With a better fortune than had awaited the volunteer, Herman Hunter stepped into the grot; but with much less display of heroism; for he no sooner found himself in presence of the renowned Hawk of the Hollow than he bent his eyes upon the ground, and stood silent before him.
"You are come at last!" said the refugee, giving him a piercing look, and with a voice none the less expressive of indignation for being subdued to the lowest tones, as if he feared a witness even in the dead malefactor; "you are come at last; and the son of my father comes with my enemies and hunters!"
"So I come," said the painter, raising his eyes, and speaking firmly; "I come as the friend, who, having saved you from one danger, desires to rescue you from another yet greater. I warned you last night,—nay, I sent you word long since, that you were watched: I betrayed a confidence reposed in me by one it was a double duplicity to deceive, in order that you might escape the net that was secretly closing around you. Nay, I discovered the presence and machinations of the daring spy, who but this morning was selling you into the hands of your enemies; I found his letter, and left it where you were sure to obtain it."——
"Ay; while you were yourself playing the fool among the Independents, and leaving me to the care of a stupid ploughman and a dotish old woman!"
"It was all I could," said Herman: "I knew it was better I should be on the ground, when the officers came. Had I not been there, to join the first of the hunters, as you call them, and to fire an alarm in the hollow, neither your own cunning nor the fleetness of the roan horse could have saved you from capture."
"It was bravely done," said the refugee, with a softer voice, "and it will excuse what is passed. Where found you this dog's paper? and how?"
"Near the park-gate, under a bush, where I saw the man hide it, as I approached the place by accident. This fellow knows all your haunts: will he not bring the troops to this very spot?"
The refugee laughed, and at that moment Herman heard a noise on the bough of the oak tree, as of some animal rending away the bark; and looking up, he beheld what he had not before seen in the gloom,—the body of the dead traitor swinging with a sort of jerking, convulsive motion, as if still alive. The rope had slipped a little along the bough, and though soon arrested by some knot or other roughness, it was some moments before the motion entirely ceased. The dreadful and unexpected spectacle of a man, who, it was evident, the painter thought, had made his escape, thus hanging dead before him, filled him with horror, and he exclaimed at once,
"Oh, Oran! Oran! it is this dreadful cruelty of spirit which has made you what you are,—which has made us all what we are! For God's sake, let us cut him down, and see if he be yet alive."
"He was stiff before the rope touched his neck," said Oran, grimly; "I never strucktwicewith the hatchet. Let him hang: he died the death of a spy and betrayer. I have invited the county to his death-bed!"
"Daring, as well as cruel! Why do you linger here? It is plain, you are surrounded: before the sun sets the whole county will be out; and, to-morrow, there will not be a den of the woods, or a hollow of the hills, left unvisited."
"Why, this is what I want!" cried the fierce outlaw; "the general has tied my hands to act only on the defensive; and here are forty devils with heads of iron and fingers of fire, that are lying asleep in the woods like winter bears, for want of something to warm the blood in them. I am ready."
"Ready to die!" said Herman, solemnly; "ready to throw away your life at the bidding of a master, or the prompting of an insane passion. Fly, while you yet may: the attempt to rescue young Asgill must be now fruitless, as it is needless—even the Americans say, his life is in no danger. Fly, then, Oran, and give up your bloody designs in this fatal Hollow. Hearken to me, Oran,"——
"Hearken tome," said the outcast, sternly. "Has your blood turned to milk, and your heart to water? Are your wounds healed, your bones knit, your strength restored, and do you talk of leaving Hawk-Hollow at this moment? What is this they say of you? You were among the foremost of the rejoicing fools at the Hawks' Nest—have you turned American?"
"I was born upon these hills; but I will not strike the friends and countrymen of my father."
"Will you strike his foes?"
"They are in the grave with him," said the youth, sorrowfully; "and he has forgiven them."
"They are upon the earth, and his spirit is not satisfied!" cried Oran, with the wild energy, and almost in the favourite language, of an Indian orator. "Have you rested under his roof? have you sat in his flower-garden? have you walked on his path by the Run-side? have you spoken with the people that drove him in his old age from his fireside? Hyland Gilbert! they broke his heart, and then trampled him to death. Will you not do him right and vengeance?"
