CHAPTER IV.

And I remember the chief, said the king of woody Morven: I met him, one day, on the hill; his cheek was pale; his eye was dark; the sigh was frequent in his breast; his steps were towards the desert. CARRIC-THURA.

A month swept over the valley, and found it restored to its pristine quiet and loneliness. The confusion resulting from the developements of the eventful 4th had subsided, and men began to remember the occurrences of that day almost as a dream. Had the refugees really been in the Hollow? The discovery of Parker's body,--the recovery of his last letter, which had remained in Hyland's hands in the hurry of separation from his brother, to be, by a natural fatality, converted into testimony against himself,--the nocturnal scuffle in the park, from which captain Caliver and the junior officer had come off with injuries, though not serious ones,--and, finally, the sudden disappearance of the painter and the eccentric Ephraim,--were the only evidence to establish the truth of such a visitation. No outrage had been perpetrated either upon life or property; nor could the keenest search of the county volunteers, assisted by several detachments from the lines, sent to scour the whole country, detect a single vestige of the audacious outlaws. That they had fled was manifest enough, but how and whither no man could tell. It appeared from the letters of Parker, that the chief object of Gilbert's return to his native valley was the rescue of young captain Asgill, of whom we have before spoken, out of the hands of his jailers; and it is now well known, that, among the devices to secure the life of this unfortunate captive, 'a plan was, in case of the worst, arranged for his escape,' and secretly persisted in, until it became evident that the humanity of the American Commander-in-chief was his truest safeguard. There remained, therefore, no longer occasion for the services of Oran Gilbert, to whom an exploit of this nature, requiring a man of crafty and daring spirit, had been so properly entrusted; and it was at first hoped, and then confidently believed, that he had withdrawn entirely from the neighbourhood, and, after disbanding his followers, returned, in spite of the vigilance of his foes, to New York; and, indeed, certain secret intelligence was received from that city, that he had been long since ordered to return, the project of rescue being now as unnecessary as it was hopeless of success. That he had committed no outrage upon the unprotected inhabitants of the county was supposed to be owing not more to the necessity of avoiding all acts that might give the alarm, and so draw attention towards him, than the positive commands of the British Commander, whose course in the present conjuncture of affairs, was to the full as forbearing as that of his enemy.

These considerations restored confidence to the county; and nothing remained for the good citizens but to weave the chain of mysterious circumstances attending the visitation into a web of wonderful history, and to speculate upon the character and fate of the painter and honest Ephraim. As for the latter, ingenuity was for a long time at fault, until the story of Mr. Leonidas Sterling became generally known; when an opinion, hazarded at first almost in jest, grew into a settled belief,--namely, that these twain were one and the same person, and that he who had deceived so well as the ranting preacher, had deceived still better in the semblance of the zealous quaker. The successful _fourberies_ of this modern Scapin obtained for him a higher degree of credit than he had ever won, while contracting his genius into the representation of the kings of fiction; and he was remembered and spoken of with a degree of good humour, that perhaps explained the unwillingness of his city friends to proceed rigorously against him, when his treasonable practices were discovered.

