University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The year 1782 was distinguished on the western
continent as the close of the great contest, which
obtained for America the name and privileges of
a free nation. The harbingers of peace came flitting
into the land, with the swallows of spring;
and before the autumn had withered into winter,
so little doubt prevailed of a speedy reconciliation
taking place between Great Britain and the United
States, founded upon a full recognition by the former
of all the claims of the latter, that the Continental
Congress passed a resolve for the reduction
of its army, to take effect on the first day of the
coming year. War was no longer waged upon
any scale of magnitude; such hostilities as continued,
were conducted almost solely by the desperate
and lawless of both parties, and consisted of
predatory incursions, occasionally attempted in
the wilder parts of the country, by some skulking
band of refugees, and of expeditions of vengeance,
planned and executed in a moment of wrath, by
the excited sufferers. At this period, the only portion
of the States, north of the Potomac, in the
hands of the British, was the city of New York,
with its dependencies; and around these narrow
possessions the lines of the Continental army were
drawn, extending from the Highlands of New York
to the plains of Monmouth in New Jersey. Military
posts therefore existed at no great distance

from the Hawk's Valley; and although the wild
and mountainous country on either bank of the
Delaware offered the strongest retreats to men of
desperate character, it had been very long since
the inhabitants had apprehended any danger from
the presence of enemies. In the earlier part of
the year, at least, they had no cause for alarm;
and accordingly they mingled, without alloy, their
raptures at the prospect of returning peace with
their rejoicings over the death of Oran Gilbert, the
most dreaded and detested of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow.

One atrocity had indeed been committed, in a
neighbouring state, which, besides exciting the
fiercest indignation, had taught the occupants of
the valley how little their security was owing to
any relenting of spirit, or want of military daring,
on the part of the refugees, whom the general
success of the republican arms had driven in great
numbers into the city of New York. A certain
Captain Joshua, or Jonathan, Huddy, of the New
Jersey state troops, having been captured, after a
gallant resistance, at one of the posts in Monmouth
county of that state, by a party of loyalists from
New York, was for a while immured in prison,
then carried back to his native state, and finally
hanged by his captors, without trial, sentence, or
any authority whatever, except what was derived
from the verbal orders of a body of men calling
themselves the Board of Directors of the Associated
Loyalists. The result of this wanton and
brutal murder, and of the failure of the British
authorities to bring the chief perpetrator to justice,
was an instant order on the part of the American
Commander-in-chief, to retaliate upon a British
prisoner of equal rank; and before the month of
May was over, young Asgill of the British Guards,
whose story is familiar to all readers of American

history, was conducted to the lines at Morristown,
to await, in painful uncertainty, the fate that now
depended, or seemed to depend, upon the movements
of his countrymen in relation to the true
criminal.

Late in the spring of this year, Hawk-Hollow
received a new addition to its society, in the person
of a stranger, who, one pleasant evening, rode
up to the hovel, which, as was before mentioned,
Dame Alice, or as she was more familiarly called,
Elsie Bell, had, so many years before, converted
into a house of entertainment. But the credit of the
poor woman, now aged, infirm, and almost friendless,
had long since departed; and the tongues of
the ignorant and foolish, in an age when the most
ridiculous superstitions were not wholly confined
to the brains of children, had invested her habitation
with a character which repelled alike the
curious and the weary. Her age, her poverty,
her loneliness, her unsocial character, and perhaps
also her attachment to the memory of a family all
others had learned to detest, had brought her into
bad odour; and some thoughtless or malicious
persons having persuaded themselves that a certain
famous mortality among their cattle could
have been caused by nothing short of witchcraft,
it was soon determined that old Elsie had stronger
claims to the character of a broom-rider than any
other person in the county. It was fortunate for
her that the imputation fell upon her in a land,
which once, in the case of an old woman brought
before a jury under the same charge, had rendered
the wise and humane verdict, that they found
her “guilty, not of being a witch, but of being
suspected.” It never once occurred to any individual
to prosecute, or even persecute, poor
Elsie; nor is it supposed that any sane man ever
seriously believed a charge so cruel and absurd;

yet the stain rested upon the unfortunate creature,
and was the cause of her losing all the little custom
of her house, and being, at one period, reduced
to great straits.