"Oran!"——
"Changeling!" cried the refugee, with a scowl of savage contempt; "if you have not the feelings of a man, you have at least the gewgaw brain of a boy. Look!" he continued, drawing from his bosom, and displaying with a sneering grin, a roll of written parchment, decorated with the due pomp of martialness; "you begged for the toy that would make you a servant of the king; and here it is. Take it; and for the sake of a red coat and feather, do what you would not for the name and honour of your father."
Hyland—for the assumed name of the young Gilbert must now be dropped—recoiled from the emblem of distinction as much as from the frowning eyes of the speaker, but answered firmly,—
"When I was in the Islands, it is true, I desired the king's commission; and, it is also true, I left them to obtain it; and had I reached the royal army at my first landing, no doubt I should have accepted it. But it was my fate to be cast ashore far in the south; and I esteem it no bad fortune that I obeyed a whim of adventure, and made my way through my rebel countrymen (they areours, Oran,) to this spot. I have thus been made acquainted with some of the principles on which this war is contested; whereby, I thank heaven, I have been spared the shedding of innocent blood in an unjust cause."
"Do you say this to me?" cried the refugee, with a wild laugh.
"Oran!" said the young man earnestly, "your heart is not with the side you have espoused; and fierce and cruel as may be your acts, they are, they must be, at variance with your conscience. A moment of fury drove you into a cause you abhor; and if you give the bloodiest proofs of your fidelity, you are impelled to them only by remorse and despair."
"You are a philosopher!" said the renegade, with another bitter laugh; "but we will play the fool no longer. Will you have the commission? See, it has the royal mark upon it!"
"Oran," said Hyland, mournfully, "after yourself, I am the last of my father's house. You ask me to do what has brought the others to their graves—to early and ignominious graves; and what, though you have been spared, has left you the prey of shame and sorrow. Why should I strike those men, who, besides fighting against tyrannous oppression, (such it was, Oran,) are also the children of the same soil—our countrymen and brothers?"
"You are the last of the seven," said the refugee, taking both the young man's hands into his, and looking at him with mingled affection and anger; "four of your brothers were slain—one of them hanged upon a gibbet—and all by 'our countrymen and brothers!' The fifth—look you, Hyland, the fifth—the second-born and the beloved, whose name was given you, that you might never forget him, fell in battle, saving the life of one of these—my countryman and my brother!"
The face of the outcast blackened, and Hyland trembled in his glance; he stepped out of the nook, and leading the young man along, conducted him up the hill to a place where a vista through the trees, looking over the green swamp, disclosed a glimpse of the blue ridgy cliffs of the Kittatinny, to which he pointed.
"Come with me to that mountain," he said, "and when you stand upon the summit, gazing to the right and to the left, you will look upon two graves. One of them lies in the desert, among the hills: I planted a pine tree on it, and you can see its blue head afar off. Do you remember who sleeps in it?"
"I do," said Hyland, with emotion; "it is my brother."
"And do you bethink you what laid him there?"
"His humanity and his noble heart."
"He died," said Oran Gilbert—"he died that a villain might live; and you call that villain 'my countryman and brother!'"
"No," said Hyland, with some of his wild brother's spirit; "I excepthim."
"Then look to the left," continued Oran, with a glance of painful humiliation: "on the brook, and in a little bower, there is a second grave."
"It is the grave of my poor wronged sister!" cried Hyland, impetuously.
"Of your sister, and of ——. Ha, ha! Is not this a merry subject for two brothers to talk on! 'My countryman and brother' destroyed her and fled."
"May heaven pardon him," cried Hyland; "but I cannot."
"We buried her in secret, and in night, that none might look upon her shame, or upon ours," said the refugee; "and that night came into the world her brother, whom we called Hyland, that we might better remember her destroyer."
"Oran! Oran!"
"Your mother," continued the elder brother, with a cruel pertinacity, "loved the girl well, and died of sorrow for her. My 'countrymen and brothers' pointed at our shame; they visited the sins of the children upon the father, and drove him forth in his old age, a childless and ruined man."
"They did," said the youth; "he came to the island, and he died in my arms."
"My 'countrymen and brothers,'" added Oran, with a ferocious sneer, "have left the oldest and youngest to weep for the others.—Here is the commission——We will avenge them!"
For a moment Hyland seemed to share the fire of the outcast; for a moment he grasped the parchment which the other had put into his hand. His face flushed,—then turned pale; he hesitated,—faltered; the badge of honour fell to the earth; and clasping his hands together, he looked at Oran imploringly, and said,
"My father died in my arms, and charged me, with his last breath, to forget that he had been wronged."