As for the young Hunter, or Gilbert, as he was now universally called, he was remembered with no such favour. To be a scion of the tory family, was enough to condemn him, even although (as had been the case) he might have passed his days afar from the contamination of his brothers' example, and shared neither in their acts nor their hostile spirit. But to be an associate,--an officer of the very gang commanded by Oran,--was a sin of inexpiable die, to which a double blackness was given by his dissimulation and audacity. He had resided among them as a friend and brother, and yet was all the time playing the part of a spy and betrayer; and he had capped the climax of effrontery by taking part in the jubilee of liberty, and even profaning with hypocritical lips the sacred manifesto of Independence,--or so, at least, he would have done, but for the interruption caused by Oran's appearance. This seemed to them little short of impiety, a sacrilegious mockery, indicative as much of his contemptuous disregard of the holy instrument as of his daring character. In this spirit of indignation they proceeded to canvass his whole history, raking up every little act that could be remembered, and perverting each into a manifestation of villany; the worst of which was his attempt to carry off Captain Loring's daughter,--for so much they made of his parting interview with the young lady,--and then, being baffled in the base attempt, waylaying and attempting to murder her affianced husband. In a word, he was proved to be a monster of treason, perfidy, and ingratitude; and few had the courage, fewer still the disposition, to say a word in his defence. It must be confessed that Dr. Merribody once, in a fit of unusual generosity, declared to a whole throng of raging villagers, 'that the scoundrel was an honest man and a gentleman after all, for he had faithfully paid his bill, and even asked for it, before it was presented;' but this impulse of magnanimous friendship vanished when he came to remember how much he had been imposed upon in relation to the youth's true character, by some deception Elsie Bell thought fit to play upon him, under colour of admitting him to the secret. The poet also, who, in the loss of Hyland, wept that of his warmest admirer, contended 'that he sang better, and had a more refined literary taste, than any body he ever knew.' Nay, even Captain Loring, who had begun to esteem him as the apple of his eye, was converted into a furious foe, which was owing, in a great measure, to the discovery of the young man's political inclinings, though his anger was sharpened and augmented by Miss Falconer, who took occasion, for a purpose of her own, to reveal what the Captain had never dreamed of himself. She gave him to understand, what was indeed nothing more than true, that his ungrateful protegé had endeavoured to detach Catherine's affections from her brother, and divert them upon himself,--an assurance that infuriated the old soldier, whose wrath was not much mollified when Miss Falconer succeeded in making him aware how much his own extravagant patronage of the impostor might have been construed into almost positive encouragement of his presumption. But bitter as was the worthy veteran's anger, it was as capricious as his love had been. Whenever he laid his eyes upon the unfinished painting, which he commonly did a dozen times a day, he would begin to bewail and admire together, and swear 'that his young Haman What-did-ye-call-it, for all of his roguery, was the finest painter that was ever known; and, adzooks, he thought there must be some mistake about his being a tory and a Gilbert.'

The occurrence of these incidents had naturally made the poor widow an object of suspicion, as having connived at the presence, and aided in the concealment and flight, of the outlaws; and she was even threatened with the vengeance of the law, until Harry Falconer, to the surprise of every body, stepped forward as her champion, and made such interest for her as left her again in her lonely and quiet desolation. Whether this display of generosity was prompted by his own erratic feelings, or was derived from the secret influence of the Captain's daughter, Elsie knew not. Catherine visited her no more; and within a week after the explosion of the 4th, she left Hawk-Hollow with her friend Harriet, and was absent for a considerable period. Elsie saw her, as the carriage rolled by; her face was very pale and haggard, as if she had been suffering from sickness. When she returned, young Falconer and a brother officer, both mounted, pranced along at her side. She looked from the carriage as she passed, and kissed her hand to the widow, while her eye sparkled as with its former fire. But Elsie beheld her not; as she looked up, her eye caught the outlines of a dark and stern countenance behind that of Catherine, on which were the traces of age and broken health.

She started from her seat, and gazed eagerly after the rolling vehicle, but it was soon swept out of sight. She remained upon her feet, until she had seen it enter the park, and draw up before Captain Loring's door, when she again sunk upon her chair, muttering to herself:

"I saw him last a black-eyed boy, with a cheek like the rose-leaf, and hair like the wing of a crow; and now he comes with a cheek as withered even as mine, and locks frosted still whiter. So let it be with the villain; honour may fall on the snowy head, but what lies in the bosom? And can he walk over the knolls where Jessie walked, and smile on those around him? There is thunder yet in heaven, and a long reckoning yet to settle. Ah well, ah well, we shall see what we shall see, and I shall live to see it; for she cursed him in her death-gasp; and I cursed too, and I prayed God I might live to see the two curses light upon him together; and together they will light, and I alive to see it!" And muttering thus in one of those occasional moods of darkness which had, perhaps more than any thing else, served to fix the stigma of the sibyl upon her, Elsie gathered up her wheel and spindle, and retreated from her favourite seat on the porch, to which she returned no more during the day.

