that you will let me aid in your noble design."

"I do not know that it will be necessary now, for I am likely to take other measures," answered Sir William. "My own private income was not sufficient, though I had saved out of a thousand a year, which was all that I possessed, sufficient to lay a good foundation; but I also wished the British government to interfere for the more general and powerful protection of the Indians, and this was one reason of my coming. I longed too, as I have said, to see many of my relations and friends; but I wished to do so privately. There were two persons, especially, of whom I was desirous of bearing more than I could in America. One--over whom I hold some power, from various transactions in the past--I wished to watch closely for a short time, and treat him according to his merits. The other--who, though more independent of me, I could raise up or cast down as I pleased--I desired to sift thoroughly, to examine every trait in his character, to probe every feeling in his heart, with the resolution of leaving him, ultimately, to happiness, if I found him noble and true; but at the same time to give him a severe lesson, which might crush early some failings; some peculiar evils in his disposition, that would, if suffered to remain, lead hereafter to misery, to himself and others. Various occurrences have taken place since to alter or derange these plans; and, as we are from day to day the creatures of circumstances over which we have no control, I am now waiting for some decisive event to determine for me a line of conduct which I find some difficulty in determining for myself."

"I am afraid, Sir William," answered Manners, "that even if I were to explain all this in your own words to Miss De Vaux, she would still be as much perplexed as ever; and I have often remarked, that in the minds of the timid--especially where there is real cause for uneasiness--everything that is doubtful and mysterious is interpreted into afresh cause of apprehension and alarm. Besides, according to my contract with your acquaintance Pharold, and the stipulations which you have yourself implied, with regard to your name, so far from explaining all these motives, I am not even to disclose that I have seen you."

Sir William Ryder paused for a moment or two in deep thought; and Manners, seeing that he was embarrassed, added, "Perhaps, Sir William, the best way for me to act will be, to give Miss De Vaux a true account of the state of her cousin's health; to tell that I have seen him, but to add that, from particular causes, which I must explain hereafter, I can neither inform her where he is, nor enable her to see him. I have always found it best, wherever I have been embarrassed with any mystery of my own--which, thank God, has been seldom the case--to meet the matter at once, and say, I will not tell, without entangling myself in half explanations, which do me no good, and only serve those, whose curiosity or feelings are interested, as materials for imagination to build up visionary castles withal."

"Perhaps you are right," said Sir William: "but stay yet a moment! A word or two more with our friend in the next room--I mean the gipsy--may decide my conduct."

Manners smiled at the sort of counsellors by whom he had found his friend surrounded in both hemispheres. When first he met Sir William Ryder, he had seen him every day in deep consultation with Indian chiefs; and now his principal reliance seemed to be upon gipsies: but, at present, that somewhat eccentric personage was disappointed in his purpose of calling Pharold to his councils; for when he opened the door--which led into a small neat study, with a table covered with papers, money, and lights, in the midst thereof--he found the room untenanted by any living thing.

"I had forgot," he said, turning back with a smile--"I had forgot that one half-hour in the air of a close room is too much for Pharold's endurance. He is gone, and I must send for him when I want him."

"You seem to place more reliance on him," said Manners, pointing to the heaps of gold and papers on the table, "than most Englishmen would upon one of his race."

"I would trust him, I may well say, with untold gold," answered Sir William Ryder; "as you would, Manners, if you knew him as I do. He has corresponded with me in America for twenty years; and one might be glad if, in the highest ranks, one could find so exact, so true, and so punctual a correspondent." The reader, who has already received much information concerning things of which Manners was ignorant, may easily understand some of the motives of a correspondence between two persons so different in station. Manners also had by this time discovered that his friend's acquaintance with the gipsy was certainly not of yesterday; yet there was still sufficient matter, both new and strange, in what he heard, to make him, not only feel surprised, but look it also. Sir William Ryder, however, who probably did not wish to give any further explanation, instantly led the conversation away, saying, "But to return to what we were speaking of, Manners. I must soon come to some determination; and, perhaps, I have been weak in not forming one already: but there are spots of weakness in every one's heart, as there are spots of madness in every one's brain; and I have my share, of course, of both. However, I will limit myself to a time; and when you return to Morley House, you may tell the poor girl, that though it is judged expedient that she should not see her cousin to-morrow, yet on the next morning the old gentleman with whom he is--Mr. Harley, remember--will be very happy to receive her here, together with her aunt, as I suppose she will be afraid to venture on such an expedition alone. If," he added,--"if I should find reason to change my present purpose, I can but affect the barbarian, and be absent when the ladies come."

