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daring spirit, had been so properly entrusted; and it was at first hoped, and then confidently believed, that he had withdrawn entirely from the neighbourhood, and, after disbanding his followers, returned, in spite of the vigilance of his foes, to New York; and, indeed, certain secret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.