The person upon whom she invoked this malediction was the father of Miss Falconer, who, with Catherine and himself, made up the contents of the carriage. As he stepped upon the porch of Gilbert's Folly, from the vehicle, and received the rough welcome of Captain Loring, it was with a firmer bearing than would have been expected from his apparent age and infirm health. He was of tall stature, and, although greatly wasted, preserved an erect military bearing. His countenance, though hollow, withered, and of the sallowest hue, was, even yet, strikingly handsome, and his eye was of remarkable brilliancy, though of a stern and saturnine expression. His brow was very lofty, though not ample, and his mouth singularly well sculptured, and indicative of decision. On the whole, his appearance was at once commanding and venerable; and even those who were freest to whisper the tale of early profligacy and maturer corruption, could not deny him the deference due to his gentlemanly air and deportment. A close inspection of his countenance would have revealed no traces of the workings of an unquiet spirit. The first glance showed him to be of a temper thoughtful, reserved--nay, severe and moody; but the second could discover no more. A perfect self-command, a mastery not merely of his countenance, but of his spirit, lifted him above the ken of petty scrutiny; and if he wore a mask in his commerce with men, it was like that iron one of the Bastile, which when put on, was put on for life, and was, at the same time, of iron. He was a man upon whom even his children looked with fear,--not that fear indeed which lives in constant expectation of the outbreaking of a violent spirit, but the awe that is begotten by a consciousness of the inflexible resolution of the spirit that rules us. This inflexibility is power, and power is ever an object of secret dread, even with those who love its possessor.

The austerity of his mind was not accompanied by rigid manners, nor even coldness of feeling. No one could be more courteous, and, at times, even agreeable, than Colonel Falconer. He received the welcomes of his kinsman with much apparent pleasure, and himself assisted Catherine from the carriage, and conducted her into the mansion, congratulating her, with gentleness and kindness, upon her return. "Yet you must grant," he added, "that even the smoke of a city can sometimes renew the health, when the air of the country fails. I would I might profit by these mountain breezes, as I know you will, when you have once recovered from your fatigue. But let me see you but happy with my graceless Harry, I shall not complain of my own infirmities."--

On the third day after the arrival of Colonel Falconer, the solitude of Hawk-Hollow began to be broken by the appearance of divers carriages, filled with gay and well dressed people, the destination of all whom appeared to be Gilbert's Folly. A few individuals, the more favoured of the villagers, were seen mingling their equipages occasionally with the others; but it was plain that the majority of visiters were strangers, and had come from a distance.

The object of such an unusual convocation of guests at Gilbert's Folly, could not long remain a mystery; and indeed it was known, several days before, that it was to do honour to the nuptials of Henry Falconer with the daughter of Captain Loring. The wealth and standing of the bridegroom's father were sufficient to secure him the means of giving _éclat_ to the ceremony, at a day when that ceremony was always one of festivity; and accordingly there appeared guests enough, and of sufficient figure, long before night, at the mansion, to convince those who took note of such circumstances, that it would be such a wedding as had never before been known in all that county.--And such indeed it proved; though not even the most imaginative could have foreseen from what unusual circumstances it was to owe its claim to be remembered.

Upon that day, while all others were laughing and smiling, a deep and moody dejection seized upon the spirits of the bridegroom's father; and although he displayed his wonted courtesy in receiving his guests, (they should be considered _his_, for the bride was without kinsfolk, and her father had invited none to partake of his joy, save a few villagers,) the task of continuing to trifle with them during the entire day became intolerably irksome, and perhaps the more so that his habits had for so many years accustomed him to solitude and privacy. Worn out at last, he exchanged the noisy apartments of the mansion for the shaded garden-walks; until, finally, driven from these by an increase of his melancholy and the presence of a bevy of maidens, seeking flowers to decorate their fair persons, or perhaps that of the bride, he fled from them to the more unfrequented walks in the park.

"Why should _I_ mingle with this mockery?" he muttered to himself, "and on this unhappy spot? Let me look upon those scenes I have not beheld for twenty-four years, and see if they have yet power to move me.--There are none here to miss me; and they will feel the freer and gayer, when frightened no more by my death's-head countenance.--I would the silly Captain had spared the poplar-row: and yet I know not,--the old white-oak, where----Faugh! that should be forgotten. There is something _new_ at least in the forest. The shrubs have become maple-trees and beeches, the old oaks and sycamores have rotted in their places, and nothing is the same save the rocks and the water.--Why should I fear, then, to revisit scenes that have changed like myself? I shall never look on them again, after this day."

