"Gracious goodness," returned I, "why shouldn't he? My father always wears a white hat in India."
"Yes; butlet me tell you this, India is not England," observed the doctor, sagaciously. "A white hat here is the badge of Radicalism, Republicanism, Atheism—I don't say that Mr. Gerard is a downright atheist, but he's a sectary, and that's nearly as bad. And hark ye, I know this for certain: the only reason why Henry Hunt himself is not hand and glove with our friend is this, that when Hunt was tried for his life for sedition, he came into the dock, like a prudent man, with a black hat, and that is the one act of caution and good sense for which Mr. Gerard has never forgiven him."
[1]This sarcasm was founded on literal truth; I myself remember a time when Englishmen submitted to a system of oppression almost precisely similar to that which has of late driven the Poles to insurrection, and enlisted for them the sympathies of Europe—namely, a forced conscription, the subjects of which areselected.
[1]This sarcasm was founded on literal truth; I myself remember a time when Englishmen submitted to a system of oppression almost precisely similar to that which has of late driven the Poles to insurrection, and enlisted for them the sympathies of Europe—namely, a forced conscription, the subjects of which areselected.
It was about four o'clock in the morning, or nearly twelve hours after his frightful fall, that Marmaduke Heath first woke to consciousness. Mr. Long and myself were passing the night in his apartment, which was a very roomy one, my tutor upon a sofa, and I in a comfortable arm-chair. I had begged that for that once at least it should be so, for I knew the dear lad would like to set his eyes upon me when he first opened them. Dr. Sitwell and his assistant, both agreed that if he woke at all from his heavy stertorous slumber, it would be in his sane mind; and it was so. Mr. Long was asleep, but I had so much to think about in the occurrences and disclosures of the preceding evening, that slumber had refused to visit me.
I was as unused as happy youth in general is to sleeplessness. I did not know at that time what it is to lay head upon pillow only to think upon the morrow with a brain that has done its day's work, and would fain be at rest; or worse, only to let the past re-enact itself under the wearied eyelids; to watch the long procession of vanished forms again fill the emptied scenes, and yet to be conscious of their unreality. How different in this respect alone is the experience of age and youth, and again of poverty and competence! A young man in tolerable circumstances, and who does not chance to be a sportsman, may never have seen the sun rise, that commonest of splendid spectacles to all men of humble station. For my own part, I had never done so in England until the occasion of which I speak, and I remember it very particularly. The weary time spent in listening to the various noises of the house, now to those consequent upon the retiring to rest of its inmates, and then to those more mysterious ones which do not begin till afterwards—the crickets on the hearth, the mice in the wainscot, the complaining of chairs and wardrobes, and the clocks, which discourse in quite another fashion than they do in the day. The slow hours consumed in watching the rushlight spots, first on the floor and then on the wall, and at last exchanged for the cool grey dawn, stealing in through cranny and crack, and showing my companions still in the land of dreams; later yet the drowsy crowing of cocks, and presently, as the light grows and grows, notwithstanding shutter and curtain, the indescribably welcome song of the early robin, the busy chirping of the house-sparrow, followed by the whole tuneful choir of birds; then the lowing of cattle in the distance, and the distant barking of the watch-dog, so strangely different from that sad and solitary howl with which the same animal breaks the awful stillness of the night. About four, I say, as I looked for the thousandth time towards Marmaduke's bed, I saw him sitting up supporting himself on his elbow, and pushing his other hand across his brow, as if trying to call to mind where he was. In an instant I was at his bedside. "Marmaduke, I am here," said I; "Peter Meredith."
"I am not at Fairburn Hall, am I?" asked he, in a hoarse whisper.
"No, Marmaduke, you are amongst friends."
"Thenheis not here," gasped he—"nowhere near."
"He is miles away, my friend, and he will never come under this roof."
"Thank Heaven—thank Heaven!" cried the poor boy, sinking back upon the pillow; "it was only a dreadful dream, then. I shall die happy."
"You need not talk of dying, Marmaduke. On the contrary, let us hope you are about to begin a life unshadowed, natural, without fear."
"No, Peter, I must die. I feel that; but what is death to what I have been dreaming? Do you remember that poem which came down in the box of books, from Mr. Clint, last week, about a wretched man that was bound upon a wild horse and sent adrift in the Ukraine?" And then he repeated with some difficulty—
"'How fast we fled, away, away,And I could neither sigh, nor pray,And my cold sweat-drops fell like rainUpon the courser's bristling mane,But snorting still with rage and fear,He flew upon his far career;At times I almost thought indeed,He must have slackened in his speed;But no; my bound and slender frameWas nothing to his angry might,And merely like a spur became.'
Well, Peter, that was I. But instead of the wolves which followed uponhistrack, it was my uncle Massingberd who followedme. He had chosen to kill me as the Count Palatine would have killed Mazeppa, but he wanted also to see it done.
'All through the night I heard his feet,Their stealing rustling step repeat.'
Great Heaven, I hear them now!"
"Nay, Marmaduke, it is only I, your old tutor," said Mr. Long, tenderly, who had not been able to leave his sofa entirely without noise. "You must not give way to these fancies; you had a fall from Panther, that is all."
"Ay," returned the poor boy, "itwasPanther, only I thought he was a wild horse, and not my pony at all.
'But though my cords were wet with gore,Which oozing through my limbs ran o'er;And in my tongue the thirst becameA something fiercer far than flame;'
that was nothing; nothing to the knowledge that that man was close behind. Now that I am awake, I feel bruised from head to heel, my bones ache, my head seems as though it were about to burst, but that is nothing to—" the poor lad could not finish the sentence, but exclaimed with piteous vehemence—"do, Mr. Long, do promise me that I shall never see him more."
"You shall never see him more, if I can help it," returned my tutor, with unusual energy. "Yes, I think I can promise that you never shall." I well knew that so cautious a man as Mr. Long would not have said so much without full warrant; it was evident to me at once that he had heard from Mr. Gerard all that had passed between that gentleman and the baronet in the drawing-room, and was now determined to act with vigour in Marmaduke's behalf. Perhaps the coincidence of the lad's dream with what had in fact occurred, may have helped my tutor's decision, but now that he had once passed his word, I felt sure that he would stand by Marmaduke to the last.
The sick boy seemed to feel this too, for he uttered many expressions of gratitude and contentment, while he kept fast hold of his new protector's hand.
"But mind, Marmaduke, you must now make haste and get well, and not give way to despondency about yourself. I am going for the doctor, who is sleeping in the house, and whom I promised to call as soon as you awoke; and, Peter, don't you let him talk too much. For a boy like that to talk of death," added Mr. Long, aloud, as he drew on his slippers, "is to go half-way to meet it."