Her house had a very lonely appearance, especially
dreadful, at nightfall, in the eyes of the passing
urchin. It was in a hollow place on the roadside,
the head of a gully, which, expanding into a
wide, though broken and winding ravine, ran down
to the river, half a mile distant, receiving, before
it had yet reached it, the waters of a foaming
rivulet coming from another quarter. A little enclosure,
or yard, serving as an approach to the
house, was surrounded by oak-trees. Its surface
was broken, and on one side was a rough and
jagged rock, almost a crag, sprinkled with sumach
and other wild plants, that hid one half of
the lowly fabric, while the other peeped insidiously
from under the boughs of an antique, spectral-looking
sycamore, springing from the side of the
ravine, which was, in part, overlooked by the
hovel. A little runnel crossed the road immediately
before the house; and flowing through the
yard, and making its way among the naked roots
of the sycamore, it fell, with a gurgling sound, into
the ravine. The murmurs of this little cascade,
affected variously by drought and rain, and by the
echoes of the hollow, sent many a superstitious
thrill to the heart of the countryman whom any
unlucky accident compelled to pass by the cabin
at midnight.

Of a silent, reserved, and even saturnine temper,
there was perhaps enough in Elsie's cold welcome
to repel visitation, even without the addition of
imputed witchcraft; and long before that heavy
charge had fallen upon her, it was esteemed a
misfortune to be obliged to tarry above an hour at
the Traveller's Rest, as the inn had been called in

its days of credit. To crown all, about the time
when men and boys were beginning to talk ominously
about the rot and murrain, a rival establishment
was set up, a few miles farther down
the river, which offered the attractions of good
liquors, lounging idlers, and a talkative host, who
made it his business to be always well providod
with news from the market, the army, and Congress.
The last resource of the Traveller's Rest
gave way before such a rival, and never more (at
least for many years) was there seen a guest quaffing
his cider, or smoking his pipe, in the shadow
of Elsie's porch, except occasionally, when some
stranger passed by, who boldly disregarded, or
was entirely unacquainted with the popular superstition
in relation to the hostess.

The privations suffered by the poor old woman,
in consequence of this failure of her ordinary means
of subsistence, were very great,—greater, indeed,
than was suspected; for she uttered no complaint,
and sought no relief. A few acres of ground had
been added to the hovel, given to her by the elder
Gilbert. The title was not, indeed, thought to be
very strong, and as it lay in the very centre of
Colonel Falconer's domains, a true regnum in
regno, it was sometimes wondered he made no
attempt to dispossess her, and thus complete her
ruin. From these worn-out fields, had she been
able to retain any one about her to cultivate them,
she might have gleaned a scanty yet sufficient
subsistence. But neither son nor kinsman of any
degree, had the poor widow left in the wide world;
and when men began to doubt, suspect, and shun
her, she was no longer able to procure the assistance
even of hirelings; and her fields lay fallow
and overgrown with brambles. Her situation grew
hopelessly distressed and desolate; in vain she exposed
her slender stores of gingerbread in the window,

and her bottles of spruce-beer in the cool
brook, to tempt the wayfarer to turn aside for
such refreshments. If the stranger did feel for a
moment urged to exchange the scorching road, on
a July day, for the shadowy porch, he cast his eye
upon the garden, at the road-side, now the last dependence
of the miserable widow, and beholding
her uninviting and squalid appearance, passed on,
without thinking how much real charity might
have been conferred by the disbursement of a few
pence at that abode of poverty.

Such was the condition of this poor solitary
creature, when Captain Loring was installed into
the manor house; and such it might have continued,
had not his daughter, shocked at the discovery
of her distresses, and interested doubly when
she found in her a tone of mind and manners worthy
of a better fate, came immediately, like an
angel, to her aid, and restored her again to a state
of comfort. Not satisfied with rendering this
assistance, she rested not day or night, until she
had procured a labourer to till the neglected fields,
and had even obtained a little negro wench to
dwell with Elsie as a domestic; and perceiving how
much her sufferings were really owing to the ridiculous
fears and prejudices of the country people,
she made it a point frequently to visit her house in
person, dragging along with her, when she could,
the beaux and belles of the village, in the hope that
others would soon follow the example, and thus
restore the Traveller's Rest to its ancient reputation.
She even prevailed upon her father to
honour the house with his patronage, at least so
far as to visit it, when riding by; and, though
there was nothing in the tempers of the two to
make any intercourse between them very friendly
and agreeable, the Captain had humoured his
daughter so long in that way, that it grew to be

one of his habits; and he seldom passed by, without
stopping for a moment, to bestow a few civilities
upon the widow. Notwithstanding all these
benevolent exertions of Miss Loring, however, the
Traveller's Rest never recovered its reputation or
custom; and when the traveller spoken of before,
rode up to the porch, and announced his intention
of entering, and even sleeping, under her roof, the
poor widow herself regarded him with a species
of amazement.

