Day had waned, night had overshadowed the world several hours, and Mrs. Falkland, with Marian, had long left the house in which Edward de Vaux lay ere any sounds intimated that the master of the mansion had returned. Anxious, bewildered, and impatient, De Vaux lay sleepless till ten o'clock, when the rapid rush of rolling wheels, and the quick footfalls of the horses, as they passed his window, told him that he whom he expected had arrived.

A few minutes elapsed without his appearance in the sick man's room, however, and, with his characteristic impatience, De Vaux concluded that "the fools had said he was asleep," and was sending to declare the contrary, when the door was quietly opened, and the person he wished for approached his bedside.

"I am most happy to see you, my dear sir," said De Vaux, looking up in the fine bland countenance that was bent over him, "for I cannot sleep--I cannot rest--till I ask you who, who is it that I see?"

"Ah! I perceive that your aunt has betrayed me," said Lord Dewry. "She recognised me instantly this morning; but I laid strict injunctions upon her, for many reasons, to keep my secret with you till I returned. But I expected more than was reasonable. There is a proverb against a woman keeping a secret."

"No, no," said De Vaux: "she did not exactly betray you. She let a few words accidentally fall, that only served to rouse my curiosity, which she then refused to satisfy."

"And what said Marian?" demanded the other, with a smile.

"Oh, she said nothing on the subject," replied De Vaux, "but she looked happier than I ever beheld her; and that too seemed to confirm some vague surmises which my aunt's words had called up. But yet I cannot believe it--it is impossible--I knew you myself as Sir William Ryder in America--every one knew you by that name there--and I cannot believe the wild fancy that has taken possession of me."

"It is nevertheless true," replied the peer. "Sir William Ryder has slept for more than twenty years in a village churchyard in Ireland, and I am--what I suppose you suspect--your uncle. Agitate yourself with this matter no more to-night, my dear boy: suffice it," and he pressed his nephew's hand kindly in his own, "suffice it that I am proud to have Edward de Vaux for my nephew, and shall rejoice to acknowledge him as my son."

The words were oil and wine to the heart of Edward de Vaux, but still there was something wanting. "Thank you, thank you," he replied, still holding his uncle's hand in his own; "but yet one word more before you go:--that dreadful story that the gipsy told me--that story that drove me almost mad--it is not, it cannot be true. My father did not--could not--"

"Edward," replied his uncle, gravely, "on no account must I do wrong to the memory of a noble-hearted man. The gipsy told you true, as far as he knew the truth. Nay, do not shudder: there are many palliating circumstances which he did not know, but which I will relate to you hereafter, in order to calm and tranquilize your mind. In the meantime be satisfied with knowing that, as far as I am concerned, all that was painful in the past shall be forgotten and buried in oblivion for ever. Nor, indeed, would I, even to you, so far withdraw the veil from things gone as to give any explanation, had it not been by my authority and directions--under a mistaken view of your character and heart--that the gipsy related to you as much as you already know. Your knowledge of thus much renders it necessary for your own peace that you should know more; which I will tell you as soon as you are well. Rest assured, however, that all which you have yet to hear is good and not evil, and will tend to alleviate and soften what is past."

With such information Edward de Vaux was forced to rest contented during the whole of the following week, for he could draw no more from his uncle; and he feared, by questioning any one else upon the subject, to raise suspicions which he trusted were as yet quiet in the minds of all others. The rest of the little world, however, in which these events had taken place, were not so soon satisfied. The immediate neighbourhood of Dimden and of Morley House was, of course, more agitated than the rest of the county; for there it may be said that the stone had dropped into the water, and though the rippling circles that it made extended far and wide around, yet each eddy was fainter and fainter, of course, as it became farther removed from the centre. In the immediate vortex, however, not only for nine days, but nearly for nine months, all was gossip, and rumour, and confusion. Every one had his own distinct report of the transactions which had taken place in regard to the return of the old Lord Dewry; every one had his own version of the story; and as neither the peer himself, nor any of his family, gave either encouragement or refutation to any of the statements, but held a stern and rigid silence upon the whole affair, every one was left to enjoy his own version undisturbed, and to make himself sure that it was the right one, by any logic that he thought proper to use.

