CHAPTER VIII.

Thought he, 'This is the lucky hour; Wine works, when vines are in the flower. This crisis, then, I'll set my rest on, And put her boldly to the question.' BUTLER.

You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid: You loved, I loved. MERCHANT OF VENICE.

The outlaws were, in the meanwhile, proceeding on their course with a celerity that left them little to dread from pursuit; and, indeed, all their measures indicated that their plan had been laid with as much forethought as audacity. The captive maidens, after being borne for the space of a mile or more, in the arms of their captors, were placed upon horses previously in waiting; and then, supported by an athletic attendant on each hand, were hurried forward with even greater rapidity than before. Before this arrangement was effected, and while they were yet in the neighbourhood of Hawk-Hollow, a change came over the spirit of one of the prizes, not more advantageous to herself than it was agreeable to the wild band who were somewhat weary of her lamentations. This was Phoebe, whose terrors, instead of abating, grew more clamorous, with every bound of the steed that bore her; and which, having begun with sobs and piteous ejaculations, increased to something like positive outcries; until, at last, the man who carried her, losing all patience, and unlocking lips that seemed previously made of stone, muttered, or rather whispered in her ear, but in no very amiable accents,

"Consarn the woman! what are you squalling a'ter? Hold your foolish tongue, Phoebe Jones, or"--

But the sound of a threatening voice was by no means fitted to allay the damsel's fear, or paralyze the member it had set so vigorously in motion. She interrupted the menace with a still louder shriek, adding, "Oh lord, good gentleman, pray don't murder me!"

"Gentleman!" cried the other with a kind of snort, evidently designed for a laugh: "Well, I reckon, I am a sort of, as well as another. But what's the contraction? Who's talking of murdering? I'm an honest feller, Phoebe Jones, and you know it; and these here refugees are all honest fellers, too, as ever you'd wish to see. Now, Phoebe, just scratch your nose, and be quiet; for you know I won't hurt you."

"Lord!" said Phoebe, in surprise, "don't I know that voice?"

"Why, I reckon," replied the other, with a more strongly marked chuckle than before; "but, mind you, no talking above breath; for that's agin orders, and captain Gilbert's a screamer."

"Captain Gilbert!" said Phoebe, in mortal terror. "Oh Dancy Parkins, don't let him kill me, and I'll never abuse you no more!"

As he spoke, she banished so much of her fear as to fling an arm around the horseman's neck, as if to insure the protection she entreated; and the action, as well as the appeal, went so effectually to his heart, that he answered forthwith, "Well I won't,--I won't let him hurt you, I won't, consarn me!--You see, Phoebe Jones," he added, with the same giggle which had marked the manly assurance of protection, "I'm the man for you, a'ter all: I told you, you'd be coming round, some day or other, for all your saying you despised me."

"But an't I to be murdered, Dancy?" demanded the wench, dolefully: "Oh! that ever I should be among the bloody Hawks! They say, they scalp women and children, as if they were no more than great Indians!"

"They're not half such fellers as people say," replied Dancy: "the only murdering I ever knowed of among them, was that of Andy Parker; and that I uphold to be salt for gruel,--fair grist for cheating the miller. He chalked me down like a fool, me and Tom Staples, being all old friends, or sort of; and so hanging was good for him. But I tell you what, Phoebe--give us a buss, and _we_'ll be married, as well as our betters."

"I won't do no such thing," said the damsel, stoutly. "I don't like you no better than I ever did; for I don't see you're any better-to-do in the world than you was; and, besides, I won't have no tory."

"I reckon," said Dancy Parkins, "I'm no more a tory than the lieutenant--that's him you used to suppose was Mr. Hunter, and a poor painter; and there's your betters, the Captain's daughter, jumps at him."

"She don't!" said Phoebe, with indignation; "and don't you go to say, Miss Kitty Loring will have any such vagabondy, poor fellow."

