The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow: A Tradition of Pennsylavania

by Robert Montgomery Bird

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.