There is no such diffusible a substance in nature as truth; for though an infinitely small piece of gold can be spread over a wire that might girdle the great earth, yet a much less portion of truth will serve to gild a much greater quantity of falsehood. Thus, in all the stories that were current, it is more than probable that some portion of truth existed; and many of them, aided by curious inquiry and shrewd conjecture, came very near the real facts of the case.

The good-natured world of course anticipated all the disagreeable things that were to happen. Lawsuits innumerable were prognosticated; Lord Dewry was to compel his brother to refund the long enjoyed rents of his estates; the brother was to deny his claim and rights altogether; the marriage between Edward de Vaux and his cousin was to be broken off; and some persons even anticipated that the lover would shoot himself, and the lady die of consumption.

None of these events, however, did really take place. Lord Dewry showed himself in no hurry to take possession of his estates either at Dimden or at Dewry Hall, but his title was not the less generally recognised and his rights undisputed. His brother, indeed, lay for many weeks ill at Dimden House; and, under the influence of feelings, which those around him did not rightly comprehend, besought Lord Dewry not to visit him till his strength was recovered, or till his death was near.

Edward de Vaux still remained at his uncle's cottage at the little town of ----, tended by its owner with all the care and affection of a father. His recovery was somewhat tedious indeed; and it was long ere the surgeons permitted him to rise. From that period, however, his convalescence proceeded more rapidly, and the kind tone of all his uncle's conversation--the hope, the cheerfulness, the sunshine, that beamed through it all--tended to sooth his mind, and turn it from everything that was painful in his situation. At length it was announced that he might with safety drive over to Dimden to see his father: and on the day preceding that on which he went, as soon as the short twilight of winter was over, Lord Dewry ordered his doors to be closed against all the world; and walking up and down the room--as was his custom when he spoke on matters of deep interest--while his nephew lay on the couch beside him, he entered into the long promised explanation of his past conduct.

"I need not recapitulate, my dear boy," he said, "all that you have already heard, nor tell you how bitterly I suffered from a loss, the pain of which can never be wholly forgotten. At the time it nearly drove me mad. At all events it made me look upon everything in nature through a false medium, made me hate mankind, loath even the society of my best and dearest friends, and find agony rather than consolation in the sight of the infant which my lost angel had left me, and which to a more sane and less impatient spirit would have been a source of joy and comfort to my latest hour. It was under these circumstances, and with these feelings, that I suddenly met my brother in the neighbourhood of Morley House, while I was riding over to the county town, with the purpose of giving him such a sum as I could spare at the time, but of refusing the greater part of the assistance he demanded. I had many other causes for dissatisfaction in regard to his conduct besides his boundless extravagance; but of those causes we need not speak. I acknowledge that I treated him harshly; and that, not contented with rejecting his demand, I rejected it in that stern and peremptory tone which was in some degree cruel, for grief had hardened me for the time against all those things to which at other moments I yielded most willingly. He pleaded more earnestly, more humbly, than could have been expected from one who had no small share of pride; but I refused to hear, and only repeated my determination. Words of great bitterness passed between us; and at length he drew forth a pistol, saying that nothing was left him but death or dishonour, and that he preferred the former. I remember not the exact words of my reply; but they were galling, bitter, and ungenerous; and as I spoke them, I spurred on my horse. The next moment there came a loud report, a giddiness of my eyes, and I felt myself reel in the saddle. For the moment my powers over my horse were lost; and taking fright at the sound, he plunged down the bank, lost his footing, and slipped into the river. Nay, Edward, look not so distressed, remember the shot might be accidental; my brother was following me eagerly at the time, with the weapon in his hand which he had threatened to raise against his own life: a plunge of his horse, a false step, an accidental movement, might discharge the pistol without his will. I am willing to believe it so; and I have never inquired further. If you are wise, Edward de Vaux--if you are wise, you will inquire no further either. There are few situations in which doubts are preferable to certainty, but there are some, and this is one. Suffice it that, whatever your father's intention was, he was driven at that moment, both by despair and by a brother's harshness, to a state of mind in which he could hardly be held responsible for his own actions. I forgive him from my heart for that deed, though others have taken place lately which I fear I cannot forgive--at least not as yet. But of these no more: I seek not to be your father's accuser. I would rather exculpate him as far as possible."