Marmaduke smiled feebly at this remark of his unconscious tutor's, and when he had left the room, observed, "There is no need of any doctors; this is my death-bed, Meredith, I know."
"Marmaduke," replied I, gravely, "I will not listen to such dreadful things; it is wrong, it is wicked, it will do you harm."
"No, Peter, there is nothing dreadful in the thing I mean, and it seems to soothe me when I speak of it. Since I have been ill, I have had a sign that tells me I must go. We shall not grow up together to be friends through life, as we had planned. I shall watch you perhaps—I hope I shall—and be happy in your happiness, but you will soon forgetme. There will be a thousand things for you to think of; there have been such even now for you whileI—it seems hard, does it not, Peter, that I should have grown up under the shadow of that man, and never felt the Sunshine? They say that boyhood is the blithest time of life, but I have never been a boy. I think I could almost tell him, if he stood here now, how he has poisoned my young life, and sent me to the grave without one pleasant memory to moisten my dying eyes. Yes, my friend, dying. I have seen a vision in the night far too sweet and fear not to have been sent from heaven itself. If there indeed be angels, such was she. They say the Heaths have always ghastly warnings when their hour is come, but this was surely a gentle messenger. I close my eyes and see that smile once more."
"Has she hair of golden brown?" inquired I, gravely, "and hazel eyes, large and pitiful, and does she smile sad and sweet as though one's pain would soon be over?"
"That is she, that is she," exclaimed Marmaduke, eagerly, while from his heavy eyelids the light flashed forth as from a thunder-cloud; "oh, tell me who and what she is!"
"Her name is Lucy Gerard," replied I, quietly, "and we are, at this moment, in her father's house."
Marmaduke's mention of her smile had revealed to me the secret alike of dream and vision. He must have been dimly conscious of the catastrophe that had occurred to him throughout, although he had confused himself, poor fellow, with Mazeppa, and the daughter of our host with a vision from the skies. His eyes were now closed, and with features as pale as the pillow on which he lay, he was repeating to himself her name as though it were a prayer.
"Marmaduke," said I, "we will talk no more, since it exhausts you thus; I hear Mr. Long returning with the doctor, be of good heart, and keep your thoughts from dwelling—"
"Yes," interrupted he, as though he would prevent the very mention of that grisly king of whom he had been but now conversing so familiarly, "I will, I will. It would indeed be bitter to dienow."
The medical report of Marmaduke Heath was more than cheering; it was confident. "One of the very best features of that young man's case is this," said Dr. Sitwell, "he does not give way. Foolish youths of his age will sometimes, as it were, fall in love with Death, until it is absolutely close beside them, poor fellows, when they shrink from him like the best of us."
"You should rather say the worst of us, Dr. Sitwell," observed my tutor.
"Well, sir, as far as my experience goes," returned the doctor, cheerfully, "and I have 'assisted,' as Mr. Gerard here will have it, at the demise of many persons of the very first respectability, few of us are apt to welcome death; the majority, contrary to what is vulgarly believed, pay him no sort of attention whatsoever."
"And yet," remarked Mr. Harvey Gerard, slily, "he came over before the Conqueror, and possesses a considerable amount of land all over the country."
"True, sir, true," replied the doctor, gravely; "and those are attributes which should always command respect. With regard, however, to our young patient, he seems determined, notwithstanding his sufferings, to be cheerful, and bear up. I have told him how essential it is to do so, and the young gentleman is most reasonable, I am sure. 'I do not want to die, I wish to live,' were his very words—a most satisfactory and sensible state of mind. Fairburn Hall—he did not say this, but I knew what was passing through his brain quite well—Fairburn Hall, and one of the oldest baronetcies in the kingdom, are something to livefor—that is a great point in cases of this kind."
I am sure I felt thankful and glad to hear this account of my dear friend; yet I could not help wishing that Dr. Sitwell had been as correct in the cause of Marmaduke's clinging to life, as in the fact itself. For I too was stricken with love for Lucy Gerard, and would have laid down my life to kiss her finger tip. It is the fashion now to jeer at that which is called First Love, as though affection were not worth having until it has first exhausted itself upon a score of objects; nay, perhaps, the thing itself is as extinct as the Dodo. In my day, however, the Great Three-Hundred-a-Year Marriage-Question was not yet broached, and gentlemen did not complainingly publish their rejections at the hands of the fair sex in the "Times" newspaper. Nearly half a century has passed over my head since the time of which I write, and has not spared its snows, and yet, I swear to you, my old heart glows again, and on my withered cheek there comes a blush as I call, to mind the time when first I met that pure and fair young girl.
The worship of a lad is never lasting, it is said, although I know not upon what authority—society so seldom permitting the experiment to be made, that thedictumcan hardly be established; but while it does last, at least, how clear and steady is the incense! how honest is the devotion! how complete the sacrifice! Since I have been an old fogey, it has been confided to me by more than one ancient flirt that they still experience a rapture when they chance to catch the affection of a boy. They are kinder to him than they are to older men; they let him down easy; they respect the infatuation which they themselves have long lost the power of entertaining. How delicious, then, must such a conquest be to a maiden of seventeen! I claim for myself the possession of no tenderer nor truer feelings than other lads, but I know that a queen might have accepted the heart-homage which I paid to Lucy Gerard. And never was fealty more disinterested. I have written down not a little to my discredit; let me then say this much in my own favour. From the moment that Marmaduke Heath spoke to me as he did, upon his bed of sickness, of our host's daughter, I determined within myself not only to stand aside, and let him win her if he could, but to help him by all means within my power. If he lived for her alone, should I endeavour to slay him? If a promise, however distant, of a bright and happy future seemed at length to be held out for him whose life had been so saddened and so bitter, should I strive to make it void? I could notaffordto lose her; no. I would have given all that I had in the world to hear her whisper, "I love you;" I would have beggared myself, I say, for those mere words; but couldhe, poor lad, afford the loss of her so well?
Doubtless, in modern eyes, we both appear mere foolish victims of calf-love; green hobbardy-hoys, dazzled with the first flutter of a petticoat. As for me, let it be so received, and welcome, although, my young male readers, this is to be said, You never saw Lucy Gerard. Otherwise you would wonder little at my—well, at my poor folly. But with respect to Marmaduke, it must be admitted that his was not an ordinary case. Although a boy in years, he had long been sitting on the shores of old romance, and had probably more of the divine faculty for Love within him than all the ardent souls of five-and-thirty put together, who are at this moment turning their eyes about them for a suitable young person with whose income to unite their own. Since his mother died, he had scarcely beheld a virtuous woman, with the exception of dear Mrs. Myrtle, the housekeeper at the Rectory, whose appearance was calculated to excite respect rather than the sentimental emotions; and now he had suddenly been brought face to face with one whose equal for form and feature, for gentleness and graciousness, for modesty and courage, these eyes have never yet beheld. I have done. There shall be no more ecstasies, reader; an old man thanks you that you have borne with his doting garrulity even thus long.