He composed his countenance into its ordinary expression of severe and frowning calm, and directing his steps through the grounds, as one familiarly acquainted with their most hidden retreats, made his way towards the Run, until he had reached the path along its rocky borders, previously trodden by Catherine and his daughter. He even sat down under the sycamore, where Catherine had begun the story of the wild Gilberts, and his own early adventures; and here, as if there were something in the spot to conjure up such memories, he mused long and painfully on the same dark subjects. Perhaps, also, as he looked upon the turbulent water rushing at his feet, he pictured to himself the resemblance it bore to the course of his own life,--a current, which, although now sunk into the composure of a river just losing itself in the vast ocean, had dashed so long in a channel full of rocks and caverns.

'Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were, and are, thou art; And such as thou art were my passions long.'

The current of his early life had been indeed as wild, as tortuous, as tumultuous, as that before him; and as he looked backwards upon its broken course, he saw that the freshes of passion had left as many ruins around it as now deformed the margin of the streamlet.

When he rose from his meditations, it was with a brow indicative of a deeply suffering mind; and as he strode onwards, still pursuing the course of the brook, a spectator looking at him from a concealment, might have detected on his visage the workings even of an agonized spirit, though it was observable, that, even in this solitude, where there seemed to be so little fear of observation, he still struggled to preserve an air of serenity. The roar of the waterfall fell upon his ear, and perhaps as the voice of an old acquaintance; it did not rouse him from his dream of pain, but seemed, although he essayed to approach it, to plunge him deeper in gloom; and he would perhaps have crossed the rustic bridge without being conscious of the act, had not his footsteps been suddenly arrested by a figure that started suddenly in the path, and recalled him to his senses. He looked up, and beheld a young man, in a hunting suit and leather hat, with the rifle and other equipments of a woodman, standing before him. The texture of his garments was coarse, and there was nothing in them to indicate any superiority in the wearer above the young rustics of the country; but he wore them with an air of ease, a _savoir s'habiller_, by no means common to the class. His figure was light and handsome, and so was his face, though the latter was miserably pale and thin, and marked with the traces of grief, and the former considerably emaciated. As he stepped into the path, he dropped the butt of his rifle upon the earth, as if for the purpose of arousing the abstracted comer by the clash; and when the Colonel looked up it was not without some alarm at opposition so unexpected.

"Fear not," said the young man, eyeing him with a mournful, yet steadfast gaze, "I design you no hurt."

"And why should you?" cried Colonel Falconer, returning his gaze, with one that seemed meant to rend him through. As he looked, however, he faltered, turned pale, and thrust his hand into his bosom, as if to grasp at a concealed pistol. The act was observed by the stranger, and he instantly repeated his words,--

"Fear nothing,--at least fear nothing from _me_: I desire to serve you, not injure.--Accident, or Providence, has given me the means. You are Colonel Falconer?"

"And you?" cried the gentleman, with an agitated voice.

"I--what matters it what _I_ am?" said the youth; "I am neither footpad nor assassin,--let that satisfy you. What do you in this place? Cannot even conscience make you wiser? Methinks, there is not a rock or a bush in this dark den,--there should not be a rustle of the leaf or a clash of the waters, but should tell you what you should expect, when treading the soil of a Gilbert."

"If you meditate violence, young man," cried Falconer, whose agitation visibly increased, the more he regarded the figure before him, and who now spoke with an emotion amounting almost to terror, "heaven forgive you. But heaven will _not_--there is no pardon in store for the young man who assails the gray hairs of the old."

"False, Colonel, false!" cried the youth, with a laugh of singular bitterness, "or surely you had never lived to tell me so. There was a man of gray hairs, Colonel Falconer, who once lived among these woods, and very happily, too; but a young man struck him, and struck him to the heart, Colonel; and the young man lived to have a head as white and reverend as he whom he slew! Yet fear not; again I say, fear not: I came to save, not to kill. Hear me, and then away. Begone from this place, and begone with such speed as becomes a man flying from a loosed panther. Mount your horse and away,--away instantly; and in return for the good deed of one who has perhaps saved your life, speak not a word to any human being of what you have heard and seen in this place."