"It was the weakness of his death-hour," said Oran.
"He bade me," continued the youth, "leave his enemies to God, and the destroyer of his peace to his fate."
"Look at his fate!" cried the refugee: "wealth surrounds him, and he is envied for his happiness; while you are ashamed of your father's name, and I am poor, and abhorred, and miserable."
"We will go to the island, and forget"——
"Will you have the commission?" said Oran, abruptly. "You have youth, talents, education and fortune,—and will rise. This commission is to serve among the royal refugees; but if you carry it bravely at the first bout, I have the General's word you shall be transferred to the line, with a fair field for promotion."
"Look, Oran," said the youth, manfully, "I will not take the commission, nor will I trust your commander's promises. You have served him from the beginning; and none have served him better. How has he rewarded you?—You are still a captain of refugees!"
A shadow of humiliation passed over the face of the renegade; but he answered without emotion.
"I sought nothing better, nor am I fit for promotion. My station is where my habits and inclinations put me,—among the free rangers. But you have learning, youth, ambition; and are capable of training into discipline."
"I will not take the commission," said Hyland, with increasing resolution. "I have been enough with our people,—with the Americans,—to know that their cause is just, and holy, and is prevailing. Nay, you must know, that, at this moment, commissioners are deliberating over the preliminaries of negotiation, and that peace must soon be concluded."
"It is false," said the refugee, fiercely; "a trick of the ministers,—a common stratagem."
"True, or false, then, yet am I resolved to shed no blood in the quarrel; and, certainly, I will take no commission to distress the people of this neighbourhood. Oran, I am resolved; I will not fight; and I adjure you by the last wish of our poor father, and by your own hopes of future quiet, that you give up your schemes of blood, and leave this fatal valley for ever. Disband your followers; and take heed you be not suddenly deserted by your employers."
"Boy!" said the outlaw, "you are not white-livered, or you would not say these things to me! Look you, I know your folly: it is not for me,—not because you love liberty and peace,—not because you have laid to heart the dotish words of a half crazed father,—that you are so cold and shameless; but because you have set your eyes on the baby face of a girl, who will laugh at you, when the last fit of your folly is over. Hark you,—read me this knavish letter, and see what is already said of you."
"I have read it," said the young man, faltering.
"Ay, but read it again: let me know how far your madness has been talked of." And Hyland, summoning courage, took the letter and read it, though his embarrassment increased at the paragraph concerning himself, which had caused Oran to snatch it so suddenly from the hands of the volunteer. This paragraph, couched in the coarsest terms, expressed a knowledge of his affections, which had alarmed him at first excessively, though, it was probable, it was nothing more than the shrewd guess of a keen observer; and it concluded by showing how easily he might be 'nabbed, while at his gallivanting.'
"And this, then," cried the refugee, "it is that makes you so tame, so spiritless! Poor fool, could you look on none but the betrothed of a Falconer? Look you, boy, you are in a bear-trap, and the log will soon be on your back: with this baby fancy, shameful and dishonourable, you are gulling yourself into perdition."
"Oran," cried the young man, throwing himself upon the wild man's mercy, "this poor girl is betrothed against her will; and if no friend stands by her, there will be another broken heart laid by the side of Jessie. Do not scoff at me, or reproach me: she saved my life, she has treated me with a sister's kindness and trust; and if she will suffer me to aid her, I will rescue her from her misery, though I die for it."
"Do what you will," said Oran, with a gloomy frown: "though you had her heart and love, what will she say to you, when this cunning daughter of a villain, that sent yonder Parker to the rope, ferrets out your secret, and shows you to be a son of the Gilberts? Nay, what will others say to you? It is better to die as a soldier, than a spy!"
"I am no spy," said Hyland; "and when the time comes for disclosure, I will not fear to acknowledge my name."
"It will soon come," said the refugee. "Go," he added, sternly; "you are rushing upon destruction. Save yourself as you can, till midnight; and then take the commission, or be lost. Begone from this place; it will be soon full of soldiers—I have sent for them; and already they are coming.—Brother," he said, relenting, as the young man turned to depart: he strode after him and took him by the hand: "What have you or I to do with the love of woman? This is but a folly.—You have no friend or kinsman left to advise or help you.—Well, if the girl be willing to fly, why, put her upon a fleet horse, and to-morrow she shall be beyond the reach of a Falconer. It shall not be said, I deserted you, even in your folly."