Since the days of Earl Athelwold, and probably long before them, the wooing by proxy has been held to be a perilous undertaking; we cannot take the fingers of a fair lady within our own, and say, "This is not my hand at all," as though we were Bishop Berkeley; or still more, "This is somebody else's hand," which it manifestly is not. If credit is to be given to such protestations at all, there is no knowing where to stop; and yet we must be doing something tender, or we are not performing our duty as deputy. But how tenfold are the dangers of this enterprise, when the delegate of another has at one time contemplated performing the mission in question upon his own account. Of this peril—although fully determined to speak a good word for Marmaduke—I was well aware; I even considered within myself whether it would not be safer, upon the whole, to return at once to Fairburn Rectory, lest I should do my friend an involuntary wrong. Yes, I was walking in the garden at the Dovecot after breakfast, considering this, when I came upon Lucy Gerard herself, and flight became impossible to me, being mortal. I was pacing a winding path that ran beside the lawn, but was hidden from it by a glittering wall of laurel, and lo! there she stood, unconscious of my advent, beside—what? a statue? a sun-dial? No, a rose-tree, striving upwards by help of a little cross of white marble. Her face was westward, so that the morning sun shone like a glory on the wealth of hair that rippled down her shoulders: beside her indoor garments she wore only a little braided apron, full of pockets that held scissors, pruning-knife, the thing which is called "bass" I believe, and other horticultural weapons, and on her head the tiniest straw-hat, with a brim obviously intended to shelter more than one—a perfect garden-saint; and at her prayers! for while I looked, she knelt upon the grass-border (to shake some insect from a rose, I at first thought, or remove a faded leaf), and so, with bowed head, remained for several minutes. When she arose, and saw me hesitating whether to advance or retreat, she blushed a little, but in her usual quiet tone begged me not to be disturbed. "You could not know that this is forbidden ground here; it was my fault, who ought to have told you; our own folks all know it, and so few guests ever come to the Dovecot, that it never struck me, Mr. Meredith, to give you a Trespass notice."
"But since I am here, Miss Gerard, and the intrusion has been made—most innocently, I assure you—may I not be suffered to satisfy what, believe me, is not a mere vulgar curiosity?"
"I do not think," returned the young lady, with some hesitation, "that my father would object to your knowing our little secret; you are going to remain with us some time, he hopes, and—yes, I am sure you will respect what with us is held so secret. This cross and rose-tree are set above my little sister's grave. See, that is what we used to call her—LITTLE ELLA. She of whom I spoke to you in the drawing-room yesterday."
I daresay my stupid face exhibited more of astonishment than sympathy. No wonder, thought I, that the doctor called Mr. Gerard a sectary, and that Mr. Long was so cold and distant in his manner!
"You seem surprised, Mr. Meredith, that my father should have acted thus—should have placed the tomb of his dear child where he can always come to weep and pray at it, and not amid the long dank grasses in Crittenden churchyard. Is it so very rare a thing to bury those we love elsewhere than in a churchyard?"
"I only know one other instance," said I, "and that is in the Heath family."
"Indeed," replied Miss Gerard, gravely, moving away as though not wishing to converse of ordinary things in that sacred neighbourhood, "I trust we have but little in common withthem."
"Truly, I can scarcely imagine that you and they are of the same species," replied I, with irrepressible admiration, "you who do not even know what wickedness is!"
"What! I? Oh, but I am sometimes very, very wicked, I assure you," replied Miss Gerard. She looked so serious, nay, so sad, that I could have taken up her little hand and kissed it, there and then, to comfort her. But would such a course of conduct assist poor Marmaduke? thought I, and fortunately in time.
"There is one of the Heath family," said I, "at all events, whose good qualities will go far to atone for the shortcomings of his adversaries, if he only lives to exercise them."
That "if he only lives" I considered to be very diplomatic; it was enlisting a tender sympathy for his perilous condition to start with.
"Dr. Sitwell says that there is little danger," replied Miss Gerard, quietly.
"I know better," observed I, confidentially; "his life or death hangs upon a thread, a chance."
"Good heavens! Mr. Meredith, what can you mean? The brain, we are assured, is quite uninjured."
"My dear Miss Gerard," returned I, "it is not his brain that is affected; it is his heart. His recovery, I am positively certain, depends upon you."
"Upon me! Mr. Meredith?" replied she, while a blush sprung from neck to forehead on the instant, as though a white rose should become a red one—"uponme?"
"Yes, dear young lady; that is, upon you and your good father. This lad will find here, for the first time in his young life, peace and tenderness—a new existence, if you only choose, will expand around him, such as he has never even dreamt of. I do not ask you to be kind to him, for you cannot be otherwise than kind; but consider his sad condition—fatherless, motherless, and having for his only relative a wretch whose atrocity is unspeakable, what reason has he to wish for life? But you, you may teach him to feel that existence has something else to offer than sorrow, and shame, and fear."
"Alas, sir! I am nothing," returned Miss Gerard. "But if your friend desire a teacher to whom fear and shame are unknown, and whom sorrow has rendered wise, not sad, he will find one in my dear father. Oh, Mr. Meredith, if you knew him as I know him, how tender he is as well as strong, you would go straight tohim! What I have of help within me, if I have anything, is derived from him alone."
"There are some maladies," said I, "against which not the most skilful physician can avail without a gentle nurse to smooth the pillow. I am sure I need say no more, except to assure you that what ever kind offices you may bestow upon Marmaduke Heath, will not be wasted upon an unworthy object. He is most honourable, generous, warm-hearted—"
"And very fortunate," interrupted Miss Gerard, cordially, "in having a friend to be thus enthusiastic for him in his absence!"
Her eyes sparkled with pleasure; and she held out her hand frankly as she spoke. I took it, and pressed it for an instant. A shock of joy passed through my frame; my whole being trembled with ecstasy. Passion took me by storm, and for one glorious moment held the very citadel of my soul; but it was for the last time, believe me, Marmaduke, the last time in all my life. Fifty years have come and gone, with their full share of pleasure and pain, but have never brought a moment of bliss like that, nor such icy despair as the thought of thee, my friend, caused to succeed it!