“How is it, good mother?” said he, observing
her hesitation: “They told me, in the village, you
could give me both meat and lodging. Do not
fear I shall prove a fault-finder;—a crust of bread
and a cup of milk, or, if need be, of water, will
satisfy me; and as for a bed, why a sack of straw,
—or the floor and my saddle-bags,—will be a
couch for a king. Can you not receive me?”

As he spoke, he took note of her countenance
and appearance. The former was withered and
furrowed, for she was very old; her hairs were
gray and thin, and one of her hands shook with a
paralytic affection. Yet she bore her years
bravely, and when she had shaken off the abstraction
of mind, which had become almost habitual
from her long life of solitude, and lifted her eyes,
he saw that they shone with any thing but the
gleams of dotage. He observed, too, as she rose
from the wheel she had been plying on the porch,
and approached to its verge, that her step was
firm, and even, as it afterwards appeared, agile.
Her dress was of the humblest texture, and none
of the newest, but studiously clean and neat, and
the muslin coif on her head was white as snow.

“If your wants be indeed so humble,” she said,
with a manner that surprised him, and a voice
almost without the quaver of age, “I can receive
you into my poor house, and bid you welcome.

But, good young sir, here have I no one to help
you, and to take your horse. My man Dancy, is
in the field, and the girl Margery”—

“Say not a word about them,” said the traveller,
leaping from his horse, “I am my own groom and
lackey of the chamber; and with your consent, I
will find my way to the stable, which I see behind
the rock; and Long-legs here will follow me.”

He was as good as his word, and stabled his
steed without farther preliminary; and thus, by
showing himself ready to adapt his manners to his
circumstances, he won the good will of Elsie immediately.
Indeed, as if to convince her of his
sincerity, he told her at once his name, and his
objects in coming to her house. His name, he
said, was Hunter,—Herman Hunter,—his country
South Carolina; he was a painter,—or so professed
himself; and his only motive for intruding upon
the solitude of Hawk-Hollow, was to improve
himself in his art, by devoting some weeks to
study, among the neighbouring cliffs and mountains.
It had been his intention, he avowed, to
take up his quarters some miles farther on, in the
heart of the neighbouring gorge; `but he liked the
neatness and privacy of the Traveller's Rest so
well, he thought he could do nothing better than
remain where he was; at least, he would remain a
few days,—perhaps, he might stay two or three
weeks,—he did not know, but he thought Hawk-Hollow
exceedingly pretty.'

There were two circumstances which recommended
him to the poor widow's regard, even
more strongly than his affable and conformable
behaviour. In the first place, it appeared that his
name Herman, had been borne by some deceased
son or relative, and its familiar sound brought a
mournful pleasure to her ears,—in the second, his
appearance was highly prepossessing. He could

not have been above four or five and twenty years
old; his figure, though somewhat beneath the middle
size, was good, and his limbs well knit and
active; his face was decidedly handsome, with a
very dark complexion,—his eyes black and sparkling,
and his mouth, which disclosed at every laugh,
a set of the finest teeth in the world, expressive
of good-humour and a mirthful spirit. As for the
ornaments of his outward man, they consisted of
under-clothes of some white summer-stuff, a frock
of blue cloth, a grass hat, short boots and gloves;
and to show that he was somewhat of a coxcomb
withal, he wore a laced scarlet vest, an embroidered
neckcloth, and a huge gold ring on his finger,
glistering with a sapphire, or some cerulean substitute.
He had a good roan horse, too, and saddlebags
of enviable capacity; besides which, he
made his first appearance with a carbine slung to
his back, and a leathern portfolio under his arm;
so that he looked like one who visited the retreat,
with a resolution to make the most of its advantages.