"Such tidings will, indeed, give joy and peace," answered Manners: "but before I go to-morrow, I must take care to ascertain where your dwelling stands; for, coming hither at night, and across the country, I am totally ignorant of everything concerning the spot where I now am, except that it is more than a hundred miles from London, which I found out by a mile-stone on the road."

"We are in the environs of the little town of ----," replied his companion; "and by the road about seven miles from Morley House. I saw that this little place was to be let, as I passed by one day, immediately after my return, and took it at once, on various accounts, although I did not know how much it might prove of use to poor De Vaux. And now, Manners, to your rest; for, although I am a late watcher, you look fatigued, and are in need of repose."

"I am somewhat fatigued," answered Manners, "although I have not had any very great cause; but the fact is, the mind is sometimes like a hard rider, and knocks up the body before it is aware. I have been all this morning either with Lord Dewry, examining a gipsy boy--taken last night in a sad deer-stealing affray at Dimden--in order to ascertain whether I could discover poor De Vaux, or pursuing somewhat fiercely your friend Pharold, against whom, by-the-way, warrants have been issued on three different charges."

"On three charges, did you say?" demanded Sir William Ryder: "on three! He only mentioned directly one charge against himself, that of having murdered this poor lad, which must now, of course, fall to the ground."

"The other charges were," answered Manners, "first, that he had been engaged in the deer-stealing, wherein, I am sorry to say, blood was spilt--but in regard to that I pointed out to him a means of proving his innocence; and, secondly, that many years ago he was either a principal or an accessary in the murder of the late Lord Dewry, who was killed by some unknown person at a spot not far from Morley House."

It would be difficult to describe the effect that these few words produced upon the countenance of Sir William Ryder. His eye flashed, his brows contracted, and he bit his lip hard, till at length some feeling of contempt seemed to master the rest, and his emotion ended in a bitter and a meaning laugh. "And pray," he asked, "who is it that has brought this last charge against him?"

"None other than the brother of the murdered man, Lord Dewry," answered Manners: "he says he has proofs of the gipsy's guilt."

"They have been long in manufacturing!" answered Sir William Ryder, sternly: "I will tell you more, Manners,--as there is a God of heaven, the gipsy is innocent, and he shall be proved so, let the bolt light where it may. Proofs! Out upon him! Falsehoods and villany! But he shall learn better; for I will not stand by and see the innocent oppressed, for any remembrances that memory can call up."

"You speak more harshly than ever I heard you, my dear Sir William," answered Manners; "but perhaps you have cause which I do not know of, and into which I certainly shall not pry. However, this nobleman is, as you know, De Vaux's father, and, ere we part for the night, you must tell me how I am to act towards him; for the gipsy stipulated that I was to tell him nothing concerning his son's situation, without your consent. May I tell him where De Vaux is, and under whose care?"

Sir William Ryder paused, and he thought for several moments, with the same bitter smile which Manners's information had called up still hanging upon his lip. "Yes," he said at length--"yes, you may tell him where his son is; and you may tell him to come and see him and me as speedily as he thinks fit: but call me still Mr. Harley, for there might be something unpleasant to his ears in the name of William Ryder, which might prevent his coming. Say that Mr. Harley, the old gentleman to whose house De Vaux was conveyed after the accident he met with, will be happy to see him at any time he may name."

