CHAPTER II.

"Not all the wealth of Eastern kings;" said she, "Has power to part my plighted love and me." DRYDEN.

The painter had long since made his way to Gilbert's Folly. As he hurried through the park, he discerned the figure of Miss Falconer; and notwithstanding the obscurity of the hour, he knew her at once, and avoided her. There was a moon in the sky, but new, and low in the west; and, besides, it was struggling with clouds that robbed it of half its lustre; yet it cast ever and anon light enough to enable a good eye to distinguish objects on the more open portions of the lawn.

Not a little pleased at the prospect, thus offered, of enjoying a _tête à tête_ with the Captain's daughter, though it might be only for a moment, he entered the house and the little saloon in which he had spent so many happy moments. It was empty, but the door leading to the garden was open, and the broad gravel-walk, fringed with low shrubs and roses, was lighted by the taper in the apartment. As he stepped out, his eye fell upon Catherine Loring, who was that moment approaching from the garden, her step hurried, and her countenance displaying agitation, which was increased the moment she beheld him.

"Oh, Mr. Hunter!" she cried, running eagerly towards him, "I am very glad to see you, and I am glad we are alone. We are all going mad here at the Folly, and it is right you should know it. You have--I am ashamed to say it, for I know you have not deserved her dislike--made an enemy of my cousin Harriet; the strangest suspicions have entered her head; and she may offend you, unless you are put on your guard. You must forgive her: by and by, you will laugh at her folly, and so will she; but at present she seems half-distracted by the events of the day, the disasters of her father, and her fears for the future. Did you not meet her? Alas, she will be here in a moment!"

"Fear not," said the young man, in hurried and altered tones, but with an effort to be jocose; "she is down by the park-gate, studying the stars, and reading my own foolish history among them. Miss Catherine,--Miss Loring,--I am aware of your friend's dislike. I am not surprised--she will tolerate your having no friend less interested than herself."

"You must not speak thus, Mr. Hunter," cried Catherine, but in too much hurry of spirits to rebuke. "I did wrong to show you her letter: _that_, I fear, is the chief cause of her anger; and your being a stranger, and so great a favourite with my father--oh, and a thousand reasons more she has found, or fancied, for supposing you are--that is, that you have deceived us, and that"----

"That I am--an impostor," said Hyland, hesitating an instant at the word, but pronouncing it at last firmly.

"Such is indeed her strange aberration," cried Catherine, apparently overjoyed that the idea so repugnant to herself, had been conceived by the suspected person, and without distress or anger; "and,--and--but this is the maddest and most insulting suspicion of all, (yet you must not be offended:)--she thinks, you--really, I could laugh, but that she has frightened me half out of my wits--she thinks, you are even a tory in disguise!--a refugee,--(ah, now I have said it!)--a comrade of these wild and lawless men, come to spy upon us, and murder us--(is it not too ludicrous?)--a spy, an enemy, a traitor--nay, even a Gilbert--a Hawk of the Hollow! I _can_ laugh, now that I have said it. And now, too, I am sure you will not be offended, the suspicion is so very ridiculous: yes, I am sure you will forgive her."

"I do," said the young man, sadly and falteringly, "for her suspicion is just,--at least, it is just in part--I _am_ an impostor."

"Heavens!" cried Catherine, "what do you tell me?"

"That I have deceived and imposed upon you--at least in name. I am neither spy nor refugee, indeed, neither cut-throat nor betrayer,--but I am Hyland Gilbert, a son of him who built this house, and a brother of those whose name fills it with horror. Miss Loring, Miss Loring!" he cried, impetuously, seeing that Catherine recoiled from him with terror, "is the name so dreadful even to you? In nothing else am I criminal--do you think I would do you a hurt?"

"Surely not, surely not," cried Catherine, gasping almost for breath, and speaking she scarce knew what: "I do not think you would hurt me. No, oh no! I have done you no harm, and my father has been good to you."

