With a face beaming with delight at having received a large and unexpected gratuity, the gipsy unclosed her hand.
“See, reverend sir, what his noble honour has bestowed upon the poor wanderer!” and she pointed to the silver Mr. Clifford had just given. “It is many a long day since I was mistress of so much. Reverend sir, you are not angry at my gleaning a few sticks? Believe me, poor Mary will do no injury to the trees. You look a kind-hearted gentleman. Heaven grant you long and happy days!”
What will not the mystic influence of beauty effect? The cold churchman looked at the supplicant for a moment—a soft black eye was eloquently turned on his, as, “with lips apart,” disclosing teeth of pearly whiteness, the gipsy timidly awaited his reply.
“How lovely she must have been in woman’s noon-day!” the confessor involuntarily muttered. “You have the permission, you ask. Take care it be not abused.” Again the gipsy curtseyed, and the churchman passed on—giving her, in return for an outbreak of ardent thanks, unbeliever as she was, his parting benedicite!
Days passed—the weather continued beautiful, and the lord of Clifford Hall might have been seen on his fwourite seat beneath the old oak tree every afternoon—generally, the confessor close at hand, and the gipsy gathering sticks in some of the copses at no great distance. Twice she contrived to convey a sealed packet to the old man unperceived; and, on the following evening, after he had perused their contents, she saw, with unspeakable delight, that what he had read was not displeasing. The letters were from his long lost son, cautiously worded to sound the old man’s secret feeling, lay the ground-work of a disclosure, and prepare him for coming events.
It was on the third evening before I had so very unexpectedly presented myself at Bromley Hall, that, just as the light was failing, a man, evidently in an excited mood, paced slowly back and forwards in front of the ancient oak in Clifford Park, which we have already described as being a fwourite spot with the owner of the domain. Besides the extended view over the surrounding country which this rising ground commanded from its crest, the front and back entrances to the park were visible—and towards both, the lonely visitor turned frequently an anxious look. At last, as if wearied with his solitary vigil, the confessor—for it was he—broke into a rambling soliloquy.
“It is strange, what has delayed him—two long hours beyond the time he told me he should return! I can scarce believe that I am waking. He who for years has been the creature of my will—who thought as I dictated—who acted as I pointed out—who in my hands was but a mere automaton, whom I wound and directed as I pleased—that he should thus miraculously assume an independence, and break through the thrall that bound him.—By mine order, ‘tis marvellous—‘tis scarcely credible! That cursed interview with his grandson laid the foundation of the whole—and yet I fancied that I had remedied the mischief, and extinguished the yearnings of natural affection which the youth’s sudden appearance rekindled in the old man’s breast. But the last fortnight has crowned the mystery. Three long years—the old man never penned a letter. Were private communications to be made, I was summoned to indite them. Was business to be transacted, the steward was always the amanuensis. But now, he sits for hours alone—and writes, and transmits letters daily, and by the hand of one who hates my creed, and with whom I dare not tamper. What can be done? Never was a game more critical—one false move, and all is lost. The tidings ot the evening too, are ominous. His lawyer to be here to-morrow his errand, strictly secret too. What augurs that but mischief? By every saint, I know not how to act. True, I have not let the harvest pass without gleaning plentifully—and, better still, I have secured the reward of many an anxious scheme. But to see the grand object of my ten years of toil and artifice slip from my grasp—even at the moment when the course of nature should have consummated the triumph of sound conceptions, ably and patiently carried out—Ha!—a horseman—‘Tis he—I’ll reach the hall before him.”
While the steward rode hastily to the stables, the priest had reached the mansion and retired to his private apartments. There, he impatiently waited the return of his confederate—and, in a lew minutes, the steward presented himself. If the confessor fancied that himself had startling tidings to communicate, one glance at the steward’s agitated countenance, assured him that heavier news had yet to be unfolded.
“How now!” he muttered. “You seem disturbed. Has ought occurred to cause us more disquietude?”