"I am most delighted to have your permission so to do," answered Manners; "for, to tell the truth, it would have placed me in rather an awkward position in regard to Lord Dewry, had you refused to let me give him full tidings of his son."

"He will not much thank you," said Sir William Ryder--"he will not much thank you! But, nevertheless, let him come, let him come! Perhaps, after all, this is the best way we could have devised of bringing an unpleasant affair to an end."

"I trust it may prove so," answered Manners; "and that the time may speedily come when you will find it not unpleasant to unravel all the mysteries which have been crowding lately so thick upon me, that I begin to feel confused among them, and hardly know who are friends and who are enemies."

"Though I have the clew in my hands," answered Sir William, pursuing more the direction of his own thoughts than that of Manners's last observation--"though I have the clew in my own hands, there is one thing puzzles me as much as the rest seems to do you: it is that a youth so full of high and noble feelings as Edward de Vaux should be the son of such a man as his father; yet, thank God, he has many a goodly fault too, or I should begin to doubt that he were his son."

"It not unfrequently happens," rejoined Manners, "that where the heart is originally good, the errors of the fathers serve as examples or as landmarks to the children; as the masts of some wrecked vessel often serve to warn mariners of the shoal on which she perished."

"And his heart was originally good too, I do believe," answered Sir William Ryder: "I mean the father's," he added, thoughtfully. "Well, indeed, may his example serve to show to what, step by step, we may reduce ourselves, as one vice lashes on to another."

Manners smiled. "Nay, nay, Sir William," he said, "you are doing the worthy lord somewhat less than justice, I think. I never heard of his being troubled with any of what the world calls vices: pride, indeed, and wrath, and irascibility, he is not without: but, setting aside these gentlemanly peccadilloes, I never heard of any vices; and from what I have seen of him, I should say that, whatever he may have been in the days past, he has now sunk down into a very disagreeable old gentleman--that is all."

"That is all!" cried Sir William Ryder, starting up, and laying his hand upon Manners's arm, while he fixed his eyes intently upon him--"that is all!" but suddenly breaking off, he resumed a calmer look and tone, and added, "But we have not time, to-night, to discuss characters. I am but keeping you from your rest."

Manners did not endeavour to carry on the conversation; for, in all such matters, it was his rule to let people go on just as far as they liked, but to press them no further; and although he certainly was not without some feeling of curiosity in regard to the connection between Sir William Ryder and the father of his friend De Vaux, yet he well knew that the only way to come honestly at a secret is to be totally careless about it. The bell was now rung, and Manners was conducted to a room which the servant who had given him admission, and who was an old acquaintance, had with laudable foresight prepared for his use, looking upon it as certain that a visiter who arrived at twelve o'clock at night was not likely to depart before the next morning.

Everything had been carefully provided that he could want or desire; and Colonel Manners, who enjoyed, perhaps more than most men, that inestimable blessing of a heart at ease in itself, lay down to rest, and was soon in a deep slumber.

His repose was not disturbed till the gray of the next morning, when he was roused with the intelligence that Captain De Vaux was awake, and would be very glad to see him. He was not long in obeying the summons; and, after a soldier's toilet hastily made, he rang for the servant, and was conducted to the apartment where his wounded friend lay.

There is something always melancholy in entering a sick-room in the early morning, even when it is to see returning health coming back into a cheek we love. The cheerful light of the young day, finding its way through the chinks of the shutters, and mingling with the faint but inextinguishable glare of the night-lamp, the pale and sleepy guardian of the sick, the book with which she has striven to while away the hours of watching, and scare off sleep, half-open on a table loaded with drugs and fever-cooling drinks, the warm, close atmosphere, and the drawn curtains, all bring home to our own hearts that painful conviction of our weak and fragile tenure upon health and comfort, and all that makes life pleasant, which we forget in the bright and hopeful light of day.