De Vaux sighed deeply, and still kept his hands clasped over his eyes, for he could not but feel that his uncle willingly deceived himself, in order to palliate the actions of his father. "Let me now turn," continued Lord Dewry, "to my own fate and conduct. The wound I had received, though not dangerous--having passed obliquely along the back of my head and neck, only slightly grazing the bone--was sufficient to stun and confuse me; and although in the plunge into the water I was thrown free of the horse, I should certainly have been drowned, had it not been for the activity and courage of the gipsy Pharold. I knew little that passed till I found myself lying on the moss, in the thick wood above Morley Point, with two gipsies standing by me, one of whom was my deliverer. I was still bleeding profusely; and Pharold was in the very act of sending his comrade for help to bear me home. My first words, however, were directed to stop him; and I besought the companion of my boyhood to have me carried to the tents of his people, and to conceal my escape from every one. The very first impulse on recovering my recollection had been to execute a plan, which had often occurred to me within the last few weeks previous to that time, of abandoning state, and station, and society altogether, and wasting away the rest of my days in grief and mourning. Had I been a Roman Catholic at my wife's death, I should certainly have devoted myself to the cloister; and the only consideration which had prevented me from quitting England and all my former connections, had been the thought of the inquiries and the search that would be made for me, and the annoyance to which such proceedings might subject me. Now, however, the opportunity was before me. I easily gathered, or rather divined from the circumstances in which I found myself, that no one was acquainted with my being still in life but the gipsy and his comrade: I knew that my child, with an ample fortune and numerous connections, would be well protected and cherished by my sister; and I resolved instantly to seize the only opportunity I might ever have of quitting without inquiry or pursuit, scenes that were full of painful memories, and society which I detested. The rest was easily arranged. I felt that I was but slightly wounded. Pharold would have done whatever I chose to dictate on earth; and I was borne to the gipsies' tents, and tended with as much care and skill as if I had lain in a palace, surrounded by friends and servants.

"None knew me personally but Pharold himself; and he pledged himself solemnly to conceal the fact of my existence from every one. It was agreed that his tribe should instantly remove to a distance, carrying me with them; while he remained, in order to watch the subsequent proceedings of my family, and give me information thereof. He was absent for several days; and when at length he rejoined his people, I found that he had been himself arrested, and in some degree suspected of having murdered me. He told me, however, that my brother had been the first to assert his innocence, and to effect his liberation. This conduct pleased me; and I resolved to linger in England some time longer, in order to mark your father's after proceedings. Through the exertions of Pharold, I learned all that took place. I found that, however he might have acted in other circumstances, my brother acted nobly towards my child; and I took some pleasure, the first that I had known for months, in viewing the emotions of his heart through the conduct to which they led. The pleasure, however, was of a very mingled nature; and at length I prepared to set out for Ireland, with the intention of proceeding thence to America. At Holyhead I removed from the tents of the gipsies, with whom I had hitherto continued, because I was aware that Sir William Ryder, an old acquaintance both of my brother's and my own, was to visit Pharold on Edward's account, in order to ensure more perfectly the gipsy's silence. He came at length, but in coming his horse took fright, threw him, and nearly killed him on the spot. He likewise was borne into the gipsies' tents, and for some days hovered between life and death. I saw him often, without being seen, and many a time as I stood in the shadow, while Pharold conversed with him, I heard him express bitter sorrow and repentance for all the follies into which he had been led, and depict vividly the writhings of a noble spirit under the consciousness of having dipped deeply in vice and become a participator in crime. I became interested in him, and determined in other lands--for he also was following exactly the same track towards America as myself--to let him know of my existence; which would at least relieve a part of the load under which he suffered. He partially recovered, and proceeded to Ireland; but he never reached America; for ere he could embark, the consequences of the injuries he had received in his fall assumed a severe character, and at a small inn, in a small and wretched Irish port, I found him dying and alone. His surprise on seeing me had nearly killed him; but he soon regained composure, and I remained with him till his last hour.