"For God's sake, Miss Loring--Catherine--compose yourself," cried the young man, both amazed and shocked at the impression his words had produced on a mind almost unhinged by long and brooding sorrow. "What, _I_ harm you? I would die to protect you from the least evil."

"And you are a Gilbert, then? a foe to the land of your birth, a disguised enemy, an associate of thieves and murderers?" cried the maiden, with sudden energy, and in a passion of tears; "oh, Mr. Hunter, I thought better of you!"

"Think better of me yet," he exclaimed, catching her by the hand, "for as there is a heaven above us, I have done nothing to deserve your hatred. All that I have done--and it is nothing but concealment--was to do you service, and to obtain your friendship."

"Go--stay no longer here--you must come no more," cried Catherine, weeping bitterly; "and would you had never come, for I thought you were my friend--my friend, and my poor father's. I don't believe you are a bad man, or that you will do a wrong to any one; but you must go. Yes, go," she added, wildly, "for you are in danger. They will arrest you; and then what will become of you? It was Harriet's talking of this,--of arresting you,--that made me tell you, that you might show her how much she was deceived. Go, go! and never return more. A moment, and the officers will be here: Harriet has sent for them. Go, Mr. Hunter, go!"

"I will not, Catherine," cried the youth, giving way to the most vehement emotion: "I know that they are sacrificing you; and I will remain till you are rescued, come what will. You hate this young Falconer; you do, Catherine,--you cannot conceal it: he is unworthy of you--he shall never marry you."

"You will drive me mad! For heaven's sake, Mr. Hunter--is this the way to show your friendship?"

"My love, Catherine, call it my love. I love you, Catherine Loring, and I will save you, even against your will. Say that you hate Henry Falconer, the wretched son of a still more wretched father--say that--nay, place but your hand on mine, and you shall"----

"Never!" cried Catherine, wildly; "I love you not--I hate you! Release me. Is this the way you repay my father's good deeds? Go, Mr. Hunter: you have made me more unhappy than before."

"I will make you happy, Catherine. I have wealth--nay, and reputation, Gilbert though I be. I will go to your father, I will demand you at his hands"----

"Kill me, first--kill me, rather than speak to me thus!" cried the unhappy maiden, in unspeakable agitation. "Is this the way to talk to me? You should know better, for I am to be given to another. Oh, that you had never come to our house! Go--I forgive you--I will tell nobody. If they find you, they will kill you: Harriet has shown me they can take your life. Hark! they are coming! I hear their voices! I hear my father's! I forgive you, Mr. Hunter; yes, I forgive you--but I will never see you more! no, never!"

"Catherine!"----

"Never! I swear it--never, never! I am vowed and betrothed. If you stay longer, I shall die! Oh, have pity on me, and go: have pity on me, for my father's sake,--pity, pity!"

These wild and hysterical expressions were concluded by a shriek; for at that moment the ill-fated girl, who had been all the while struggling, though feebly, to make her way into the little saloon, beheld Miss Falconer, followed by her father and the young lieutenant, rush into it. As she screamed, she burst from the grasp of the impassioned lover, and, running forwards, threw herself into the Captain's arms.

"Oh, the hound! the villain!" cried the veteran; "he has been killing her! Shoot him down, run him through, knock him on the head! Here, you Aunt Rachel! Phoebe! Daphne! Dick! Soph! and the squad of you! Oh lord, Harry, my dear, the dog has murdered her!"

"No, father, no, no, no!" cried the maiden, clinging, almost in convulsions, to his neck; "I am very well, father,--a bat flew in my face,--a snake came into the garden, and I don't know what! But it is very foolish, father,--I am always very foolish!" And with these incoherent expressions, in which even the whirl and tumult of a suffering heart could not repress an instinctive effort to distract notice from the young man in the garden, she fell into a state of pitiable prostration, which engaged the whole attention of her father and kinswoman.