How much further the wild and flinty outlaw might have been softened by the distress he saw pictured on his brother's face, cannot be told. The gentler feeling of affection beginning to yearn in his bosom, was chased away by a sudden sound like the flourish of a distant trumpet, which came trembling over the forest-leaves.
"Away," he cried hastily; "the curs are coming, and the troop with them. Dive into the swamp, and meet them on the road. To-night you shall see me."
So saying, he bounded down the hill with the activity of a mountain-buck, and was almost instantly lost to sight. The brother, crossing the swamp and brook, made his way to the road, some distance above the spot where he had dismounted.
END OF VOL. I.
END OF VOL. I.
Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1835, by CAREY, LEA, & BLANCHARD, in the clerk's office of the district court for the eastern district of Pennsylvania.
I. Ashmead & Co. Printers.
It has been seen how the rejoicings at the promontory were interrupted in their very beginning, by the sudden discovery of the refugee, so
Drad for his derring-doe and bloody deed,
Drad for his derring-doe and bloody deed,
that his mere name had thrown all present into confusion. The crowning climax was put to the general panic, when some of the late pursuers were seen returning, early in the afternoon, whipping and spurring with all the zeal of fear, and scattering such intelligence along the way as put to flight the last resolution of the jubilants. The news immediately spread, that Oran Gilbert had burst into existence, not alone, but with a countless host of armed men at his heels; that he had attacked and routed the pursuers, hanging all whom he took alive, especially the soldiers; and that he was now, in the frenzy of triumph, marching against the devoted Hillborough, with the resolution of burning it to the ground. Such dreadful intelligence was enough to complete the terror of the revellers; they fled amain—and long before night, the flag waved, and the little piece of ordnance frowned in utter solitude on the top of the deserted head-land. It is true that there came, by and by, couriers with happier news, but too late to arrest the fugitives; and as these riders made their way towards the village, expressing some anxiety lest it should be attacked, they rather confirmed than dispelled the fears of the few inhabitants of the valley. From one of the coolest and boldest, Captain Loring, who fastened on him at the park-gate, learned that there had been no action indeed, and that the fugitive had made his escape; but, on the other hand, it appeared that therewererefugees in the land,—that they had hanged a soldier named Parker, and made good their retreat from the place of execution—that the greatest doubt existed among the pursuers in relation to the route they had taken and the objects they had in view, some believing, on the evidence of a certain quaker, who had been their prisoner, that they were marching by secret paths against the village, while others insisted that this was a feint designed only to throw the hunters off the scent, and to secure their escape,—that, in consequence, the party had divided, pursuing the search in all directions, in the hope of discovering their route,—and, finally, that it was now certain, the band, whose number was supposed to be very considerable, was really commanded by the notorious Oran Gilbert. From this man also, Captain Loring learned a few vague particulars in relation to the two greatest objects of his interest, namely Henry Falconer and the young painter, who had fallen into a quarrel in consequence of some misunderstanding about their horses, the officer having used harsh language not only in regard to the unceremonious seizure by Herman of his own steed, but in reference to a similar liberty the refugee had previously taken with the painter's, which, Falconer averred, was an evidence of intimacy and intercourse betwixt Mr. Hunter and the outlaw it behooved the former to explain, before thrusting himself into the company of honest men and gentlemen. This quarrel, it seemed, had been allayed by the interference of Falconer's brother officers; and the informant had heard something said of a proposal to drown the feud in a bowl. As for the man of peace, Ephraim, it appeared, that his spirited assistance during the chase, and especially his success in exposing the secret haunt of the tories in the Terrapin Hole, the scene of Parker's execution, had not only removed all suspicion in relation to his character, but had highly recommended him to the favour of his late captors.
With such news, the Captain strode back to his mansion, and awaited, with his daughter and kinswoman, the return of the officers to the Hollow, and their appearance at the hall, which he doubted not, they would instantly make, after returning. He waited, however, for a long time, in vain; and by falling sound asleep, as he watched the sun creeping beneath the western hills, escaped the intelligence, which was soon after brought to the house, that the officers had returned to the Hollow, and instead of reporting themselves forthwith under his hospitable roof, had made their way to the widow's inn, where they were carousing with a zeal commensurate with the spirit they had exhibited during the troubles of the day.