"By his advice, and authorized by his own hand, I took his name; and by means of papers which he gave me at his death, have received ever since the annuity of a thousand per annum, which my brother had settled upon him; nor did I think myself unjustified in either of these actions, for I only assumed a rank inferior to my own, and received money which to all intents and purposes was mine. However, as Sir William Ryder had a numerous acquaintance, it became necessary to fix my abode in such a spot as would remove every chance of my assumed name being questioned. My feelings too at this time led me to seek solitude, and an entire change, not only of scene, but of all the circumstances of life. Thus I retired to the spot where you found me, during the late war; and there, in the midst of savage life, and various sources of interest and excitement, I gradually recovered calmness and peace. Of my life in America I need give you no picture, as you have seen how it passed; and I have now only to explain further the motives of my return.

"Every human thing is weak in its resolves, and I not less than others; but still, in some degree, it is happy that it should be so; for our determinations are always the children of circumstances, and upon circumstances also must their execution ever depend. Like a madman and a fool, I had fancied that in Marian's mother I had found imperishable happiness; and when she was suddenly snatched from me, my whole feelings, my very soul, seemed turned into bitterness and disappointment. In bitterness and disappointment, then, I had resolved never to love another human being, and to cast off every tie that could bind me to human affections: but time brought resignation and consolation; and a longing, a thirst to see my child and my native land often came upon me with overpowering force. I sought not to resume wealth or station. I sought not to mingle again in cultivated society; but the yearning of the heart of a father and a man towards my daughter and my country were sometimes hardly to be resisted. That my child was well, happy, and protected, I learned from the constant correspondence which I kept up with the gipsy Pharold; and, at the same time, the interest which I took in the wild tribes around me, and the love they evinced towards me, acted as a strong tie to the land in which I had settled. I wavered often, but I resisted long; till, at length, I became acquainted with your admirable friend Manners, and through him first personally knew yourself. Your very name was full of interest to me; but how much was that interest increased when, by some casual words which passed between you and your friend, I learned that you were destined to become the husband of my only child. All the faults of your father's character rose up before my imagination his very faults towards your mother were remembered and when I pictured to myself my dear Marian suffering under similar conduct, my heart was in an agony of doubt and apprehension. From that moment I watched your every word and action with eager anxiety, striving to judge your mind and heart. I did judge you, Edward, and I judged you wrongly. There was a fastidiousness, an irritability, an impatience, a degree of pride, that put me strongly in mind of your father; and although I thought I saw some nobler traits, yet I was anxious, doubtful, ill at ease; and I determined, at any risk, at any cost, to try you to the uttermost, ere you received the fate of my child into your hands. I did try you, Edward, and somewhat too severely; and both for having mistaken your nature, and made you suffer deeply, I now ask your forgiveness. At the time you left me, I was engaged in negotiating the purchase of a large tract of land to be reserved for certain tribes of Indians, but a larger sum was required than I could command; and this, with the other circumstances I have mentioned, hastened my return to England. I arrived in my native country even before you did; but a thousand difficulties surrounded me which I had not foreseen; and my anxiety and eagerness made me act with less caution than I should have done. I had no agent in whom I could confide but the gipsy Pharold; and although he wrought in every thing exactly under my directions, yet a thousand circumstances, over which we had no control, turned our actions from their course, and led to results that neither of us anticipated. My intention was not to claim either my name or my estates, if I found that you were worthy of my child: but I have been forced forward, from step to step, as if by the strong hand of fate, till at length it became an imperative duty to disclose myself, in order to deliver the innocent from persecution. One satisfaction, however, I have obtained, which is, that I can now feel unbounded confidence in the man to whom I leave the happiness of my child in charge. Remember also, Edward, that I have resumed my own rights, without compromising the honour or reputation of your father--"

"Indeed! indeed!" cried De Vaux, starting up, and grasping his uncle's hands. "Thanks, thanks, my dear sir! That is a blessed relief indeed! But will not people suspect--"

"They cannot do so reasonably," replied Lord Dewry. "The secret, my dear boy, remains with you and me alone, and never to a living creature shall it pass my lips, as I hope for happiness hereafter."