"Poor!" cried Dancy; "why he's as rich as a king, and a mighty fine gentleman, too, for all he's consorting just now with these here refugees. He's got a grand plantation, as big as all Hawk-Hollow, with a thousand niggurs, where he raises sugar by the ship-load, and molasses beyond all reckoning, and, as I hear, good Jamaiky spirits. He's to make me a sort of I-dunna-what-you-call-it; but I'm to manage the niggurs, and make a fortun'. They say, no man ever sets foot on a sugar plantation, without making a fortun' out of it,--that is, excepting the niggurs. So, Phoebe Jones, there's no great use in despising me. It's a fine country, that island of Jamaiky; and consarn the bit of a hard winter they ever hear of there. So now, Phoebe, don't be a fool and refuse me no more; for I'm mighty well-to-do in the world."

And thus the enamoured Dancy pursued his claims to the love of his prisoner, who had been hard-hearted enough to frown upon him of old, while a labourer on Captain Loring's estate, and before the Captain's daughter had, by rewards and promises of further favour, prevailed upon him to take charge of the meaner fields of the widow. There was some presumption, at least Phoebe thought so, in his daring to raise eyes to _her_; for besides being without any personal attractions whatever, he was, to all intents, a gawky and stupid clod-hopper, with but little prospect of ever rising beyond the condition of a mere hireling, or, at best, a peasant of the lowest class; and accordingly, the damsel repelled him with extreme scorn, as a person unworthy to brush the dust from her shoes.

But the case was now altered, or seemed to be. In the first place, the scornful beauty was in his hands, and had wit enough, though by no means overcharged with that brilliant commodity, to perceive that his friendship was better than his enmity; and, in the second, his appointment to the important and lucrative office of He-did-not-know-what-to-call-it, on a sugar plantation, where they raised molasses by the ship-load, and good Jamaica spirits, was a circumstance to elevate him vastly in her consideration; for her affections not being of a romantic or sentimental turn, she ever held herself ready to bestow them upon any body who, in her own favourite phrase, 'was well enough to-do in the world to make a lady of her.' She listened, therefore, with complacency to his arguments, which he pressed with as much ardour as he was capable of; and by the time they reached the place where she was to exchange a litter in his arms for a seat on a side-saddle, she had so far recovered from her fears, that she might have told him in the words, and with more than the sincerity, of Juliet,

"Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much."

In the course of his communications, for he became wondrous frank and confiding, as he perceived her grow more favourable to his suit, he made her acquainted with some of the mysterious causes that led to the outrage, and the extent of his own agency in it.

When the young Gilbert fled from Hawk-Hollow, it was with a sorrowing spirit and a bleeding frame. The wound was, it is true, neither dangerous, nor, in fact, very severe; but he was left to endure it among woods and rocks, afar from assistance, except such as could be rendered by his wild associates, who were themselves reduced to extremities, so keen and fierce was the spirit with which they were hunted, though unsuccessfully, during the first week after their flight.

The sufferings of the young man were, in consequence, neither light nor few; and they were aggravated by anguish of spirit, which became a withering despair, when Dancy Parkins, the only individual with whom he could communicate in the valley, brought him intelligence that Catherine had been taken away, and, as was currently believed, for the purpose of being united to her affianced lover, afar from the reach of danger or opposition. His condition became such that it was no longer possible to remove him from the concealment where he lay, even when the abatement of all pursuit opened a path of escape to his companions, and when they looked daily for orders to proceed, or disband,--the removal of the chief object for which they were sent to the district, and the commands imposed upon them to commit no outrages, leaving no argument for remaining longer.

