We must now turn to follow the course of Colonel Manners, from the time we last left him at Morley House to the moment of his visit to Lord Dewry, comprising in all a space of about eight hours. While waiting for his horse he had, as we have already seen, examined quickly, but not the less accurately, into the story of the peasant who had heard shots fired in the neighbouring wood during the night before; and he had thus satisfied himself that there was very little probability of there being any connection whatever between those shots and the absence of his friend, except such as the marvel-loving mood of the old butler and the natural fears of De Vaux's relations had supplied from the stores of imagination. The shots had been fired, it seemed, in a direction different from that in which there were many reasons for believing that De Vaux had gone; and the man himself acknowledged, not only that he had originally supposed the sounds to be occasioned by poachers, but that he had heard the report of one gun on the preceding night.

Convinced, from what he himself suspected, as well as from what Marian had said, that De Vaux had gone to visit the gipsies on the hill, Colonel Manners at once determined to turn his horse's head thither, before he made any examination in the wood where the shots had been heard; and in this resolution he was strongly confirmed by a short conversation with the head-gardener, whom he met as he was just passing the gates.

As soon as Manners saw him he checked his horse, and demanded, "Pray, in coming through the garden this morning, did you see any marks of steps in the direction of the small door leading towards Morley Down?"

"No, sir," replied the man; "but I found the key in the outside of the door this morning, so that anybody might have got into the garden that liked; but, however, I cannot see that any of the fruit is gone. Did you hear of any one having got in last night, sir?"

"No, no," answered Manners: "I did not mean to imply that," and spurring on his horse, he rode forward more than ever determined to address his first inquiries to the gipsies. Now Colonel Manners was not a man to pause and wonder what could be the connection between the Honourable Edward de Vaux and the king of shreds and patches from whom he had received the letter, till the time was past for rendering effectual service. Nevertheless, as he rode on, he did wonder much at that connection, revolving in his mind every thing probable and improbable which could account for circumstances with regard to which the reader wants no explanations; but keeping his horse's chest all the time steadily against the hill, and his spurs to its flanks, to prevent its resisting a method of progression to which he never subjected it except on occasions of necessity. The beast panted, but still Manners, feeling that perhaps too much time had been lost already, kept it up to the same pace, saying, internally, "You would have gone unflinching at the heels of the hounds, my good gray, and the matter is more important now."

The early rays of the sun had licked up the hoar-frost of a clear autumnal morning, but had left the roads, in consequence, and especially the road up which Manners's course lay, heavy and difficult. The sunshine, too, of the autumn--as we often see with the sunshine of life--had been too early bright to continue unclouded to the close of the day; and now, even as he rode on, a thin brownish film of dull vapour began to creep up from the verge of the horizon, promising rain ere long. Manners spurred on all the faster, not that, as far as his own person was concerned, he cared whether it rained or not, but he had served long enough with nations who follow their enemies by the lightest traces in the dew or in the sand to know that a heavy rain was often destruction itself to the hopes of a pursuing party.

At length he reached the level at the top of the ascent; and, pointing with his hand to the tumulus, he said, turning to those who followed him, "You, William, ride up as far as you can upon the mound, and keep a keen eye upon the whole plain. If you see any one skulking about or watching, give instant notice, and gallop up if you hear me call. You come with me," he added, to his own man; and, taking the shortest cut towards the sandpit, he spurred on towards the spot where he had last seen the gipsies. The bushes, however, were now directly between him and the bank that had sheltered their encampment, so that he could see nothing till he was nearly upon the pit.

Then, however, his disappointment was not small to find the usual relics of a gipsy resting-place, but nothing else. A few rags, a leaf of an old black-letter book, feathers of many birds, and fur of more than one sort of beast, several charred spots, and a large stick or two, were to be seen upon the ground; but nothing else met the eye in any direction, and Manners paused for a moment to lay out what was to be done next.

"Go back for a hundred yards," he said, at length, turning to his servant; "and then make a slow circle at that distance quite round this pit, seeing whether you can find fresh footmarks in any direction."

The servant obeyed, and in a few minutes, exclaimed, "Here are a great many, sir, along this road, which seems to go down the other side of the hill. Horses' feet, too, and cart-wheels, quite fresh."

"Go on quite round," rejoined his master. "What do you find more?"