I write not in self-praise. I was not so mad as to suppose that Lucy Gerard would have ever stooped to love Peter Meredith when once she had known Marmaduke Heath. If he had so endeared himself tome, a selfish boy, who knew not half his gifts, or, at least, knew not how to value them—that I thus rudely broke my own brief love-dream for his sake, would he not drawhertowards him, laden with all her wealth of heart and brain, as the moon draws the wave! It was so afterwards; but I knew it then, as though it had already been. Yet, Marmaduke, yet I gave you something, for it was all I had, when I laid at your feet, to form a stepping-stone for you, my own heart. You trod upon it, my dear and faithful friend—But, thank heaven! you never knew that you did so. I wonder whether Lucy ever knew!
On the second morning after our arrival at the Dovecot, Mr. Long called me into the dining-room, where I found Mr. Gerard and a third gentleman, who had come down by the night-mail, as I understood, from London. Although, I should think, not less than seventy years of age, he was dressed in the height of the then prevailing mode. He wore a snuff-coloured coat, the tails of which trailed from his chair upon the ground, whenever he was so fortunate as not to be sitting upon them; the brass buttons at his back were nearly as large as the handles of an ordinary chest of drawers. A bunch of seals, each about the size of that peculiar to the Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain, dangled from his fob. His pantaloons, which seemed to have shrunk in the washing, set off a pair of legs that were still not uncomely; but what was most remarkable was an enormous muslin cravat, which, in combination with the ruffles of his shirt, gave him the aspect of a pouter pigeon. Unaccustomed as I then was to the toilet of persons of distinction, Mr. Clint of Russell Square—for he it was—made a very strong impression upon me. As the family lawyer of the Heaths, and one who had always greatly interested himself in Marmaduke, he had been sent for by my tutor to give his opinion as to what steps should be taken respecting the future disposal of the poor lad. I guessed by his grave face that he had been put in possession, not only of all that had happened through the agency of Sir Massingberd, but of all that had been designed to happen.
"If you have any doubt still remaining, Mr. Clint, as to the propriety of removing Marmaduke Heath from the custody of his uncle," observed my tutor, after introducing me to this venerable beau, "I think this gentleman can dissipate it. Now, Peter, tell us, in confidence, what sort of footing do you consider your young friend and Sir Massingberd to stand upon; are they good—"
"Stop, stop, Mr. Long," interrupted the lawyer, taking an enormous pinch of snuff from a silver-box, and holding up his laden fingers in a prohibitory manner; "we must not have any leading questions if you please. Mr. Meredith, it is most important that you state to us the truth, without mitigation or exaggeration. You heard your tutor's first inquiry, which was a most correct one. How does Mr. Marmaduke Heath stand with respect to his uncle?"
"Well, sir," said I quietly, "he stands, as it were, upon the brink of a deep river, with his back towards a person who is bent upon pushing him in."
A total silence ensued upon this remark. Mr. Long and Mr. Gerard interchanged very meaning glances.
"Very good," returned the lawyer coolly, administering half the snuff to his nose, and dropping the other half among his shirt-ruffles. "That is a form of speech, I suppose, by which you would imply that Marmaduke is afraid of his uncle?"
"Very much," said I; "afraid of his life."
"And you have had no previous conversation upon this subject with either of these gentlemen, that is—you must forgive me if I press this somewhat hardly—they have never asked your opinion on the matter before?"
"Certainly not, sir."
"You are speaking, too, I conclude from your own observation of course, from your own knowledge of Mr. Marmaduke Heath's sentiments and position, and not from any hearsay rumour?"
"I am perfectly convinced, Mr. Clint," returned I gravely, "that Sir Massingberd Heath wishes to get rid of his nephew, and that Marmaduke knows it."
"Then Sir Massingberd shall be gratified," observed Mr. Gerard, with energy; "he shall get rid of him from this day."
"Stop, stop, my dear sir," interposed the lawyer. "Even supposing that all this is true, both the facts that I have received from you and Mr. Long, and the surmises entertained by this young gentleman, we are still only at the threshold of the matter. From the manner in which Sir Massingberd expressed himself when he wrote to me to demand the custody of the boy, and from his whole conduct since, I am certain that he will not give up his position as guardian without a severe struggle. We must steadily look our difficulties in the face. Supposing that, having been assured of Marmaduke's convalescence, he should send a post-chaise over here next week, or the week after, with a note, insisting upon his immediate return to Fairburn Park, what is to be done then?"
"I should send the post-chaise back again," returned Mr. Gerard, calmly, "with the verbal reply, that Mr. Marmaduke was not coming."
"But suppose he wrote to Marmaduke himself?"
"The reply would come from me all the same, Mr. Clint."
"But if Sir Massingberd appeals to the law?"
"He dare not!" exclaimed my host; "his audacity, great as it is, stops short of that. If he did, as sure as the sun is shining, I would meet him with the charge of attempted murder."
Mr. Clint took out of his other coat-tail a second snuff-box, which he never made use of except in cases of great emergency. "You are prepared to go that length, are you?"
"I am, sir," returned Mr. Gerard, firmly.
"You have not a shadow of foundation for such an assertion," pursued Mr. Clint, reflectively. "The slander will be pronounced malicious; you will be cast in swingeing damages."
"That is possible," remarked my host; "but there, nevertheless, will be such revelations of Sir Massingberd's mode of life, as may well cause the chancellor to reflect whether Fairburn Hall is a fitting educational establishment for a minor."
"John Lord Eldon is not an ascetic—"
"I know it, sir;" broke forth Mr. Gerard; "I am well aware that he is a heartless scoundrel, as dissipated, as dishonest, and—"
"Sir," interrupted Mr. Clint, with irritation. "I will not listen to such mad words. You may utter them, of course, in your own house, but not to me. This is the talk of those who would subvert all authority."
"They are not afraid to speak evil of dignities," murmured my tutor.
"I do not speak evil of dignities, my dear sir, but only of the rogues who fill them," exclaimed Mr. Gerard, laughing. "However, I beg your pardon, gentlemen; the remark escaped me quite involuntarily. You are aware, Mr. Clint, that my Lord Eldon is not absolutely an ascetic."
"I was about to say, sir," observed the old lawyer stiffly, "that his lordship is not so tenderly alive to the necessity of moral training as some of his friends would wish, and he has a strong respect for natural authority. He would lean, therefore, towards Sir Massingberd's view of the question—with whom; indeed, he is personally not unacquainted—and be induced to palliate his way of life."
"Sadder than orphans, yet not fatherless, are those in Eldon's charge," murmured Mr. Gerard. "Still," continued he, in a louder tone, "the charge of attempted murder, Mr. Clint, would have this effect, that even if Marmaduke were reconsigned to his uncle's care—which Heaven forbid—the eyes of the world would be upon Sir Massingberd, and he would not venture to work him a mischief. In the meantime, it rests with us to take good care that he has not the chance of doing so."