In the small dressing-room, through which Manners ducted to the chamber of his friend, he found a surgeon who had been brought from London, and who had passed the preceding night in close attendance upon the patient. He was luckily one of those men who can form an opinion, and will venture to speak it; and in answer to Colonel Manners's inquiries respecting De Vaux's real situation he replied at once, "There is no danger, sir. He will do perfectly well. I should advise, however, as little conversation as possible, and that of as cheerful a kind as may be, for it may retard recovery, if it do not produce more serious evil."

Manners promised to observe his caution, and entered the room. De Vaux smiled faintly when he saw him, and held out his hand, though he moved with evident pain.

"This is a sad accident, indeed, De Vaux," said Manners, sitting down by his bedside; "but I am delighted to hear from the surgeon that it is likely to have no bad consequences, and to be speedily remedied."

"I should be ungrateful to say that I am sorry he thinks so," answered De Vaux, in a melancholy tone; "and yet I can hardly make up my mind to rejoice."

"Nay, nay," said Manners, "I will not hear you say so, my friend. You can have heard no tidings, you can be placed in no situation, De Vaux, which should make you forget that you are surrounded by people who love you for yourself, and are worthy of your love--who would love you still, under all or any circumstances--that you have friends, relations, ties of every dear and intimate character that can make health and life a blessing, if you are willing to receive it as such. Nor should you forget that there are others who may well be dear to your heart, and whose whole happiness for life is staked upon yours."

"Oh yes, poor Marian," said De Vaux: "I am, indeed, ungrateful; for such a treasure as that should compensate for everything. But tell me how she is. Tell me all about her, Manners. When did she hear of this accident? and how has she borne it?"

Manners, though it can scarcely be said that he was puzzled how to answer, yet felt that, with a man of De Vaux's character, it was somewhat a delicate task, especially as, from what the surgeon had said, it might be expedient not to tell his friend the full extent of what Marian had suffered. He was too well aware of De Vaux's fastidiousness not to let him know that Marian had felt as deeply on his account as he could possibly think she ought to have done; and yet Manners did not wish to pain and alarm him by telling him how much she really had undergone.

"You ask me to tell you a long story, De Vaux," he answered, after a moment's thought, "longer, I am afraid, than your worthy surgeon will consent to your hearing at present; but the truth is, in consequence of some other accident or mistake, we never did hear of what had occurred to you at all."

"Good God!" cried De Vaux, "when with my own hand I wrote to Marian as much as I could write. I do think that servants and messengers were made for the very purpose of breaking people's hearts, or teasing them to death by carelessness."

"In this instance, however," said Manners, "it seems that there were various causes which prevented the delivery of your note; and the consequence was, that, from your unexplained absence, and several other accidental facts which came to our knowledge, we were led to conclude that you had been murdered. I, of course, instantly took arms to avenge you, as in duty bound, and, backed by warrants and gentlemen of the quorum, I have been galloping about the country ever since; so that, in fact, I have seen scarcely any thing of the family at Morley House, and less than all of your fair cousin Miss De Vaux, whose very first apprehensions rendered her so unwell that she has kept her room almost ever since."

"Good God!" cried De Vaux: "how she must have suffered! Poor dear Marian! Would to God that I could go to her--but I am afraid that I could not ride."

"Ride! Do not think of it for an instant," cried Manners, "and make yourself easy about Miss De Vaux. Last night, I, for the first time, obtained news of your safety, which did her more good than all that the god of medicine himself could have done. Nay, I do believe that she would have walked over here with me in the middle of last night, if it had not been that her own ideas of propriety, or, perhaps, her fears of your notions thereof, prevented her from undertaking such a task under such an escort."

De Vaux smiled. "You are severe upon my fastidiousness, Manners," he said; "but that is one bad quality which, I trust, I shall be able to cast away with many others. I have had some hard lessons lately, Manners, enough to bow down the pride of him of the morning star; and, perhaps, I may have more yet to undergo: but, at all events, my vain fastidiousness is gone for ever; so that one good is gained by misfortune."