"Here are a good many scattered footmarks in this direction, sir," replied the man when he had arrived at a spot situated exactly between Manners and the little tumulus; "but they do not tend in any particular way that I can see."

Manners rode up; but the footprints were turned in many directions, and were of various sizes, some seemingly fresh, and some half-effaced by others. Nothing, therefore, could be discovered from the traces on that particular spot; but as Colonel Manners had every reason for believing that his friend must have approached the gipsy encampment from that side, he took the pains of dismounting, and tracing the different steps some way upon each of the several paths in which they led. It was in vain, however; the whole were so puzzled and intermixed that he could make nothing of them, and had his foot in the stirrup to mount again when De Vaux's servant came down from the mound, at full gallop, exclaiming, "There is certainly some one watching there, sir, at the edge of that wood. I have seen them come out and in three times. There! there! Do you see, sir? He is coming more forward now."

Could Manners have bent down with his attendants, so as to escape the attention of the person who approached, he would certainly have done so; but though they might have hidden themselves among the neighbouring slopes, their horses were not so easily concealed, and the sandpit was now too far off to afford them a screen. A moment's thought showed him that it would be best to stand quite still, as the man, whoever he was, was still advancing. The next moment, however, the stranger stopped--went on again a few steps farther--stopped again; and then, turning precipitately, made his way back towards the wood.

Manners was in the saddle in a moment; and could speed have accomplished what he desired, the person who so evidently sought to avoid observation would not have escaped, but the distance he had advanced from the wood had not been more than a hundred yards; and long ere Manners's horse could reach the skirt of the forest ground all vestige of him he pursued was lost in an intricate labyrinth of trees and bushes, which set further search at defiance. The two men came up shortly after, while Manners was pausing disappointed by the edge of the wood; and De Vaux's servant, touching his hat, called the colonel's attention to some footmarks, which they had passed as they followed him. Manners instantly turned back, and in a dip of the ground, where some mud had been left by a half dried up pool, he discovered the distinct traces of two different sets of footsteps. Both were small, and neither seemed to have been left by the tread of a peasant; but one was evidently the mark of a boot, cut by some neat and fashionable maker; and De Vaux's servant declared that he could swear to that print having been made by his master's foot.

Nothing remained, then, but to follow these footsteps as far as possible; but the difficulty of doing so was not small, for there were but few spots of a nature similar to that in which the traces had been found, and the ground around was in general covered by short parched grass, or long tufts of rushes. At length, however, at the distance of more than fifty yards farther on, in the exact direction in which the other steps pointed, Manners discovered the mark of a heel, and this again led them to more steps. Several times the traces seemed lost entirely, and several times Colonel Manners was obliged to return to the last he had seen, and set off anew; but still the positive assertions of his friend's servant that the footsteps were those of De Vaux caused Manners to persist, till at length he succeeded in tracing the prints to the edge of the steep bank, to which, as we have seen, the gipsy had really led his unfortunate visiter.

Manners now paused, with some very painful apprehensions gathering thick upon him. Thither, it is true, De Vaux must have come willingly with some other person, for there was not the slightest appearance either of haste or resistance in any of the footmarks they had seen; but it was in that very wood, near which they now were, that the report of fire-arms had been heard the night before; and, as far as Manners had been able to discover, it had been in the precise direction to which the steps had now guided them. What, too, he asked himself, could be De Vaux's inducement to approach so lonely a place as this--by a path which led to no other object--in the dead of the night, and with a person to whom it appeared he must have been a stranger? What, too, could be that person's object in leading him hither at such a time?

No answer could he give to either of these questions which was at all likely to calm the apprehensions that he now began seriously to entertain concerning his friend's fate; and he gazed round the spot to which the footsteps had conducted him with more anxiety concerning the next object that was to meet his view than ever he had felt on the field of battle.

At length, however, his eye rested on the little rugged path by which his friend and the gipsy had descended to the scene of their conference; and Manners at once followed it. Here, again, the two sets of footprints were distinctly visible, going down towards the abandoned quarry and the felled oak. There were marks also to be seen, as of some one coming up; but they had evidently been imprinted by the tread of one person, and that not of Edward de Vaux. A few drops of blood next met Manners's eye, as with an attentive gaze he examined the ground while he descended. Then came more and more, dotting the sand with red, till they at length led on to a spot where the same footsteps were thick and many, as if the persons whose course they marked had stood there for some time. There, too, appeared, however, an evidence of more import; for close to the spot where De Vaux and the gipsy had been standing, the sand had drank up a large quantity of gore, while the patches of short green grass that had rooted themselves here and there upon the broken ground around were dabbled with red in various directions.