"But the gipsy!" cried De Vaux, "the gipsy!"

"The gipsy is no more!" replied his uncle, a shade coming over his countenance. "Persecution and severe laws have driven him to despair, and despair to death. And now, Edward, to-morrow you are about to visit your father; in regard to letting him know what information you possess, act as you shall think fit. Were I in your circumstances, if possible, I should conceal from him that I knew aught beyond common report; but if you do communicate to him the knowledge you have obtained, add that for all and every fault towards myself I forgive him from my heart and soul, but that his conduct towards Pharold the gipsy rests dark upon my mind; and that, perhaps, it would be better if we did not meet again till time had softened the remembrance. Present him, Edward, with this packet also. It contains a deed which will prevent him from feeling any great change of fortune from my return."

De Vaux coloured as he took it; and his uncle added,--"You must not again make me deem you proud, Edward."

"No, no, my dear sir," replied De Vaux. "What I have suffered has not only been a trial, but will, I trust, prove a cure; for the errors that you saw and justly feared, were fully as real as apparent. I cannot but feel pained, however, that we should have so small a right to expect--to expect--" He paused, hesitated a moment, and then added,--"to expect bounty at the hand which now bestows it."

"Call it not bounty, my dear Edward," answered his uncle, "nor couple yourself with others in any shape, for in this deed you are in no degree interested. The fortune which Marian inherits from her mother will render you independent, till my death renders you wealthy. And now to conclude, ere I wish you good-night:--I have been forced to speak to you long of your father. In doing so, though I have tried not to spare my own faults, I have been obliged to dwell for long upon his; but I have done so once for all, and I never more mention them again, either to his son or to any one else. It has been as painful for me to speak, as for you to hear. It is over; and now, good-night!"

We might dwell longer upon the feelings of Edward de Vaux; but we have only space left for his actions. The next morning early he set out to visit his parent, and it was late ere he returned. When he did so, however, he announced to his uncle that, although still unwell, his father had quitted Dimden, and removed a few stages on his journey to a remote part of the country, in which he had determined to fix his residence.

"Of course, my dear sir," he added, "every inducement, but one, would lead me to remain here, in the scenes wherein I have been brought up, which are full of sweet recollections, and which contain her I love the best on earth. Nevertheless, he is my father; and I cannot suffer him to linger through the hours of sickness, in sorrow, dejection, and solitude, when, perhaps, the society of his son may give him consolation, or, at least, afford some diversion to his thoughts. To-morrow, therefore, I will see Marian; and then, if the surgeons will let me, will set off to follow my father. As soon as his illness is terminated," and he spoke with a look of pain and apprehension, "I will return, and claim a promise which is more valuable to me than life; and, in the meantime, I know that none who are dear to me will think the worse of me for having in this instance preferred duty to happiness."