"Stay," cried Colonel Falconer, recovering from his terror, yet speaking with a choking voice, "I owe this caution to a"----

"To an enemy," cried the other, turning from him.

"Stay, I charge you,--I command you,"--and as the Colonel spoke, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, he grasped the arm of the youth, who had already placed his foot upon the fallen sycamore, for the purpose of crossing the stream. To the surprise of Colonel Falconer, he discovered that even the strength of his aged arm was superior to that of the young man, who seemed to have been enfeebled by long sickness. He struggled to release himself, but not succeeding, he turned upon his captor, and shedding tears, said,

"If you will seize me, I have no strength to resist, nor any means of defence but this--and I will not use it." As he spoke, he cast his rifle to the earth. "You have but to will it, to complete the ruin you have begun."

"Alas, young man, unhappy young man," said Colonel Falconer, "I know you, and would recompense your humanity, if such it really be. _You_ should not, at least, perish like the rest of your mad and infatuated brothers, and yet you are rushing upon the same destruction; you have not been gently nurtured, to live the life of a bravo and outcast. I have heard of you, of your generous acts--of at least one,--nay, two; for Henry Falconer confessed you had both spared and saved his life. I can save you, young man,--I can and will;--and,--think of me as you please,--I will do it for your father's sake. You were not meant for this dreadful life, on which you are embarking."

"Such as it is," said Hyland Gilbert, picking up his rifle, for the Colonel had withdrawn his hand, "I am driven to it by you and yours. Now, Colonel Falconer," he added, leaping on the tree, "mock me no more with a sympathy I despise as much as I hate him who offers it. I am not your prisoner, and I will not be. I am weak and almost helpless--thank your son for that, and the skill that was exercised at the expense of one who had scarce ever fired a pistol in his life--I am weak, but I am armed and desperate. Follow me no further, for I trust you not. Follow me not, or be it at your peril."

He made his way across the bridge, but slowly and painfully; and Colonel Falconer observed more clearly than he had done before, that all his motions were laborious and feeble, and that, notwithstanding the arms he carried, he was entirely at the mercy of any one who chose to assail him. A thousand different feelings took possession of his breast, and among them pity for the unhappy condition of one, who, if he had inherited a deep hatred for himself, was not without a claim upon his feelings, and feelings deeper even than gratitude. He had been, of course, made acquainted with the extraordinary developements effected by the cunning, or perhaps the good fortune, of his daughter; and he was especially interested in the account of the discovery of the youngest Gilbert in the person of a young man, who, until that discovery was made, had so recommended himself even to strangers by the gentleness of his manners, and the apparent blamelessness of his life. Partaking little in the suspiciousness of his daughter, he judged the actions and character of the youth with more leniency and justice than others, though he kept his inferences locked up in his own breast; and, happily perhaps for Hyland, Miss Falconer had not thought fit to apprize him of what she deemed the presumption of the youth in becoming the rival of her brother. He saw in him, therefore, a young man in no wise resembling his fierce brothers, from whom he had been separated in early infancy, and one whom perhaps a mere desire to revisit the scenes of his childhood had drawn to Hawk-Hollow; and he thought, with justice, that nothing but the revealment of a name universally detested, by exposing him to sudden danger, had driven the young man to seek refuge among men of blood, whom he would otherwise have avoided. The confession of Henry Falconer, (whose jealousy was rather wrath at the presumption of his rival than any unworthy suspicion of his mistress,) that he had fought a duel with the 'confounded tory lieutenant,' as he always called him,--that his antagonist had endured his fire, and although hurt, as he believed, had refused to return it,--and, finally, that he had very generously interfered to save him from one of the gang, who was on the point of blowing his brains out,--was additional proof to Colonel Falconer that this orphan son of a man he had deeply injured was not by choice among the refugees, but forced among them by the ill will and violence of his own children. The wrong he had done to one member of Gilbert's family had, indirectly at least, produced the destruction of all but this one; and _he_ was now on the point of sinking into the abyss which had swallowed the rest, though worthy of a better destiny, unless a hand were stretched forth to save him.

