The gipsy sighed as he spoke, and De Vaux sighed too, for he had never seen such faces in his father's house; and there was also, in the picture thus presented, a sad sample of how happy things and scenes of joy can, in a few short years, pass away and be forgotten, which, linking itself by the chain of association to the present, carried on his mind to the time when he and his might be as those of whom the gipsy spoke, and all the happiness which he now so fondly anticipated with her he loved become a memory for some old remaining servant, or poor dependant, to sigh over in their age.
"Then I am to suppose," rejoined De Vaux, after pausing for a moment on thoughts which, perhaps, might be called gloomy--"then I am to suppose that I am speaking with the person signing himself Pharold; and I may also conclude," he added, "that he is the same whom I have heard of, as having been taken, when a boy, by my grandfather, in order to educate him with my father and uncle; but who could not bear the restraints of that kind of life, and at the end of two years fled back to his own race and his native pursuits."
"In less time, in less time than that," said the gipsy; "but I often went back, and was ever kindly met, and used to please myself by enacting one day the young gentleman at the hall, and the next the gipsy on the common. But after a time," he continued, carried away by his subject, "I strayed farther, and forgot what I might have been, to give myself more up to what I was to be--but there is no use of talking of such things now, it makes me sad! And so you have heard all that. Yet who would tell you? Your father never did, I am sure; and your aunt was then but a child of two or three years old; and your uncle--but you remember not him."
"No," replied De Vaux, "any knowledge of the facts that I do possess was derived, I believe, from the tales of an excellent old housekeeper, who died not many years ago, and who seemed to speak of Pharold with no small regard."
"And is she dead?" cried Pharold. "Poor good old Mrs. Dickinson--I knew not that she was dead--she was ever kind to me, good soul: and now she is dust and ashes! Well, well, the fairest, and the strongest, and the best, go down to the sand with the leaves of the tree!--but will the kindly affections, and the noble feelings, and the generous nature, die too and rot? Can you tell me that, young gentleman?--I think not."
"Nor I either," answered De Vaux. "God forbid that we should think so! But, as I said, it was from that good old person, as I now recollect, that I heard all I know of your former history."
De Vaux recurred to the subject of the old housekeeper purposely, for he was not at all sorry that--instead of having to meet the gipsy as an opponent, where every word was to be examined, and nothing admitted without proof--their conversation had taken such a turn as to draw forth the man's true character, and to show the deeper motives upon which he acted. Anxious, as he might naturally be, to ascertain whether there was any hidden passion which might tempt the other to deceive him, or to seek to injure either himself or those connected with him, De Vaux would fain have led the gipsy on to speak more fully of the past; but Pharold's mind, following always its own particular train, rested but for a moment longer upon the idea suggested, and then returned abruptly to the cause of their meeting.
"Since you know so much of me, Captain de Vaux," he said, "you must also know that I possess knowledge in regard to your family which few other persons now living do possess; and you must know, likewise, that I am not one to say to you a word that is false, or to seek to wrong you by even a thought. That you have given some credence to my letter I see by your having come here, and that you put some confidence in me I see by your having come alone, and at this hour. Both deserve that I should be as explicit with you as possible; and, therefore, before you quit me, I will leave not a doubt upon your mind in regard to the truth of what I affirm."
"By so doing," replied De Vaux, "you will at least entitle yourself to my gratitude and thanks, though I conceal not from you that it is difficult to feel grateful or to offer sincere thanks to one who, willingly or unwillingly, overturns our hopes and our happiness for ever."
"It is difficult!" replied the gipsy; "I know it is difficult; but yet you must believe me when I tell you that I feel deeply and bitterly every pang that I inflict on you; that but for a duty and a promise registered in my own heart and beyond the stars--but for your own ultimate happiness--I would not pour upon you now all that I must bid you bear. You must believe all this, Captain de Vaux, for it is true."