"And now," resumed Mr. Clint, after a pause, "supposing that all is arranged thus far to repel Sir Massingberd's claims, there is another matter to be considered. It would take long to explain the details of the case, but you must understand that the Heath property is very peculiarly situated. Sir Massingberd, who is in the enjoyment of it for life, cannot raise a shilling upon it; while Marmaduke does not possess a shilling, although the prospective heir of such vast wealth. They would be, in short, at present a couple of beggars; but by a special arrangement with a certain person, whom I need not name, a small annual sum has been allotted for the benefit of the boy, but, practically, quite as much so for that of his uncle. A certain annuity, I say, is paid to Sir Massingberd for the maintenance of his nephew, and another, solely on the latter's behalf, for that of the estate. It is a most beautifully intricate affair from first to last," pursued the lawyer with unction; "here are two relatives, who mutually support one another, and have yet every reason, looking at the matter in a rather worldly way of course, to wish each other dead. Sir Massingberd could borrow plenty of money, if the usurers were only confident that he could, as well as would, make away with his nephew. There would be even less difficulty under ordinary circumstances in procuring a loan for Marmaduke; but a delicate boy, whose uncle and guardian is bent upon putting a violent end to him—you see that renders the security so very slight. Altogether, it is certainly one of the nicest cases. It is not only a question of responsibility; there are always plenty of people ready to take any amount ofthatat a sufficient premium; but who will undertake the pecuniary charge of the lad if he is withdrawn from his uncle's roof? Sir Massingberd, of course, will never give up one tittle of the allowance entrusted to him to expend, except upon such compulsion as we should scarcely venture to employ. There are three years wanting to the boy's majority; and even when he has arrived at that, and should be willing to promise ample repayment, he may die before his uncle still, who has a constitution of adamant, when those who have maintained him may whistle for the money they have expended. The expression may be coarse," added Mr. Clint apologetically, "but I think it conveys my meaning."
"I thank you, Mr. Clint," observed my tutor, after a little pause, "for putting this matter before us so bluntly and decidedly. For my part, I am far from being a rich man; but, on the other hand, there are no persons who have a better claim upon my resources than my dear young friend and pupil, Marmaduke Heath. That he will repay me if he survives his uncle, I am more than assured; and, if he die early, I shall not regret that the remainder of his young life has been rendered happy through my means, although it may have cost me a few comforts."
I stooped down and said a few words in my tutor's ear. "No, Peter, no," continued he; "you are a good lad, and your father is, doubtless, generous enough to comply with your wishes; but we must not resort to such a distant source in this emergency, indeed. Mr. Clint, do you think that a hundred and forty to a hundred and sixty pounds a year might be made sufficient to keep Marmaduke with respectability?"
"Half your annual stipend, eh, Mr. Long, eh?" ejaculated the lawyer. "Bless my soul, how this snuff gets in one's eyes! Such a sum should be quite sufficient. I think that would be found more than enough. He cannot live at your rectory, of course; that would be almost as bad as at the Hall; but there are plenty of spare rooms in my house in town. He has stayed there before, so that that can be done, we know. Marmaduke and I are old friends—No, no, it will not hurt me. Such a course cannot bring me into greater antagonism with Sir Massingberd than I am in already. I am always at daggers-drawn with him. He is for ever cutting down trees that don't belong to him, or selling heirlooms that are no more his than mine, or embroiling himself with me, the appointed guardian of the property, in some way or other. Yes, I'll take the lad, Mr. Long, come what will of it."
"You will do nothing of the kind," exclaimed my host, energetically; "you honest lawyer, and very worthy man; and you, you good priest—contradictions in terms, both of you—you shall not give away half your annual stipend, or my name is not Harvey Gerard. I have done each of you a very grievous wrong in thought, if not in word; and I hereby beg your pardon. It is possible, I perceive, to be a Tory, and yet preserve, if not a conscience, at least a heart."
My tutor smiled; Mr. Clint bowed his acknowledgments.
"With regard to Mr. Marmaduke Heath, however," pursued our host, "that young gentleman must be my especial charge. From this day until the period when he comes into his property, or lies in need of decent interment, as the case may be, he is my guest; or, if my house is distasteful to him, I will advance him whatever sums he may reasonably require for his maintenance elsewhere. Please to consider that that is settled, gentlemen."
"Whatever we may think of the political opinions of Mr. Harvey Gerard," observed Mr. Clint, with feeling, "his name has always been associated with acts of matchless generosity."
"Always, always," echoed Mr. Long; then added reflectively, "he has paid the fines of half the rogues in the country, and bailed the other half who have been committed to prison."
A simultaneous burst of merriment from his three hearers greeted this naïve remark of my unconscious tutor.
"I have done so upon one occasion, I confess," replied Mr. Gerard, good-naturedly. "I became surety, in 1791, for the good behaviour of a poor Birmingham rioter, as I thought, who turned out to be a Government spy. However, I assure you, generosity has nothing to do with my present intentions with respect to young Heath. My income is sufficiently large to admit of my accommodating the poor lad with ease, even if the repayment, sooner or later, were not almost certain, as it really is. But, besides all this, I must confess that the undertaking affords me exceeding satisfaction. Mr. Long, you are, I have heard, an enthusiastic fisherman; that is no common pleasure which you feel when your rod is bowed by some enormous trout, cunning and strong, who may break the whole of your tackle, and get away, after all, but who also may be landed helpless on the bank, a victim to your skill and patience. That is exactly the sport which I promise myself with Sir Massingberd Heath. If he were one whit less greedy, less formidable, less pitiless, I should feel less hostility towards him; he has, fortunately, no redeeming point. I have hated tyranny all my life, and I hate this man, who seems to be the very embodiment of it. He makes his boast that no one has ever stood between himself and his wicked will. Let us see what he will make of Harvey Gerard."
The speaker drew himself up proudly, but certainly not with unbecoming pride. His form dilated as he spoke; his voice grew deep without losing its distinctness; and into his mild eyes a sternness crept as when the frost congeals the lake. But for a spice of haughtiness, which to some might have appeared even arrogance, he could have stood for St. Michael in his contest with the foul Fiend,—have personified the Spirit of Good defying the Spirit of Evil.