Manners gazed with horror and with grief on signs so unequivocal of the fate of his unhappy friend; and if he sorrowed bitterly for De Vaux, his heart was hardly less afflicted when he thought of her who was so soon to have become his bride--of her whose father and whose lover had shared the same dark and melancholy fate. His heart bled for her; and although, under any circumstances, he would have felt the same sympathy for De Vaux's family, and the same grief for the loss of his friend, the pain he personally felt was aggravated by the belief that he had, in some degree, been made an instrument for the purpose of decoying him into the trap which had evidently been laid for him. That feeling, however, and the indignation which that feeling awakened, made him the more strongly determine never to abandon the search till he had discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. He resolved to devote time, and fortune, and life itself, if it should be necessary, to the pursuit; to trace the offender out with the pertinacity of a bloodhound, and to run him down as he would a wolf.

Although, to a man of Manners's character and peculiar frame of mind, the very task of the avenger was a bitter and a dreadful one, yet there was another duty still more grievous which lay before him for execution--that of communicating to the family of his unhappy friend the painful facts he had discovered; and the thought of the tears of Marian, and the sterner grief of Mrs. Falkland, and the deep, deep sorrow of her daughter, all thrilled upon him as he contemplated the course he had to follow. But to such thoughts he gave but a few moments. No time was to be lost in long deliberation, if action were to be effectual; and as Manners was not more a man of real deep and noble feeling than he was a man of active energy, he turned instantly to the measures for detecting the murderer. His first step was to take the exact measurement of both the footprints, and the next, to note down precisely in his memorandum-book every thing that had occurred in the search.

The man who had been seen watching his party from the wood he felt sure was implicated in the transaction, if he were not the principal; and among the gipsies were to be found, beyond all doubt, the accomplices of the murderer, if not the participators in the deed itself. After a brief conversation, then, with the servants concerning the discoveries they had already made, he proceeded to inquire what was the next village or town to the seat of Lord Dewry; and being informed by his late friend's servant, who was well acquainted with the county, that it was called Barholm, he went on to give further directions.

"You, William," he said, "ride back to the sandpit, which you saw me examining just now on the top of the common; you will there find the tracks of wheels and feet going down the opposite road to that by which we came, indicating the direction the gipsies have taken. Follow them as fast as you can, making continual inquiries concerning them. Trace them out, step by step, till you have found them. Then hire any of the peasantry to keep watch upon them, night and day, paying whatever sum may be necessary in advance, and giving strict orders to follow them wherever they go. There is a note to pay the people. Do not spare either speed or money; and when you have taken these precautions, ride over to join me at Barholm, where I will be tonight. Quick! mount, and away!"

The man obeyed, and Manners then turned to his own servant. "You, John," he said, "lead your horse down the bank to the road--then on to the village there, with all speed. Gather together as many stout men as ever you can, and mount them at any price. Establish corresponding patrols all round this wood, as we did at the wood beyond Montreal last year, and remember that the great thing is haste. There is money, and if you need more, refer the people to me at Morley House. When you have done that, and left the care of the patrol in the hands of the most intelligent fellow you can find, come back to me at the house."

"Shall I tell the folks what is the matter, sir?" demanded the servant. Manners mused for some moments. "Yes," he said, at length, "yes; circumstances fully justify it; and the people, who must love Mrs. Falkland and her family, will work in the matter with the greater interest. Lose no time, John, lest the fellow get out of the wood before you can surround it. He will probably lie there for half an hour or so, till he thinks we are gone, and then will make an effort to escape. It will take at least four or five-and-twenty men to watch it properly, giving each of them half a mile; but I should think that in the village you can get together as many--at all events, do your best."

The man bowed, and led his beast down the bank, while Manners, springing into the saddle, turned his horse's head back towards Morley House.

With grief and reluctance he did so; and although he felt the necessity of promptitude in his own proceedings, and that he had no right to keep those so deeply interested in suspense, yet repugnance to his painful task certainly rendered his horse's pace slower in returning than it had been when he set out upon his search.