Lord Dewry made no opposition to his purpose, and it was accordingly executed. Two months elapsed without any event of importance. Lord Dewry took possession of his rights again; and rumour and gossip, at every fresh incident in our drama, revived more and more faintly, till at length they died away, and gave place to newer things. The body of the gipsy Pharold was never found; and a vague report spread over the country that he was not dead, but had returned to his people, and had been seen in several places by persons who were acquainted with his person; but the origin of this report could not be traced; and certain it is, that The Gipsy never again presented himself before any of the family of De Vaux. The tribe which he had led disappeared from the country; and whither their wanderings conducted them, or what was their fate, the writer of this book cannot tell, though it appears that Mr. Arden, that indefatigable magistrate, pursued them with his usual vigour, on the charge of deer-stealing and murder, but was unsuccessful in the attempt to identify any of the parties. In the meanwhile two inducements led Lord Dewry to establish his permanent residence at Dimden, rather than at the newer mansion which his brother had inhabited; first, that it was full of memories that he loved; and, secondly, that it was near those who were the dearest to him on earth. Colonel Manners, for his part, had prolonged his stay at Morley House for some time; but he then returned to London, promising faithfully to renew his visit, when the same cause which had brought him first into that part of England was again urged as a plea for revisiting it. To the surprise of all his military acquaintances, however, shortly after his arrival in the capital, Colonel Manners resigned the command of his regiment, and retired upon half pay. Various causes were assigned for this proceeding; but the real motive lay hidden in his own bosom, deeper than he liked to own even to himself.

While these events were passing, Edward de Vaux wrote often to his uncle, and still more frequently to Marian; but at the end of two months the peer received a letter in which his brother's handwriting was faintly to be traced. It was short, and to the following effect:--

"My Lord,

"I am dying; and a few days are all that remains to me of life; I therefore venture to ask that you would see me once more before we part--perhaps for ever. I would fain receive your forgiveness from your own lips. I would fain tell you how that remorse--which led me on to new crimes and more intense sufferings at every step, while it was the companion of terror and despair--has conducted me to repentance and consolation, now that the burden has been lightened by your return. I have not only wronged you, but I have fearfully wronged others, and I acknowledge it with sorrow and with shame. Nor will I attempt to excuse or palliate any part of my conduct; for you, whose life has passed without spot, cannot tell the goading power of that fiery scourge with which one great crime drives us on to a thousand more, in order to conceal it. My cruel, I might almost say insane, persecution of an unhappy man who, as I hear, is now no more, had such feelings for its cause; but I know too well that if my deep and bitter repentance be not accepted by the Almighty, it will be no vindication of a great crime to urge that it was the consequence of another. In regard to my offences towards yourself, I have been punished by twenty years of those torments which have been assigned to hell itself--the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched. But this is not enough; and if I did not trust that the deep repentance which I feel may obtain some better expiation of my offences than my own sufferings can afford, I should die without hope. I do hope, however, that mercy may be found; and oh, my brother, let me beseech you to encourage that trust, by seeing me, and assuring me of your full forgiveness, ere I go to another world."

The peer lost not a moment, and arrived at his brother's bedside before the last scene was over. He found in him, however, scarcely a trace of what he had been even three months before. At that time, intense mental exertion and activity had apparently given him power to bear up under all the load that pressed upon his heart; but the sudden re-appearance of his brother, and the events which accompanied it, seemed to have broken, in a moment, the staff under his hand, and he had fallen at once into age, decrepitude, and decay.

Lord Dewry and Edward de Vaux returned not after to Dimden Hall in deep mourning; and though joy certainly sparkled in the lover's eyes as he once more held Marian to his heart, yet for many weeks he was grave and sad, and only recovered his cheerfulness by degrees. Nor indeed even then did Edward de Vaux ever resume the same demeanour which he had formerly borne. Sorrows, anxieties, and humiliation had rendered him grave; but they had nevertheless in no degree made him less amiable in the eyes of those that loved him. On the contrary, whatever had been frivolous, or fastidious, or irritable in his nature, had been removed; and in the trials he had undergone he had cast away the impatient pride, which was the worst quality he had possessed, and had obtained a calm dignity, which had a better and a nobler foundation. Marian de Vaux did all she could to sooth, to comfort, and console him; and in the end, if there was anything on earth of which he was proud, it was of the love and the conduct of her he was shortly to call his bride. As soon as De Vaux urged the fulfilment of the engagement between Marian and himself, he met with no opposition; and the day was fixed. Manners was immediately informed of the fact; and, according to the invitation he received, came down to Morley House a fortnight before the time appointed for the marriage. Even six or eight months will work their change in every one; and Isadore Falkland remarked that Colonel Manners neither seemed in such good health nor such good spirits as when last she had seen him: but ere the ceremony took place, in the air of the country and the cheerful society which he now enjoyed, he had recovered both; and only now and then gave way to a moment or two of absent thought.