After not a little opposition upon the part of Mr. Long, who would have willingly borne his share in Marmaduke's expenses, it was settled that Mr. Gerard should be the young man's host, if he could only contrive to retain him in defiance of the power of Sir Massingberd; his home, however, was not to be the Dovecot, which was judged to be too much exposed, by its proximity to Fairburn, to the machinations of the enemy. The Gerards were to remove to their town residence in Harley Street, as soon as their guest was fit to accompany them. At first, his progress was tedious, but he grew rapidly convalescent as soon as he was able to exchange his bed for a sofa. Never was sick man more hospitably treated, or so graciously tended. Mr. Gerard possessed that almost feminine gentleness of manner which is generally found in persons of his peculiar organization. His sympathy, at least as easily aroused as his antagonism, was now deeply enlisted in favour of Marmaduke for his own sake; he recognized his talents, and the beauty and tenderness of his mind, and won him, by pleasant studious talk, from the melancholy that overhung it; and the young man's heart, thrilling response to every touch of kindness, turned towards him, and expanded like a flower in the sun. As for Lucy, what rudest health would I not have exchanged for Marmaduke's languor, as he lay and listened to her clear sweet voice, now singing some cheerful ballad to enliven him, now reading aloud some tale so musically that itself seemed song! He could read to himself but little as yet, and if he did take up a book, his eyes refused to regard it, but followed the lovely girl, wherever she moved, with worship.
"This happiness is too great to last, Peter," he would often say; "it will all fade one day, I know, and leave me desolate. What man living is worthy to possess yon glorious creature? I feel as though I had no right even to love her. Yet, great heaven! how Idolove her. How unconscious she is of her perfect sweetness! How she graces the meanest thing which she may set herself to do! Her presence seems to breathe very life into me; I then forget everything but her—even Sir Massingberd. To return to him would be death indeed—death death!" Then he would sink back, as if prostrated with the thought, and so remain despairingly despondent until he heard Lucy's voice, or laugh, or footstep. All this was bitter for me to bear. I was glad when Mr. Long suggested to me that he thought it was no longer necessary for me to remain with Marmaduke, and that I should return to Fairburn Rectory and my studies. Still, my heart was heavy upon that morning which was to be the last I was to spend under the same roof with Lucy Gerard. Within the last few weeks—nay, it happened in a few hours—I had Loved and I had Lost. If there be any to read this in whose eyes these words have meaning, they will pity me. I do not match such grief, indeed, for a single instant against the sorrow a man must feel for the loss of the loved companion of his life, against the lone wretchedness of recent widowhood; but it is a grievous blow. I wished Marmaduke and Mr. Gerard "good-bye" without quite knowing that I did so.
"Good-bye, Mr. Meredith," said Lucy, and though her voice was even lower and sweeter than usual, it wounded me like a knife.
"Why don't you call him Peter, Lucy?" exclaimed her father, laughing. "I think it would be more civil, now that we are going to lose him."
"Thank you, sir," said I, gratefully; and she did say "God bless you, Peter," very, very kindly.
Ever since that morning she called me so; but I was Peter to all of them, you see, as well as to her. Then I called her Lucy, and though for the first and last time, I shall never forget it.
"I couldna say mair, but just 'Fare ye weel, LucyYet that I will mind till the day that I dee."
Then I mounted my horse, my luggage having already preceded me, and slowly took my way towards Fairburn. My life-blood seemed to ebb with every step. The clang of the gate that shut me out from the last foot of ground belonging to the Dovecot, sent a shudder through me like a knell. I was on the very spot where Marmaduke had met with the accident that had been so nearly fatal. Supposing it had killed him! Supposing...—I thanked God that I was able to thank Him from an honest heart that it had not done so.
Then I felt a little better. Having ascended the hill, I put my horse into a sharp canter upon the common, and the cool air through which I swiftly passed refreshed me. The hollow in which the encampment had been was now deserted, and only the round bare spot amid the green, which is the gipsy autograph, announced that it had ever been there. Some miles further on, however, a little brown-legged boy, evidently of that wandering fraternity, suddenly emerged from a fir plantation, and stood before me in the road as if to beg. I was already feeling in my pocket for a penny, when, showing his white teeth in gratitude, he shook his head, and coming close to my stirrup, exclaimed, "You are the gentleman from Mr. Gerard's, sir, are you not? Would you please to come and see Granny Rachel?"
In an instant, I remembered the pocket-flask, which I had entirely forgotten since the day in which it came into my possession; for all I knew, it was then lying yet in the drawing-room at the Dovecot.
"Yes, my boy, that will I," returned I; "but I fear I have not brought her what she wants."
He looked up in the bright interrogative manner peculiar to his tribe, so different to the stolid wonder of the agriculturist.
"She wantsyou, sir, as I understood. This is the sixth day that she has set me to watch for you by this roadside. Will you please to follow me?"
The boy started off at a pace which compelled me to move too fast for further questioning; and skirting the plantation for a hundred yards, stopped at the entrance of a roadway leading through the wood. The coming winter had not yet turned the broad green track to sand, and it ran so straight and far, that the pine trees seemed to stand on either side—a solid wall—with nothing but the blue heaven for their limit. This landscape of right lines would have delighted a painter of the Pre-Raphaelite school, it looked so stiff and unnatural; but pursuing the track for a little distance, and then plunging over a ditch and bank into the plantation itself, we suddenly came upon a scene which would have suited Morland. A low tent, with half-naked but merry children crawling in and out; a she-ass and her foal; a handsome male Epicurean, lying on his back, smoking a short, well-coloured pipe, the hue of which precisely resembled that of his own skin; a young girl in scarlet mantle, and with earrings of great splendour, gathering fir-cones to feed the flames which licked around an iron pot suspended on four sticks, piled musket-fashion; and an old crone, sitting by the same, and picking the feathers from a bird, which, had the time of year been beyond the end of September, I should have certainly taken for a hen-pheasant. But to suppose this, would have been to suppose an infraction of the game laws! The walnut-stained children stopped their play as I approached, and stood in various attitudes of wonder, like beauteous bronzes; the man turned over on his side, and opened his slumbrous eyes a hairbreadth; the girl flashed one quick, comprehensive glance upon me, and then resumed her occupation. The old woman nodded familiarly without rising, and observed quietly, "So you are come at last, Peter Meredith. I trust you have brought good news of Marmaduke Heath."
"He is better," said I, "much better; and he knows who brought him help, and is very grateful. You have been expected daily at the Dovecot, where something more substantial than mere thanks is waiting for you."
"Rachel Liversedge desires neither silver nor gold," returned the old woman; "she has had her reward already, if what you say be true. It was not for love of the boy that I acted as I did; he has too much evil blood in him to earn my liking. But I am glad as though he were my own son that he will live."
"Carew," cried she, triumphantly, "no wonderburaSir Massingberd lookedkaloas ourselves."
"Oh, the great man looks black, does he?" said I.
The old woman dropped the bird, the girl her fir-cones, and both stared wildly at me, as though my voice had come from the clouds; the man sprung to his feet, and uttered a cry of wonder.
"What! do you speak our tongue?" cried he.
"Nay; you speak mine," returned I, calmly. "Burais great; andkala, which you callkalo, is black, of course; everybody knows that who knows Hindustanee."