This unexpected termination of a day of heroism—a termination that surprised and irritated Miss Falconer as much as it perhaps secretly pleased the Captain's daughter—was a consequence of the late quarrel, or rather a mode of burying it in oblivion, devised by captain Caliver, who had contracted an esteem for the painter, and preferred 'his ease in his inn' to all the delights and blandishments that might be expected in the society of Gilbert's Folly. As the superior officer, he had taken the command into his own hands, and besides arranging his forces so as to watch all the approaches to the valley, and despatching lieutenant Brooks to the village, to communicate with the authorities there, he declared his resolution to erect his head-quarters in the Hollow, at a place like the Traveller's Rest, where, while still commanding the road, he would be near enough to protect the females and non-combatants in the Captain's house. "And besides," he added facetiously, while riding up to the little inn, "as we men of the sword are protectors of widows as well as orphans, we will thus protect a forlorn old woman from mischief, and put a penny into her pocket, and drink our wine at our ease—for you remember, Falconer, my young brother, you swore by all the gods you would have some of the wherewithal smuggled up to this identical old woman's whiskey-house!"
"I swore it 'by the eternal Jupiter,'" said Falconer, with a grin; "and, by the eternal Jupiter, I am as ready for a blow-up now as another time; only that we must blow fast, so as to run up to Hal, to be scolded before bed-time, as soon as Brooks comes: and as for Mr. Hunter here, why he and I can blow out one another's brains in the morning."
"If thee talks in this evil-minded, blood-thirsty manner," said Ephraim Patch, indignantly, "I give thee warning, I will have nothing to do with thy wholesome wines and thy goodly brandies, whereof thee has spoken, and whereof much good may be said, in regard of them that are faint and weary. If thee will eat, drink, and be merry, all in a civil, Christian way, without drawing any weapons more dreadful than corks, pulling only at the bottle instead of the pistol, and neither swearing profanely nor drinking foolish irreligious healths, thee shall have me in company to give thee good counsel, whereof thee has considerable much need, as well as thy long-nosed friend here, (not meaning any offence,) which thee calls captain, and the youth also, friend Hunter. Verily, I am both hungry and thirsty, and will sooner enjoy the creature comforts in this quiet hovel, than even the satisfaction of bringing the breaker of laws into the hands of justice. Verily, the thought of these goodly wines doth make my mouth water; and I shall rejoice, even to the bottom of my spirit, if they have already reached the house of the widow."
We do not design to relate the joys of the banquet shared by the four worthies, and some two or three young men of the county, who had shown themselves men of spirit, and remained bravely by the side of the officers, resolved, as they said, to contribute their aid to the defence of the Hollow. It is only worthy of remark, first, that the ill blood between young Falconer and the painter gradually wore away, and was succeeded, on the part of the former, by a sudden friendship, which bade fair to ripen into fondness, and on that of Hyland, by what was at least a show of reciprocity; secondly, that honest Ephraim, gradually displayed as much spirit in the feast as he had before manifested in the fray, and became, to the surprise of all, the soul of mirth and drollery, so that young Falconer, clapping him on the back, swore, with the favourite oath of his friend Caliver, he 'had never seen a jollier old broad-brim;' and thirdly, that this capricious young gentleman grew so enamoured of his company, that he ceased to talk, as he did at first, of the necessity he was under of paying his sister and friends a visit at the Folly, until he was roused to recollection by the sudden retreat of his new friend from the cottage. The painter was detected in the very act of stealing, or as they chose to call it, sneaking from the apartment; and Mr. Falconer, uttering a loud 'Hillo! halt, deserter!' volunteered to bring him back to the punishment immediately ordered by the captain of cavalry, of a glass of salt and water. He rushed from the room, and plainly beheld the youth, in the light that flashed from the window, spring from the porch, and dive into the midnight shadows of the oak trees—for it was now completely dark. As he retreated, he stumbled over some obstruction in the path; but instantly recovering himself, he leaped over the little brook, and was soon out of sight.