"As it often is, my friend," answered Manners: "nevertheless, I think Miss De Vaux was very right to stay where she was; especially as she herself was far from strong, and I did not know whither I was about to go; for my friend the gipsy, who conducted me hither, is a man of mysteries. However, you owe him thanks for one service that he has rendered to another fair cousin of yours, Miss Falkland, whom he saved from drowning, at the risk of his own life."

De Vaux had drawn his hand over his eyes when first Manners mentioned the gipsy; but he removed it again, and looked up with pleasure at the tidings of Isadore's escape, though he asked no account of the accident. "Poor Isadore," he said, "and poor Marian, too, for God knows what we may both be called upon to suffer. Manners, my brain is in such a whirl, with various doubts, and fears, and anxieties, which I can neither explain to others nor unravel myself, that I must, indeed, endeavour to banish all thought of my own situation, and of my future prospects, if I wish to recover."

"Well, then, by all means banish all thought," answered Manners. "It is seldom that I can be accused of giving such advice; but for a man in your situation I think it absolutely a duty to cast from him every memory, and every reflection, which may tend to impede his recovery, trusting and believing that, in those circumstances where we have no power to deliver ourselves, the Almighty Disposer of all things will act for us far better than we could act for ourselves."

"I must e'en think so," answered De Vaux, in whom corporal weakness and exhaustion had deadened the first sense of misfortune. "Sir William Ryder, indeed, bids me hope, and tells me that things must and will go better than I anticipate: but we speak to each other in enigmas; and till my mind and body are capable of clearer thought and greater exertion, I must, I suppose, rest satisfied with assurances, the foundation for which I can in no degree perceive."

Manners, now anxious to lead his thoughts away from any more painful subject, gave him a brief, light sketch of his own proceeding in search of him, and all that had occurred since he had left Morley House: but, warned by what had already passed concerning the gipsy, he kept a watchful and a friendly eye upon the countenance of his friend, skilfully turning to some other part of the same subject as soon as he perceived that what he said was beginning to produce the slightest uneasiness. He was surprised to find, however, on how many points De Vaux was susceptible of pain. The mention of his own father affected him as strongly as the mention of the gipsy; and many a casual word, which seemed in itself to be innocent or kind, made him shrink as if some one had laid a rough hand upon his wound. Beginning at length to fear that his conversation was doing his friend more harm than good, Manners rose, adding, "And now, my dear De Vaux, I think I have remained as long with you as friendship can require, or gallantry permit, considering that there is a fair lady, very dear to you, watching anxiously till I shall return and tell her that I have seen you with my own eyes, and that you are living, not dead; recovering, not dying. The good people here, for various reasons, will not hear of her coming to you to-day, but they assure me that to-morrow you will be able to see her: so that I think I can then promise you a visit; and hope to find that you have in the interval regained much of the health and strength that you have lost."

"I will not ask you to stay longer, Manners," said De Vaux; "for I am too confident of my dear Marian's affection not to feel sure that the tidings of my probable recovery will be the best consolation she can receive; and tell her, Manners, I beg, that the only happiness I anticipate in life and health is that of seeing her again."

"I will tell her how happy it will make you," answered Manners; "but without any of the melancholy adjuncts, if you please, De Vaux. I will not spoil the best tidings I have had to tell for some time by such a number of unpleasant negatives as you attach to them; and so, fare you well for the present."

"Manners, Manners," said the voice of De Vaux, ere his friend reached the door, "there is one thing which I had forgot. Do not on any account let Marian think that this wound which I have received was the consequence of any intentional act of my own hand. Bid her be sure that, whatever may have occurred, I was not fool enough or cruel enough to her to think of such a thing. Explain to her the accident as I dare say you must have heard it, and tell her that though they say the pistol must have been cocked when I put it in my bosom, I have not the slightest remembrance of its having been so."

"I will tell her all," answered Manners; "but do not fancy that she will ever dream that you did do it intentionally. If you were a forlorn and solitary being like myself, destined to go through life in single unblessedness, people might suspect you; but with so many ties at present, and so much happiness to look forward to, you would be worse than a madman to throw away, not only the crown of life, but all the jewels with which fate has adorned it for you."