Then the three burst out together in a language, one word out of four of which seemed to be more or less familiar to me; as for understanding what they said, of course it was simply impossible; but no matter, I had established my reputation. From that moment, I felt myself to be the honoured guest of the family. Would I smoke? Would I eat? Would I drink? I was thirsty, and I said that I would gladly take some water—which, at a venture, I calledpaince.
"Paunce!" cried they, extravagantly delighted. "He talks like a true Cingari; and only look! is he not dark-skinned!"
The few words that my old ayah had taught me in India had thus procured me a hearty welcome in a Midshire fir-plantation.
"Sit down by me, Peter Meredith, my son," exclaimed the old woman; "and do you fetch him water, Mina."
I dismounted, and did as I was bid; while the young girl took a pitcher, and presently brought it filled from a running Stream near by, and offered it to me, like another Rebecca. But her grandmother—for such she was—cried, "Stop! let me put something in it;" and produced from her pocket the self-same flask which she herself had given me a few weeks ago, and which I had thought was left behind at the Dovecot.
"Why, I was blaming myself for not having brought you that thing back to-day," said I; "I never heard of your coming to claim it."
"Nor did I, young gentleman," returned the old woman, proudly. "Harvey Gerard is too kind a man to visit when one is not in need. That was why I left his house that day, directly I had told what had befallen Marmaduke Heath: I did not wish him to think I waited for my reward.
He returned me this with his own hands. He is not one of your proud ones. When we had the fever here—Mina, darling, you remember who came to see you, and saved your life?"
"Ah, yes!" cried the girl, clasping her dark hands, which gleamed with tawdry rings; "and his daughter, too, how I love her!"
There was a little pause; I felt my ears tingle, my cheeks burn. I did not dare look up from the ground.
"Lucy Gerard is very fair," whispered the old woman; "she will make a good and loving wife;" then she added roguishly, and in that gipsy tone which smacks so of the race-course: "Shall I tell your fortune, my pretty gentleman?"
"No, I thank you," said I, hastily; "I have no great confidence in your information as to the future. With respect to the past, on the other hand, you can doubtless satisfy me, if you will. I have a great curiosity to know how you became possessed of yonder flask with the Heath griffin."
"Peter Meredith," returned the old woman, very gravely, "you have asked me to tell you a sad story, and one to relate which will cost me much. It is not our custom, however, to refuse the first request of a new friend. But before I begin, let me ask you a question in my turn. Has it never struck you why Sir Massingberd Heath has not long ago taken to himself a young wife, and begotten an heir for the bonny lands of Fairburn, in despite of his nephew?"
Until that moment, the idea had never crossed my brain; but no sooner was it thus mooted than I wondered greatly at the shortsightedness of those among whom Marmaduke's affairs had been so lately discussed, and in particular at that of Mr. Clint, who, as a lawyer, should surely have at once foreseen such a contingency. "Well," said I, "I confess that, for my part, I have never thought of it; but there cannot be much danger of Sir Massingberd's becoming a wooer now; why, what young woman would be won by such as he?"
"What young woman wouldnotbe won?" replied Rachel Liversedge, grimly. "Think you that his white head and stony heart would weigh too heavy in the balance against his title and the reversion of his lands? Remember, all that is around us, and all that we could see from yonder hill to the right hand and to the left—pasture and corn-field, farm and park—would fall to the offspring of her who would venture, for a few years, to be Lady Heath. Peter, there is one maiden in Midshire, known to you and me, who would not consent to do this thing, though the offer were thrice as splendid; but I doubt if there be more than one."
"If that be so," said I, "why does not Sir Massingberd marry?"
"The answer to that is the story I am about to tell you," returned Rachel.
"I suppose you have heard, Peter Meredith, young as you are," began the old woman, "a great deal of ill-speaking against us Wanderers. We not only kill game, but even domestic poultry, if the opportunity is given to us; we not only steal wood, but horse-flesh; and since we are so partial to carrion, it is not to be wondered at that we sometimes suffocate a sheep with a piece of his own wool, in order to get the carcass cheap from the farmer. Yet whatever false charges are current about us now, these are nothing, either in gravity or number, to what they were when I was a young girl—that is, fifty years ago. Every man's hand, every woman's tongue, was against us: magistrates committed us without testimony; rogues made a trade of accusing us solely to get blood-money. Our name was more than a by-word, it was a brand; to call a man a gipsy, was to say vagabond and thief in one. Under these circumstances, Massingberd Heath left his father's house yonder, and came to live with us as congenial company. We were in this very wood the day he did so. The sun shone as brightly as now, the streamlet ran just as blithe, the air was filled, as now, with the sweet-smelling pine. The people only are changed—ah me, how changed!—who made up that scene. There was my father; he died! ten years younger than I am now; is not that strange, boy? his brother Morris, dead; poor Stanley Carew, you shall hear of him presently, a handsomer lad by far than his nephew there; my beautiful Sinnamenta, compared to little Mina yonder, though she is pretty enough, like a blush-rose to a mere peony, the flower of womankind. If there are ladies and women born into the world, then she was a lady. There are no such beauties now; no, friend, not even at the Dovecot. Let me see; I have counted four; then I was there also, comely enough, 'twas said, but not to be spoken of for looks with my younger sister.
"We were occupied pretty much as you see us now, for life in the Greenwood possesses but little variety, when Massingberd Heath strode in among us, with his gun upon his shoulder. We knew him well, but were not inclined to dislike him. He was a dissipated, wild, young fellow, but, as yet, his heart was thought, as the saying is, to be in the right place; his popularity, however, was principally owing to his antagonism to his father. Sir Wentworth had long passed through the spendthrift stage, and was very close with respect to money-matters; a harsh and griping landlord, and it is probable enough a niggard parent. His son's extravagances were at that time insignificant compared to what they afterwards became, yet the old man was for ever complaining. He persecuted all who were poor and in his power, but the gipsies especially. He feared for his deer, for his game, for his fences, and, besides, I verily believe he detested us for our improvidence. I remember he sent two of my young brothers to prison for tossing for halfpence upon a Sunday—he who made not even a pretence of religion himself, and had been used invariably to pass his day of rest in town at Tattersall's, betting his thousands on some approaching race. It is said that this wretched old man used to horse-whip young Massingberd almost daily, until a certain occasion, when the latter found himself stronger than he imagined, and reversed the process. After that, Sir Wentworth confined himself to cursing his offspring whenever they quarrelled. It was after some dreadful outbreak of passion on the part of the old man that Massingberd Heath left house and home, and elected to join our wandering fortunes. We were very unwilling that this should be. It was by no means so unusual a proceeding then as now, for persons of good birth, but broken fortunes, to become gipsies, but such had usually their private reasons for remaining so for life. They were very rarely criminals, but generally social outlaws, for whom there could be no reconciliation at home, or younger sons of respectable families, with quite a mountain of debt upon their shoulders. These were regularly nationalized among us; and if they conducted themselves for sufficient time in accordance with our regulations, they were permitted to intermarry with us.