"Hillo, Hunter, my boy!" cried the lieutenant. "Why zounds! there he goes up the road like a light-horseman! Why, gad, here the fool has dropped his handkerchief;—no, gad's my life, 'tis a paper. Hillo, painter! you've dropped something! A letter, as I'm alive!—Ehem—hiccup!—a very handsome constellation that Great Bear! never saw the Pointers shine so brightly in my life.—Gad's my life, and adzooks, as Captain Loring says, 'tis the lights in the Folly, after all! and here am I, carousing like an ass, instead of playing off the Romeo to Catherine by starlight. Now Hal will scold like twenty housekeepers, Catherine will look sulky, and as for the Captain, why I suppose he will fall into one of his patriarchal rages. Gad, but I feel rather warmish and particular; but this cool night air is a good thing for settling one's nerves. I warrant me, that rascal Hunter has gone up there before me. A very handsome, well behaved dog, and I like him immensely!"
With such expressions as these, the young man, whose brain, never one of the strongest, was at present whirling in confusion, began to make his way towards the Folly, without troubling himself to think what amazement or affliction his absence might cause his friends. Indeed, he was fast verging towards that happy state in which man shows his loftiest contempt of the world and the world's ways, and his disregard of all those restraints and encumbrances which society has imposed upon the free-born lord of creation. He had left the hovel without his hat; but what cared he for such a superfluity, of a fine summer night, even although beginning a walk over hill and hollow, of full a mile in extent? Had he left it even without his boots, it is questionable whether he would have noticed the deficiency, until recalled to his senses by the roughness of the road. In a word, the wine he had already swallowed, had made serious inroads upon a brain that was always 'very poor and unhappy for drinking;' and, as it frequently happens in such cases, the exercise of walking more than counteracted the effects of the cooling air; so that, by the time he had trudged half the distance towards the paddock, the young gentleman was in the happiest spirits imaginable, wholly insensible of his condition, and almost unconscious of the purpose that had drawn him so far. He even began to sing along the road, and by the time he had reached the gate, was trolling a song, of a character ludicrous enough to come from his lips, but which, perhaps caught originally from those of some wag or philosopher of the camp, was now suggested by the spirit of happy indifference it breathed to all sublunary concerns, and was therefore in excellent harmony with his own feelings. It was the song ofPoor Joe, and was sung with wondrous emphasis and gusto.
Apparently, he found the madrigal just one stanza too short, at least for his present mood; for which reason, so soon as he had finished the last of all, he began to repeat it, with even more expression than before, and had just reached the second line,—
"My elbows peep out to the storm,"—
"My elbows peep out to the storm,"—
when one of his own elbows was suddenly seized upon, and a voice, bitterly reproachful, muttered in his ear,
"Are you mad? Are you mad, brother? are you mad?"
"What! Hal? sister? is that you? Gad's my life, I knew you would scold me; but if you would only consider——But, now I think of it, egad, what brings you out here of a dark night, singing Poor Joe, like an old soldier? Adzooks, as the Captain says, I am quite astonished!"
"Brother, you are——Oh, that you should be so insensible to interest, if not to shame!" cried Miss Falconer, with deep feeling. "Brother, brother, you"——
"If I have, may I be shot!" cried the young officer, hastily, as if the instinct of long habit had taught him what his sister intended to say; "that is, Harry, my dear, nothing to speak of; and it is all on account of Caliver, who, betwixt you and me, is so deuced soft-headed,—he is, egad,—one must always sit by, to take care of him. As for me, Hal, why I can drink a hogshead of any such wishwashy stuff as these French wines; I can, by the eternal Jupiter, as Caliver says; and at the present moment I am"——
"Ruined, irretrievably ruined!" cried his sister; "and by your own folly—by your own miserable, infatuated dissipation. You have lost Catherine Loring."
"Lost Catherine Loring?myCatherine Loring?" cried the young man, in alarm. "Have the Hawks carried her off?"
"What if I sayyes?" replied Harriet; and then added, with a tone that brought the youth still farther to his senses, "and I must add, that even a base and renegade Gilbert is worthier of her thanyou,—my brother,—the son of Richard Falconer! Oh, shame upon you, brother! shame upon you!"
"Harry, you are joking with me!" cried Falconer, with a voice somewhat quavering and querulous. "We've driven the dogs the lord knows whither; and as for that story of the village, why that's all a fib: so as to carrying Catherine off, I don't believe a word of it."
"And yet you have lost her,—lost her, perhaps, beyond all redemption. Oh Harry, brother Harry, were you but enough in your senses to understand me!"