"How is Miss De Vaux now?" he asked of the servant who presented himself to take his horse; and it was some relief to hear in reply that she had not come down. He then ascended the stairs towards the drawing-room, but in the anteroom he was met by Isadore, who had already become aware of his return. All the light gay spirit was gone from her eyes, and her countenance now expressed nothing but intense anxiety. "You look grave, Colonel Manners," she exclaimed, as soon as she saw him. "You look sad; for Heaven's sake, tell me what have you discovered?"

"Nothing at all satisfactory," replied Manners, anxious to break the matter to her as gently as possible: "the whole business is certainly very strange; but I still hope and trust that--"

"Hope and trust!" exclaimed Isadore, clasping her hands. "Oh, Colonel Manners, you know more than you say. Poor, poor Marian! But tell me, I beseech you, tell me all. Indeed, this suspense is worse than the truth."

"I have very little to tell, my dear Miss Falkland," he replied; "but I must acknowledge that what I have to tell is not at all calculated to remove our apprehensions."

"But the gipsies, Colonel Manners!" exclaimed Isadore; "have you seen the gipsies?"

"No, I have not," he answered: "they had left the common before I arrived; but I found traces of the way they had taken, and have sent your cousin's own servant to pursue them."

"Sent my cousin's servant, without attempting to follow them yourself!" cried Isadore; but then, instantly lighting upon the right conclusion, she added, "But, no, no, no, Colonel Manners, I know you better! You would never have sent my cousin's servant upon such an inquiry, unless you had discovered something to render your stay here more necessary. But here comes mamma from poor Marian's room. Now, for Heaven's sake, tell us all, Colonel Manners."

"I hope Miss De Vaux is more composed," said Manners, turning to Mrs. Falkland as she entered.

"She is asleep from the effect of strong opiates, my dear sir," replied Mrs. Falkland gravely; "and, if I may judge from your countenance, it is happy for her that she is so. Now, Colonel Manners, tell me candidly what you have discovered--I require no preparation."

"The facts are simply these, then," replied Manners, "and I will not attempt to conceal from you that I am deeply uneasy on account of De Vaux. When I reached the gipsy encampment all was vacant, and nothing to be found but the place where it had been, together with fresh tracks of wheels and feet, marking the direction which the great body of the gipsies had taken. However, in another part of the common we discovered footmarks, which De Vaux's servant positively asserts to be those of his master; and, of course, my first care was to follow those as far as possible. They led us, I am sorry to say, in the direction where shots had been heard in the wood."

"Good God!" cried Isadore, the tears bursting from her eyes; "poor Edward! and still more unhappy Marian!"

"Nay, do not weep so bitterly, Miss Falkland," said Manners, "or I fear I shall not be able to finish my account. Remember, however, that we have discovered as yet nothing at all certain, and that such appearances as we have discovered are often, very often, fallacious."

"You must let her weep, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland: "men never understand how great a relief tears are to a woman; and often I regret that some severe sorrows have taken from me the power of weeping as once I could. Pray go on, too; let us hear the worst. Where did the steps lead to?"

"To a high bank just above a turn in the road," replied Colonel Manners; "a little more than a mile on the other side of the village."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Falkland, now extremely agitated; "the very spot where my poor brother was murdered."

"Not exactly," answered Manners; "for that spot was pointed out to me by De Vaux as we came hither; and the place to which I now refer, though near it, is not precisely the same. At that bank, however, all traces of my poor friend's footsteps were lost, and I could only find those of another person going away from it."

Isadore continued to weep in silence; but Mrs. Falkland, seeing that Manners paused somewhat abruptly, fixed her eye upon him with a look of keen inquiry. Manners glanced towards Miss Falkland, slightly raising his eyebrows, and shaking his head; and Mrs. Falkland, understanding his meaning, took Isadora's hand, saying, "Go, my love, and sit by your poor cousin: Colonel Manners may have business with me which we can better discuss alone."

Isadore obeyed at once, and Mrs. Falkland then turned to Manners with firm composure, saying, "Now, Colonel Manners, tell me all; what more did you find?"

"I am sorry to say, madam," he answered, "that I found a great deal of blood spilt upon the sand."