All was now gayety and cheerfulness: and as nothing occurred either to delay the wedding again, or to imbitter the after lives of Edward and Marian de Vaux, we shall pass the whole over with the fewest possible words--they were united and were happy.

But one scene more, and we have done. On the day succeeding that of the wedding, there was, according to the custom of that time, a grand and solemn dinner given at Morley House to all the grave and reverend seniors in the neighbourhood. It was now the height of summer; and though men sat long and drank deep in those days, yet people who were sufficiently reasonable to condemn the practice, and sufficiently firm to contemn an idle sneer, could rise from table when they liked, even then. Thus, about an hour after the ladies had retired, and just as the sun's lower rim touched the horizon, Colonel Manners, who had been strangling a whole generation of yawns, rose and sauntered to the window. Mr. Arden, who had sat next to him, instantly seized the decanter, and exclaimed, "Come, come, colonel; your glass is charged."

"Thank you," answered Manners; "I do not drink any more."

"Poo, poo," cried the magistrate; "no flinching, colonel; your glass is charged--charged to the muzzle; and a gallant soldier like you will never refuse to fire it off."

"I am on half-pay," answered Manners, with a smile; and moving towards the door, notwithstanding all Mr. Arden's objurgations, he left the room.

In the drawing-room he found the ladies scattered in various parties, and engaged in various occupations. Mrs. Falkland was paying such attention to her guests as the circumstances required; but Isadore, as if she had quite forgotten them, was standing at the far bay window, looking at the setting sun and thinking--

Manners advanced as quietly as possible to the same spot, and spoke a few words to Miss Falkland, which she answered in the same tone. It was a low one. The conversation might thus have gone on for a long time without disturbing any one; but Lady Margaret Simpson, who sat at the other side of the room, was fond of being a third; and in about five minutes she crossed over and joined them.

"Well, Colonel Manners," she said, "I have not been able to speak a word to you all dinner-time, and I wanted to talk to you about the wedding. Has not this been a very fortunate termination to all that bad business?"

"Most satisfactory, indeed," answered Manners, with a glance towards Isadore, who looked vexed and provoked. "I doubt not that De Vaux and his fair bride are fully of your opinion."

"Oh, they of course think so," rejoined Lady Margaret; "and there can be no doubt that marriage is a very right and very proper thing, when fortune, and rank, and all that agree. Do you not think so, my dear Miss Falkland?"

"Certainly, madam," answered Isadore, in a tone which argued a doubt whether she should laugh or cry; "I dare say it is a very proper thing."

"Then now tell me," cried Lady Margaret, in a gay and happy tone of raillery--"then now tell me, why you--who I know have had three very good offers indeed--why you yourself do not marry? Tell me the truth, now."

"Oh, certainly I will," answered Isadore, half gayly, half pettishly. "It is, I suppose, because I do not think it worth while to marry without love; and if the man that I could love does not choose to propose to me, it is quite impossible, you know, that I can propose to him."

God knows whether the colour that spread over Isadore's face came from within or without,--whether it was a rush of warm blood from some deep source in her heart, or the warm beams of the setting sun reflected from the damask curtain on her cheek. However that might be, she felt that the crimson was growing too deep, and turning round, upon some light excuse, she left the room. Manners remained for a moment or two to hear some more of her ladyship's pleasantries; and then declaring that he could not abandon, even for the pleasure of her society, his sunset walk in the garden, he strolled out through the anteroom, which was not the way that Isadore had taken. When he reached the lobby, however, he remembered that there was a certain music-room, of which he had remarked that Isadore Falkland had lately become extremely fond, and as he had by this time acquired a strong liking for the things that she liked, he turned his steps thither instead of to the garden.