These considerations,--a memory of the wrongs he had done and the reparation he should make, together with the present prospect of the poor youth in a state that might make him the prey of any enemy who might meet him, and some sense of the generosity of the warning he had just given--excited Colonel Falconer's feelings, and moved him with an impulse, which caused him at once to cross the brook, pursuing the fugitive, and intreating him to stay. Whether it was that his motive was misunderstood, and that the young man, in the agitation of his spirits, supposed that he was followed merely for the purpose of being arrested, or whether it was because he found himself in a spot peculiarly calculated to arouse his most vengeful feelings, it is certain that he became excited to anger by a pursuit designed only in kindness. He clambered up to the little enclosure of the grave, and was about making his way through the narrow passage betwixt the two rocks; when, hearing the pursuer close at his heels, he turned round, displaying a countenance so fierce and intimidating, that it instantly brought the Colonel to a stand.

"Villain!" he cried, throwing aside his rifle, and drawing his knife, "God has sent you to your fate--you are treading on Jessie Gilbert's grave!"

If the words had been thunder-bolts, they could not have sooner unmanned his pursuer. He started, shivering from head to foot, and looking down, beheld the dreary hollow, from which some pious hand, perhaps that of Hyland himself, had plucked away the weeds, leaving the stalk of the rose-bush flourishing alone at its head.

"Oh, holy Heaven!" cried Colonel Falconer, dropping upon his knees, and wringing his hands, while he gazed with an eye of horror upon the couch of his victim, "the grave of Jessie Gilbert!"

"Of the mother and the babe!" cried the young man, advancing towards him, with looks of vindictive fury; "and here, gray-headed though you be, you deserve to die. To this place of shame, man of ingratitude! you consigned the victim of your villany; and here it is fitting she should have her revenge."

But if Hyland Gilbert was a moment disposed to play the part of the avenger, it was only for a moment. His wrath was instantly disarmed by a burst of grief from the wronger, so overpowering, so agonizing, that he at once forgot his dreadful purpose, and felt himself melting with commiseration.

"She has had--she has had her revenge," cried the wretched man; "death had been too cheap a retribution, and therefore it has been ordained in a life of misery,--and _such_ misery, oh heaven! Would to God I had died in her place, though it had been with a world hooting me to the scaffold. Yes, Jessie, I _am_ a villain, and thou knowest, how much greater and viler than ever was thought, even by thee. But thou shalt have justice," he added, beating his breast, "yes, thou and thy murdered babe, though I give up my children to be sacrificed to thy memory."

"My father was right," muttered Hyland, as the foe of his family poured forth the wild expressions of a remorseful spirit; "he charged me to leave the destroyer of his peace to God and his fate; and God has made his fate an existence of retribution.--Arise, Colonel Falconer," he added, sternly; "profane this holy resting-place no longer with the mockery of repentance. Fly, and secure your wretched life for further remorse; for here it is in a danger of which you do not dream. Begone, and remember what I charged you----Hah! do you hear?" he cried, as a whistle as of a bird came from the forest behind and below the rocks. "Up for God's sake!" he cried, seizing the penitent by the arm, as if fear had supplied him with new strength, and hurrying him across the brook. "Begone, or you are a dead man. To the bushes, quick--to your horse, too, or your carriage. Dally not a moment, but begone. Say nothing of what you have seen or heard; and fear not for your children or friends--no harm is designed any of them. Away--save your own life, for no other is in danger."

With these charges, pronounced in the greatest haste, he took his leave, recrossing the brook, while Colonel Falconer, torn now as much by fear as he had been a moment before by anguish, fled through the wood, and over the hill, until he had reached the mansion. Here calling for his servant, and ordering a horse to be saddled instantly for himself, and another for the attendant, he prepared to leave the house, which he did in a few moments, and almost without being observed, the wedding-guests having retreated to the garden and the pleasant walks behind it.