Mrs. Falkland covered her eyes with her hands, and remained silent for several minutes. At length she looked up, and Colonel Manners proceeded:--"I have now, madam, related all that I have done, except some measures already taken for the apprehension of the persons implicated. Such appearances as those I have met with, I still say, are often fallacious; but, nevertheless, it is absolutely necessary to take the same steps as if they were perfectly certain. If you will give me the name of the nearest magistrate, I will write to him instantly to obtain his sanction for what I have already done, and his assistance in what we may yet have to do."

"The nearest magistrate is old Mr. Arden," replied Mrs. Falkland; "an active and intelligent man, though somewhat severe. He is the same," she added, while some tears came into her eyes--"he is the same who investigated with so much energy the circumstances attending the death of my poor brother."

"To him, then, I will write at once, madam," replied Manners. "When I have done so, I have another task to perform which will lead me to some distance; but I will be back here to-morrow; for though I would not willingly intrude upon your family in such a moment of grief, yet I hold myself bound--"

"Oh, do not call it intruding, Colonel Manners," cried Mrs. Falkland; "if you will have the great kindness to manage the whole of this sad business for me, to act as my representative in it, and to add my love for my poor nephew to your own friendship for him, as motives for ascertaining his fate and pursuing his murderers, you will confer the greatest of favours on me and mine. Oh no, Colonel Manners, you must not think of leaving us at such a moment as this, when we all want the assistance, advice, and support of one so well calculated to strengthen and to aid us. But do you know there is another task I am going to put upon you; and circumstances may render it very painful to you--De Vaux's father--I could wish these tidings broken to him. His whole soul was wrapped up in his son; and I am sure Colonel Manners is too generous not to forget, in moments of affliction, any offence that--"

"I have already arranged, my dear madam," replied Colonel Manners, "to go over to Lord Dewry as soon as I have written to Mr. Arden. De Vaux's servant is to meet me at the village of Barholm; and believe me that the little dispute which occurred between the father of my friend and myself rests too lightly on my mind to be thought of for a moment, when I can, in any degree, blunt the first sharp edge of the sad tidings he must soon hear."

"I see one cannot calculate too liberally on your good feeling," said Mrs. Falkland; "nor can I express what a relief it is to me to have you here, Colonel Manners, at such a trying moment. I cannot, indeed, in my present state of mind, attend to your comfort as I could wish; but let me beg you, at least, to take some refreshment ere you set out for my brother's."

"None, I thank you, my dear madam," he replied; "I do not require it. But now do not let me detain you. I know that you, too, have the painful task of breaking the confirmation of our fears to her who will feel the pang more acutely than any."

"Indeed, I hardly know how to do it," replied Mrs. Falkland. "To a casual observer, Marian may appear cold and indifferent by nature; but quite the reverse is known to be the case by those who have better opportunities of judging. Her heart is all warmth, and tenderness, and affection; and it is, perhaps, a consciousness of the very excess of such feelings that makes her put a stricter guard upon the expression of them. I fear that these tidings, if told entirely, will go far to kill her."

"Then by no means tell them, my dear madam," replied Manners: "I am no advocate for concealments or pious frauds of any kind; and where the strength of the individual is able to bear them up, we should always speak the truth: but of course we must regulate our conduct by our knowledge of the person; and both from what I have seen to-day, and what you yourself say, I would strongly advise you--if you will excuse my doing so--to tell Miss De Vaux, merely, that I have not succeeded in my first search for my poor friend, and that I am still following the same object in a different direction."

"I believe I must do even as you say," replied Mrs. Falkland, "and suffer Marian's mind to come to the sad conclusion, to which we have already come, by degrees. Though the suspense may be harrowing, yet it will not have so bad an effect on her as the sudden confirmation of her worst fears. Allow me, too, to hint, Colonel Manners, that you will find my brother less capable of bearing such tidings than you may imagine, from what you have seen of his demeanour. His love for his son was as ardent as his other passions."

"Do not be afraid, my dear madam," replied Manners, taking her hand; "I will do nothing roughly, believe me."

"I do, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland--"I do, indeed, believe that it is not in the nature of Colonel Manners to act unkindly to anyone. At what time shall I order the carriage?"

"Oh, not at all--not at all," he answered; "I will ride: it is always my custom; and as soon as I have written this letter, and my servant has returned, I will set out. Let me detain you no longer, and God grant that our fears may have magnified the proofs in their own support."

END OF VOL. I.

THE GIPSY;

A TALE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"RICHELIEU," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," &c.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

NEW YORK

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.

1855.