No sooner did he open the door, than he beheld Miss Falkland seated near the window, with a handkerchief in her hand, engaged in the somewhat sad occupation of wiping tears from her eyes. "Good God, Colonel Manners!" she exclaimed, as soon as he appeared, "leave me, leave me, I beg."

But Manners did not obey. On the contrary, advancing rapidly towards her, he took her hand, saying, "Miss Falkland, I am either the most happy or the most miserable of men. I have broken through all my resolutions; I have exposed myself to love, where I have no right to entertain a hope; I love for the first time, deeply, passionately, sincerely, and it is for you to say whether that passion shall be my curse or my blessing."

Isadore replied not, but her tears burst forth more vehemently than before; and the hand that Manners had taken remained trembling in his. Manners pressed her to his heart; and Isadore ended her flood of tears upon his bosom.

It was nearly three months after this event ere Isadore Falkland again met Lady Margaret Simpson; and then her ladyship's first exclamation was, "Goodness, my dear Miss Falkland, they tell me you are going to be married to Colonel Manners! Well, I do declare, when you are so very handsome, it is a great pity that he is so ugly."

"Ugly!" cried Isadore. "Ugly! Lady Margaret! He is the handsomest man in all the world!" and she continued to think so to her dying day.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES

Footnote 1: At various times very severe laws have been enacted in all countries against gipsies. The very fact of being a gipsy, or consorting with them for a certain length of time, was, at one period, punishable by death in England. The greater part of these laws, however, had been repealed before the epoch at which the events recorded in this book occurred; and that wandering race were simply subject to the regulations respecting rogues and vagabonds. The old spirit of the penal statutes, however, was not forgotten, and the gipsies were often visited with bitter persecution long after those statutes had ceased to exist. It is not unworthy of remark, that in Scotland they have been, at various times, not only treated with great lenity, but that their leaders have been recognised by law as sovereign princes, exercising capital jurisdiction over their own race.

Footnote 2: We need hardly point out to the reader, that though the name Has been changed, the character of a well-known individual is not here overdrawn.

Footnote 3: It is a peculiar trait in the character of the gipsies, remarked, I believe, in every country where they are to be found, that each individual strives to possess himself of something formed of one of the precious metals, denying himself even necessaries to procure it; and guarding it with a degree of care which the race extend to few other things. By some writers it is asserted that these cups, or ornaments, or other articles formed of gold or silver, descend from generation to generation, and are never parted with except under circumstances of the greatest necessity.

Footnote 4: This habit is said still to exist among many of the gipsy tribes; and some persons have not scrupled to assert, though apparently without reason, that they carry their ideas of the community of property to a somewhat licentious extent.

Footnote 5: The gipsies of all countries still hold the persuasion that they were originally led into Europe by persons whom they term Dukes or Lords of Upper Egypt.

Footnote 6: All the various tribes of gipsies, scattered throughout different parts of Europe, undoubtedly possess a tradition of the former greatness of their people; and whenever they can be brought to speak upon the subject, adhere strictly to the story told by the first of their nation that appeared in Europe, and maintain that their original country was Egypt; some calling it Lower Egypt, some Upper Egypt--a distinction worthy of remark, as it seems to evince a real knowledge of the land that they claim as their own. The learned have endeavoured to trace them to the Indian caste of Parias; and Sir William Jones, I think, has pronounced many of the words in their language to be pure Sanscrit, which fact would afford the strongest proof that they are not of Paria origin. Besides this, I have been assured by a learned friend, who passed many years in India, that gipsies are sometimes to be met with in Hindostan, and appear there as much a race distinct and separate from any of the native tribes as they do among the nations of Europe.

Footnote 7: The gipsy tribes throughout Europe are so like one another in their habits, that it is extraordinary so great a difference should exist in their manner of burying their dead as has been observed among them, especially when they attach much importance to the method they each pursue. Among the greater part of the continental gipsies the habit of burying their dead under water prevails, but to other tribes, again, the forest affords a place of sepulture; and to others, I have heard, the summits of high mountains.