While he lay in this dangerous condition, the fierce Oran, whose bosom yearned over him as the youngest, and, after himself, the last of his father's children, read the secrets of his spirit; and, seeing no other means of saving his life, he formed, so soon as the sudden return of Catherine to the valley appeared to render the scheme feasible, the bold resolution of carrying her off, and thus defeating the only scruples in the way of Hyland's happiness. His own heart was a rock, and he smiled grimly as he thought of the affection of woman; but he had learned to love his brother, and knew that the passion he derided was consuming his spirit within him. "I will give him his gew-gaw puppet," he muttered, as he sat one night watching by Hyland's couch--(it was a bed of fern spread on a rock, on the naked hills, with only a thatch of hemlock boughs to shelter him from winds and dews, and a fire in the open air to light the wretched den:) "I will give him his wish.--He mutters her name in his sleep, and he sobs as he speaks it. Poor fool! he said true--he is unfit for this life of the desert, and his heart is warm to all God's creatures. Why should I seek to make it as fierce and bitter as my own? Let him to the island again, and the girl with him--it will be better: he was made to be happy."

When he first announced his scheme to Hyland, the youth, to his surprise, strongly and vehemently opposed it, as being a violence and wrong not only to Catherine, but to himself: but when the news was brought him that the wedding-day was fixed and nigh at hand, and he saw that he must act now or never, his resolution and feelings experienced a sudden change. He thought over again and again all the evidences he had traced of Catherine's aversion to the union, and he added the few and precious revealments of her regard for himself: he remembered her wild and broken expressions at that hour of parting which had made her acquainted with the depth of his love, and perhaps taught her more than she had dreamed before of the condition of her own: he pictured her in his imagination, the fair, the beautiful and the good, driven into the arms of one as incapable of appreciating her worth as he was undeserving her love: he thought of his peaceful island-home, and the paradise it would become, when she whom he adored should sit with him under its arbours of palms, or walk over its shelly beaches: he thought these things, and persuaded himself that fate called for, and heaven would sanction, the violence,--that he acted not so much for himself as for her,--and that she would forgive the friendly audacity that brought her release and happiness together.

He rose from his leafy couch, and in secret and by night crept back to the valley. The presence of Colonel Falconer filled him with affright and horror; for that had been concealed from him, and he knew by the devil of malice that glittered in Oran's eye, that his father's hall was designed to be stained with the blood of his father's foe. Accident gave him the means of preventing this dreadful catastrophe, while wandering over those scenes which reminded him of Catherine, and debating in fear and anguish of mind, whether even she was worthy to be purchased at the price of murder. This obstacle removed, there still remained another. Fear and disaffection, resulting in a measure from inactivity, had thinned his brother's band; and they refused to strike a blow so bold and dangerous by daylight, when the smallness of their number could be seen at a glance, and their retreat as easily intercepted as followed. An effort was made to delay the ceremony until night, by throwing difficulties in the path of the clergyman; and this duty had been committed to Dancy, who succeeded beyond the expectations and even the hopes of his employers; while men were stationed in different parts of the grounds, to take advantage of any accident which might carry the bride afar from her attendants. At the very moment when Catherine wandered farther than usual from her friends, and wept at being hindered and recalled, she had approached the concealment of one of the party, and would have been seized on the spot, had not the man's heart failed him. It seemed as if destiny were driving her towards a path of escape, of which she had an instinctive perception, just at the moment when it was closed against her footsteps.

These particulars,--or at least the leading outlines,--Dancy communicated to the object of his own fervent but unromantic affections; and Phoebe was astounded with the discovery of her mistress's private attachment, if such it was, and still more so when Dancy, taking _that_ for granted, assured her of his belief that Catherine was privy to the whole design. However, she did not trouble herself to pursue Catherine's story much farther. She heard enough to satisfy her that Mr. Hunter Hiram Gilbert, as she called him, 'who painted such lovely fine pictures, and had a thousand niggurs to raise sugar, and molasses, and Jamaica spirits, was as good a husband as one might meet of a summer's day; and for her part, she did not know, she could not say, she would not pretend to be certain,--but she was quite sure she never meant to say, that Dancy Parkins was altogether despisable.'