"I am, sister, I am," cried Falconer; and indeed the devil, drunkenness, was fast giving place to the devil, fear: "Ihavebeen drinking; but I swear to heaven."
"Swear no more: you have done so a dozen times already."
"I have done so, sister; but I swear again, and I call heaven to witness, that if you have spoken the truth, and Catherine be really lost, I will never drink more till I have recovered or revenged her. But for pity's sake, speak; what is the matter?—I am sober now. What has brought you out here in the dark? Where is Catherine? What is the matter?"
"You shall hear," cried Miss Falconer, hurriedly: "perhaps it is not yet too late. You have a rival, brother, a dangerous rival!"
"Oh, gad now, sister! lord, is that all?" exclaimed the young man, bursting into a laugh: "why, you don't think I shall go jealous, because I have a rival? Gad, Harry, you're the most absurd sister in the world.—I wonder what the deuce has become of my hat?—A rival, Hal? One of these village clotpolls! A dozen of 'em, if you like: the more the merrier. I'll invite 'em all to my wedding."
"You are mad!" cried Harriet. "Wedding, indeed! Perhaps you will never be married. What think you of a rival that has her heart?"
"Her heart? Catherine's heart?" exclaimed the gay-brained soldier; "why, it has been mine these two years!"
"And now," said Harriet, "it is another's.—Brother! rouse from your dream of confidence and security. It is as true as that the stars are above us: Catherine Loring loves another."
"Harriet!"——
"It is true—she confessed it with her own lips."
"Confessed it, sister!" said the young man; and then added, with a spirit that surprised her, "If that be so, why then good luck to her: she shall have her freedom. I don't think I shall break my heart; and, certainly, I shan't force her to marry me. But, Hal,—look you, sister Hal,—I did not think she would cozen me. She confessed it, did she? Why, that's enough. I'm an honourable man; but after being cheated and jilted, I don't care much——But if I don't kill the scoundrel, Hal!—I say if I don't kill him, you may have leave to call me a fool and chicken twice over!—Confess it!"
If this display of spirit surprised Miss Falconer, the manifest distress with which her brother spoke, incredible as it may seem, greatly gratified her. His greatest fault in her eyes,—that is, aside from his dissipated habits,—was that easy indifference of disposition, or indolence of feeling, which kept him reckless and passive when she would have had him ardent and energetic. She knew him to be insensible of the full value of that prize it was her ambition to secure him; and had he been any but her brother, she would have hated him for what seemed the feebleness of his affection, as indicated by the little pains he took to secure that of Catherine. It was obvious, from this homely burst, in which magnanimity, pride, indignation, anger, and distress, were all so characteristically jumbled together, that the young gentleman had really feeling enough at bottom, and that, in a great measure, of the right kind; and the discovery brought a ray of hope into her mind.
"Brother," said she, "if you really love Catherine, you may yet save her."
"What! after confessing she loves another?" cried he, sulkily. "Now, Hal, for all your wisdom, you don't know me—I won't have her. Confess, indeed!"
"No—she did not confess—I will explain. Perhaps 'twas only a dream;—it was in her sleep."
"In her sleep!" cried Falconer, and then burst again into a roar of laughter. "In her sleep!" he ejaculated, giving way to a second peal. "Well! you have scared me with a vengeance!—But I forgive you—you have brought me to. Of all the cunning doctors in the world, give me yourself, Harry; you are infallible. And so she confessed in her sleep, poor soul, did she? Oh, Hal! Hal! Hal!" And here the capricious youth gave full swing to his merriment.
"Thus it is," said his sister, impatiently; "one extreme or the other, ever. Listen, brother; for I am serious. Your wild habits have greatly weakened Catherine's affections. Another comes, in the meanwhile, with attractions, I will not say superior to your own, but perhaps every way equal, who ceases not, neither by day nor by night, to influence her imagination and engage her heart. Judge of his success, when you know that she has admitted him to intimacy, nay, to confidence; judge, when I tell you that she trembles at the sound of his voice, turns pale at the echo of his footsteps, blushes when he speaks, looks glad when he is by her, and weeps when he is absent,—and, finally, who hides the secret from her own waking thoughts, yet babbles his name over in her dreams, and sheds tears, and smiles with her tears, when she murmurs it. Is not such a man,—the object of such emotions, himself so passionately enamoured, that his visage betrays the thought of his bosom, even when he knows he is suspected and watched,—is not such a man a dangerous rival?"
