University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

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 Phoœbe, 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, Phœbe 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, Phœbe Jones, and you
know it; and these here refugees are all honest
fellers, too, as ever you'd wish to see. Now,
Phœbe, just scratch your nose, and be quiet; for
you know I won't hurt you.”

“Lord!” said Phœbe, 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 Phœbe, 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, Phœbe 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, Phœbe—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 Phœbe, 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, Phœbe 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,
Phœbe, 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 Phœbe
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 ot 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,

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
Phœbe 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.'