"This is a very Robin Hood like scene," said Colonel Manners, as he looked around, "and less gloomy in the broad daylight than at eventide. But here are no gipsies, Miss Falkland; and I am afraid that you must put off hearing the future fate and fortunes of Charles Manners till another time."
"I am very much mortified, indeed," replied Isadore, "and I see that you only laugh at me, Colonel Manners, without sympathizing in the least with disappointed curiosity; which,--as no one believes more fully than yourself,--is a very serious event in a woman's case. However, I shall hold you bound by your promise, and look upon you engaged as a man of honour to have your fortune told the very first time you meet with a party of gipsies,--nay, more, to let me know the result also."
She spoke with playful seriousness; and Colonel Manners replied, "With all my heart, Miss Falkland; and, indeed, you shall find that your commands are so lightly borne by me, that I will take other obligations upon myself, and even seek out your favourites, the gipsies; for these protegées of yours seldom move far at a time, unless, indeed, all the poultry in the neighbourhood happens to be exhausted."
"Oh, that is not the case here," answered Isadore; "there is plenty yet remaining in every farm-yard, and I dare say you will find them on the common."
"I will go to-morrow, then, without fail," he answered, "for--" and he had nearly added words which would have betrayed his meditated departure; but he turned his speech another way; and all parties, well satisfied with their ramble, returned by the same path to the house.
Nothing occurred during the rest of the day to disturb the tranquillity of the party. The evening passed away in conversation, generally light enough, but of which we have given a specimen above, fully sufficient to show its nature and quality. Sometimes it touched, indeed, upon deeper feelings, without ever becoming grave; and sometimes it ventured farther into the realms of learning, without approaching pedantry. The annoyance of Lord Dewry's behaviour on the preceding night had at the time reconciled Colonel Manners in some degree to the idea of quitting a circle in which he found much to please and interest him; but no such annoyance interrupted the course of this evening, and he experienced more pain than he liked to acknowledge, when he thought of leaving behind him for ever, a scene in which the hours passed so pleasantly. He felt, however, that the annoyance might soon be renewed, or that even if it were not, he had no right by his presence to shut out De Vaux's father from Mrs. Falkland's house; and he resolved still to adhere to his purpose, and set out for London on the day after that which was just about to follow.
[CHAPTER VII.]
The ordinary and too well-deserved lamentation over the fragility of human resolutions was not in general applicable to the determinations of Charles Manners, who was usually very rigid in his adherence to his purposes, whether they were of great or small importance. But it must not be supposed that this pertinacity, if it may so be called, in pursuit of designs he had already formed, proceeded from what the world calls obstinacy. Obstinacy maybe defined the act of persisting in error; and the rectitude and precision of his judgment generally kept him from being in error at first, so that he had rarely a legitimate cause for breaking his resolution. Nor was he either of such a hard and tenacious nature as to resist all persuasion, and, like the cement of the Romans, only to grow the stiffer by the action of external things. Far from it; he was always very willing to sacrifice his purposes--where no moral sacrifice was implied--to the wishes and solicitations of those he loved or esteemed. Nor is there any contradiction in this statement, though it may be inquired, how, then, did he break his resolutions less frequently than other people? The secret was this, and it is worth while to burden memory with it: he never formed his resolutions without thought, which saved at least one-third from fracture; and though he broke them sometimes at the entreaty of others, he never sacrificed them to any whim of his own, which saved very nearly two-thirds more; for we may depend upon it that the determinations which we abandon, either from a change of circumstances, or from the persuasions of our friends, form but a very minute fraction, when compared with those that we give up, either from original error or after caprice.
It has seemed necessary to give this lecture upon resolutions, because Colonel Manners very speedily found cause to abandon the determination which he formed so vigorously on the day we spoke of in the last chapter; and, that he might not be charged with inconsistency, it became requisite to enter into all those strict definitions and explanations that generally leave us as many loopholes for escape and evasion, as a treaty of peace or a deed of settlement.
One resolution, however, and one promise, Colonel Manners certainly did keep, as soon as it was possible, which was, to inquire whether the gipsies were still in the neighbourhood, and to seek them out, with the full purpose of having his fortune told. Now, it may be supposed that here was a little weakness on the part of Colonel Manners--that he did give some credit to gipsy chiromancy; nay, the reader may even push his conjectures farther, and imagine him dreaming of Isadore Falkland's beautiful eyes, and all their varieties of expression, from the deep and soft to the gayest sparkle that ever twinkled through two rows of long silky eyelashes. But the simple fact was, that he had promised to go, and that he went; and though he might think Miss Falkland extremely beautiful and extremely pleasing, as every man who had been two minutes in her company must have thought, he no more dreamed of the possibility of so fair a creature, courted and loved as he knew she must be, ever uniting herself to so ugly a man as himself--and as he sat and shaved himself that morning he thought himself uglier than ever--than Napoleon Bonaparte, in the plenitude of power and the majesty of victory, thought of a low grave beneath a willow on a rock in the Atlantic.