"Sister, you know better than myself," said Falconer, uneasily; "ifyouthink so"——
"I do, brother; I believe, that, this moment, without knowing it herself, Catherine's mind is dwelling upon your rival; and if he be not driven away, you will lose her."
"Point him out to me, sister Harriet, and then, by"——
"No fighting! no fighting, brother!" cried Harriet, in some alarm, and speaking with eagerness. "Not a hair of the young man's head must be harmed; we have done him injury enough among us, perhaps, already. We must frighten him away: if I know him, we can legally expel him from the valley. Arrest, imprison him, banish him;—do any thing; but harm him not—that is, do him no harm with your own hands. If he have forfeited his life to the law, let the law take it. Now, brother, know your rival—it is the youngest brother of this dreadful Oran Gilbert."
"Saints and devils!" cried Falconer, with vivacity, "a Hawk of the Hollow! and dare to love Catherine Loring?"
"I could be sworn to it," said Harriet. "The circumstances that pointed out the assassin of my father, were but clews of thistle-down to the chains of evidence that led me to the knowledge of this skulking raven's character. The first circumstance was as strong as the last; an idle, thoughtless, nay, an accidental, pencil mark on a drawing opened my eyes in an instant; and heaven's light immediately streamed through them. But think him not the coarse cut-throat his name would indicate; he has had a gentleman's breeding, and such is his bearing. I doubt not that he is a confederate of his brother, perhaps even a spy; and, I am persuaded, it was he who counteracted our scheme of seizing the reprobates, and brought the poor soldier, Parker, to the gibbet. He must be arrested and examined. He knows he is suspected—he knows that I suspect him; but will, in his audacity, remain, in the assurance that no real proof can be brought against him.—That man, that painter, brother,—that Hunter? where did you leave him?"
"Leave him?" cried Falconer: "why, is he not here? Sure, he led the way hither; and sure I followed after him. A rare fellow, sister! I was going to blow his brains out; but, egad, I know him better, and, gad, I am coming on fast to adore him. Adzooks, as the Captain says, I picked up his letter, and"——
"His letter?" cried Harriet, eagerly; "where is it?"
"Here," said the lieutenant, drawing it from his pocket, wherein he had safely bestowed it.
"To the light! to the light!" cried the maiden, snatching it out of his hands, and running with the speed of a frighted deer towards the mansion, followed by her bewildered brother. A candle blazed in one of the windows that opened on the porch, and in the chamber it lighted, had she been disposed to look, Miss Falconer might have seen the gallant Captain Loring sitting upright in his arm-chair, but fast asleep, and filling half the house with the melody of his nostrils. To this window ran Miss Falconer, and hither she was followed by her brother; who, to his amazement and indignation, found her devouring the contents of the paper with the avidity of a malefactor poring over his own respite from a death of ignominy.
"Gad's my life, sister Hal!" cried the incensed soldier, "you have disgraced me for ever! What, reading the young fellow's letter?"
"Readingmyletter!" cried Harriet, turning upon him a look inexpressibly fierce and triumphant. "Was not this suspicion as prophetic as the other? The dead Parker speaks to me, and from his grave affords me proof even stronger than I sought. Oh, villain! villain! audacious, inconceivably audacious, villain! Their lieutenant? His intimacy with, his designs upon Catherine Loring, revealed even to his ribald companions? and made their theme of speech! their jest! Oh, what a rival have you suffered to approach your betrothed wife, Harry Falconer!Thisconvicts, doubly convicts him.—What ho, uncle! Captain Loring, awake! Where is Catherine? Uncle! uncle!"
"Devils!" cried Falconer, "do you mean to say that Hunter is the man? Why he's a gentleman!"—
"Adzooks, and adsbobs, what's the matter? Send out scouts to beat the bushes: tree 'em, my boys, tree 'em; never show an inch of Adam's leather to an Indian.—Adzooks, is that you, Harry my dear?" were the words of Captain Loring, roused as suddenly from his slumbers as he had often been in his early woodland campaigns. "What's the matter? Have you caught that scoundrel Oran, or any of his gang?"
The answer to this question astounded the old soldier; and while Miss Falconer poured into his ears the story of the transformation of his beloved Herman the painter into Hyland Gilbert, a brother and leader among the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, he seemed for a moment, like the devotee, rapt in a holier passion, to have