De Vaux gave him a melancholy look, but only added, "You do not know all, Manners!" and suffered him to depart. As he was crossing the hall in search of some one who could inform him whether Sir William Ryder was yet awake, he met the object of his search, booted and spurred, as if returned from riding. "You keep your old habits, I see, Sir William," said Manners, as they met. "You must have been up and out full early, indeed."

"Mr. Harley; remember, my dear colonel, Mr. Harley I am for the present," replied the other. "I never sleep before one, nor after five--a habit which was acquired in sorrow and in bitterness, but which I would not now lose for half an empire. But have you seen our poor friend?"

"Yes, I have," answered Manners; "and find him better in body, at least, than I had even hoped. In mind, however, he is very much depressed; and without inquiring, or wishing to inquire, my dear sir, into the connection which may exist between your affairs and his, allow me to say, as some connection does certainly exist, that I am sure whatever will sooth and quiet his mind will tend more than anything to restore him to health. Whatever, on the contrary, depresses him, as he now is, will not only greatly retard his recovery, but may, I am afraid, have, remotely, very bad results upon his constitution. I hope that I do not take too great a liberty with your friendship," he added, seeing a cloud come upon his auditor's brow.

"Not in the least, Manners, not in the least," answered Sir William: "I was only thinking what I could do to relieve the poor youth's mind. I am afraid I somewhat mistook him, Manners, when I saw him with you in America; I am afraid I did not half see the nobler and finer qualities of his mind, concealed, as they were, under an exterior of frivolous fastidiousness. But I can assure you, that anything on earth I can do to set his mind at ease I will do; and I will go and assure him thereof directly and solemnly."

Manners detained him for a single moment, to borrow a horse, and to explain the motives of his early departure for Morley House; and then suffering him to proceed, in order to sooth and calm the mind of his wounded friend, he himself took his way to Mrs. Falkland's, glad to bear tidings to those who stood so much in need of them.

Marian was watching at the window as he galloped up; and there was something in the rapid pace at which he came, in the light and agile motion with which he sprang to the ground, and flung the rein to the servant, which spoke joyful tidings. Manners was soon in the drawing-room; and the news he bore was not long in telling. He related all that he had seen, and all that he had heard of her cousin's accident and situation; and although we cannot deny that he softened a little the pain he suffered, and the grief which seemed to oppress him, Manners told her the truth, though he told it kindly.

Marian's face was alternately the abode of smiles and tears during his narrative, and during the manifold answers which he gave to her questions, and again and again she thanked him for all his energetic interest and feeling kindness, and prayed Heaven sincerely that De Vaux and herself might have some opportunity of returning it as he deserved.

Manners only interrupted a conversation which was not without interest to himself, and was so deeply interesting to her, in order to inquire for her cousin, and to put many a question concerning Miss Falkland's health, after the accident of the preceding night. He was still in full career, when she herself entered, somewhat paler but not less gay than ever; and although she declared, and persisted in the declaration, that she was bound by every rule of propriety to fall in love with the gipsy who had rescued her, and to tender him her hand and heart, Manners felt sincerely rejoiced that Pharold had been the person to come so opportunely to her aid. Isadore, indeed, as she recollected one or two words which had been spoken on the preceding evening, coloured more than once when Manners addressed her; but she knew him to be a generous man, and she determined to trust to his generosity for the result.

Mrs. Falkland soon after joined the party; and the house of mourning was changed into a house of joy. Nothing more remained but to write to Lord Dewry, informing him of his son's safety; and this Manners undertook and executed, keeping in mind the engagement he had come under to Sir William Ryder, regarding the concealment of his name. A servant was instantly despatched to Dewry Hall with the note: but on reaching that place he found that the peer had returned early that morning to Dimden, and thither he then bent his steps; but arrived too late to give Lord Dewry even the option of visiting his son that night.