"Now it was certain that Massingberd Heath sought only a temporary home; as soon as his father died, or even offered terms to him, he would leave us, and resume his proper station. Moreover, how was the maintenance of discipline and obedience to the chief of our tribe, absolutely essential as it is, to be kept up in the case of this new-comer? Even at that time, he was a headstrong, wilful man, to whom all authority, however lawful or natural, was hateful. Was it to be expected that he who defied his own father, himself a man of iron will, would obey Morris Liversedge? On the other hand, Uncle Morris rather liked the young fellow. He had connived at many a raid on his father's own preserves—to such a pitch had the quarrel grown between them—and kept our pot boiling with bird and beast. Many and many a time had he led the Fairburn keepers to one extremity of the preserves, while the slaughter was going on in the other. Moreover, it would be of great importance, could we make a friend of the man who would one day own all these pleasant haunts of ours, and who could say a good word, and a strong one, for the poor persecuted gipsies, when it was needed. Poor Morris did not know that the rebel but too often turns out a tyrant, when he gets his chance. He could not foresee Sir Massingberd Heath sending folks to prison, or getting them kidnapped, and sent across the seas, for snaring the hares that he held so cheaply when they did not happen to belong to himself. If you want to find a gentleman who in his youth, and landless, has been a poacher whenever the opportunity offered, look you among the game-preservers on the bench of justices. This, however, is among the least of the basenesses of him of whom I speak. It is not for his bitter guardianship of bird and beast, or his hateful oppression of his fellow-creatures, that my heart cries out for judgment against this man, that I look with eager longing for that hour when God shall take him into His own hand."
The old woman paused a moment with closed eyes, and muttered something that was inaudible to me, rocking herself at the same time to and fro.
"Massingberd Heath became one of us, Peter Meredith as far as it is possible for such a wretch to be so; he ate with us, and drank with us, which they say is a sacred bond among even savages. It was not so with him. He cast his evil eyes upon Sinnamenta, to love her after the fashion of his accursed race. Perhaps you may think, Peter Meredith, that such an occurrence should have been foreseen by her father or her uncle Morris, and, for my part, I always thought that it was the presence of my lovely sister which mainly caused this man to join our company; but, at all events, neither they nor I dreaded any ill consequences. A gipsy girl is not a light-of-love maiden, like those of fairer skins. Heaven, who gives her beauty, gives her virtue also: this is not denied, even by our enemies. When you call your sweetheart 'Gipsy,' it is in love, not in reproach. Massingberd Heath knew this well, and therefore it was foe took such pains in the matter. It is true that we do not marry in church, but when we wed among ourselves, the marriage is not less sacred; It was a wedding of this sort, indissoluble by one party, but not by the other, which this man wished to compass. He did not gain his end."
The old woman's eyes sparkled with triumph for a moment as she said these words, but her voice sank low as she continued:
"Peter Meredith, if you have a sister, think of her while I speak of mine; she cannot be more pure than little Sinnamenta, nor less designing. Her weakness was one common to all women, but especially to those of our unhappy race; she was fond of finery—fine clothing, jewels, shawls; they became her; she looked like any princess when attired in them. Stanley Carew, who loved her in all honesty, could give her no such costly gifts as Massingberd Heath showered upon her, and, to help his end, even upon me. The gipsy's ragged coat looked mean and poor beside that of our guest. This man, too, whom you know but as a scowling tyrant, with a face scarred with passion and excesses, was then a handsome youth. You smile, Peter, at the wonder of it; it is, however, not less true than that the wrinkled hag to whom you are now listening was then a bonny girl. Imaginethat, Peter, and you can imagine anything. Ah, Time, Time, surely at the end of you, there will be something to recompense us for all that you have taken away!"
Once more Rachel Liversedge paused as if in pain; then with eyes whose sight seemed to receive but little of what was present, but were fixed on the unreturning Past, continued as follows:
"Yes, Massingberd Heath was handsome enough, unless when enraged; his wrath always brought the horse-shoe out upon his forehead.[1]Ay, and he was agreeable enough, too. He could smile as though he had a heart, and vow as though he owned a God. By his devilish art he managed to ingratiate himself with Sinnamenta; he caused her to treat poor Stanley ill, and then, pretending to take his part, got credit for generosity. There are many who call us gipsies a base people, yet this excess of meanness was quite new to us; my little sister—that was what I always called her, because I loved her so—she believed him. She would have trusted to his word, and married him, according to our rites, and been his wife and drudge for all her life; but since this could not be without the consent both of her father and Morris, he had to ask it of them. He might as well have asked it of Sir Wentworth; they had got to know him well by close companionship, for men fathom men better than women do—even gipsy women, who foretell men's fortunes for them—and they answered, 'No.' They did not believe that he had the least intention of being with us longer that it suited him, and they peremptorily refused his request. After one burst of passionate threats, the young man pretended to yield assent to their decision. Morris was inclined to think this acquiescence genuine; but my father, more warmly interested in the matter, and therefore perhaps less credulous, kept on his guard. Finding out that Massingberd Heath had secretly made overtures of reconciliation to his father, and missing him one night from the camp, he caused Morris to strike tent at once; and before morning we had put twenty miles between us and Fairburn. Nor was this effected too soon, for, as we heard long afterwards, the constables were searching this very wood for us at day-break.
"Our company was bound on a long travel to Kirk-Yetholm, Roxburghshire, one of the few places in Scotland, although but one mile from the frontier of Northumberland, where the gipsies reside in any number. There we should meet with friends, and be safe from all molestation. It was late in the year to travel so far and into such a climate, but there was no help for it; and moreover, some of the Carews had a house there, to which Stanley said we should be welcome; and so it turned out. I believe Sinnamenta would rather that we had camped out of doors, even in that northern clime, so disinclined was she to be beholden to him or his friends, after what had happened, although she did not dare to say so. Poor Stanley imagined that, now we had removed from the neighbourhood of his rival, he might renew his suit with success; but the proud girl would not listen to him. She did not exactly pine after the man whose wiles she had so narrowly escaped, but her life seemed henceforth saddened. The domestic duties which had hitherto sat so lightly upon her, became burdensome, and she set about them languidly. The whole of the time we remained at Kirk-Yetholm, and it was many, many months, she never mentioned Massingberd Heath, but never ceased to think of him. It was fated that she was to be undeceived about that man too late."