Having taken a second look around the hovel,
he saw no reason to abate his satisfaction. Though
poverty was apparent on the naked walls and uncarpeted
floors, yet every thing was clean and
well ordered. The hands of the widow had eked
out the lack of more costly decorations, by sticking
in the fire-place and windows, and over the
mantel and table-tops, green laurel boughs and
sprigs of flowers, such as abounded on the neighbouring
hills, or were cultivated in her little garden,
and such as were pleasant enough at this
season. Besides, a grape-vine had been encouraged
to trail over one corner of the porch, and
the other supported festoons of nasturtions and
morning-glories. His evening meal, though simple
and humble enough, he was pleased to commend;

and if his bed was hard, and the sheets
somewhat coarser than were wont to encircle his
limbs, a happy temperament and a heart at ease
made them endurable, and even pleasant. If he
found Dancy, the farmer, when he returned from
the fields, to be taciturn and even stupid, still he
liked his honest face; and the little negro wench,
Margery, ugly, awkward, and a thousand times
more stupid than Dancy himself, he soon discovered,
would prove a source of unfailing amusement.

Being of this happy mood, and persuading himself
that his quarters were exactly to his desire,
he prepared, the day after his arrival, to approve
his zeal and skill, by sketching some one or other
of the pretty prospects presented from the Traveller's
Rest. He rose with the dawn and trudged
down the ravine, until he reached the river;
wherein, after looking about him with much satisfaction,
at the hills sleeping in morning mist, he
plunged, and amused himself with a bather's enthusiasm,
now swimming luxuriously in the limpid
and serene flood of the Delaware, and now
trying his strength against the ruder current, that
came dashing from the rivulet. This bore the
patronymical title of Hawk-Hollow Run. And
here we may as well observe, that upon a promontory
at its mouth, he discovered the origin of
that name, which, notwithstanding the efforts of
Mr. Gilbert to christen it anew, his neighbours had
so obstinately continued to give the valley. Upon
a tall and conspicuous oak-tree, dead, barkless,
and well nigh branchless, a pair of antique fishing-hawks
screamed over their eyry; and here they
had preserved it from immemorial ages. The
dead tree and the nest of sticks being conspicuous
objects, even from a distance on the river, the
earlier navigators had soon learned to designate

the whole valley after the majestic birds that seemed
its monarchs.

After this, he set himself to work with paper
and pencil, but with no good effect, not being in
the mood, or because he discovered there were
divers obstacles in his way. First, the sun did not
shine from the right place, and secondly, it shone
in the wrong one; then there was no way of getting
a rock converted into a chair, at the precise
place where he wanted it, though there were so
many thousands where he did not; and, in fine,
he found himself, when all was ready, waxing
eager for breakfast.

After breakfast, he had as many difficulties to
encounter; and in short, after making divers essays,
he beheld the afternoon sun sink low towards
the west, without having accomplished any thing
worthy of being deposited in the port-folio. “But
never mind,” said he, with a philosophical disregard
of his indolence and fickleness, “we shall
have the fit more strongly upon us on the morrow.”

He sat down in the porch and cast his eyes towards
the manor house, which was commonly
known by the title, so little flattering to the founder's
memory, of Gilbert's Folly. At this distance,
and from this spot, it had an impressive and even
charming appearance. It lay upon the slope of a
hill, perhaps a mile or more from the Traveller's
Rest; and, as it faced very nearly towards the
east, he had remarked it, in the morning, when
illuminated by the first beams of the day-spring,
shining, with a sort of aristocratic pomp and pride,
at its lowly neighbour, from the midst of green
woods and airy hills. At the present moment,
the front being entirely in shade, it had a somewhat
sullen and melancholy look, resulting in
part from the sombre hue of the stone of which

it was built; and though slanting rays of sunshine,
here and there striking on the sides of
chimneys, gables, and other elevations, gave it a
picturesque relief, it still preserved an air of soberness
and gloom. It seemed to lie in the heart of a
mighty paddock, once, however, termed a park,
that was circumscribed by a line of pollards,
sweeping over the hill-side, and here and there
broken by groves of unchecked growth. In one
or two places on the grounds, were rows of Italian
poplars, stretching along in military rank and file,
and adding that peculiar palisaded beauty to the
landscape, which is seen to the greatest advantage
in a hilly country. Here, too, was another exotic
stranger, the weeping-willow, drooping in the
moist hollow, and shaking its boughs in the pool.
The principal trees, however, were the natives of
the valley, most of them perhaps left standing in
their original places, when the grounds were laid
out in the forest. The picture is complete, when
it is added that the slopes of the hills were carpeted
with the rich embellishments of agriculture:
the wheat-fields and maize-plantations, waving
like lakes of verdure, in the breeze, were certainly
not the least of the charms of Hawk-Hollow, except
perhaps, at that moment, to the anti-utilitarian
painter.

He regarded the prospect for a long time in
silence, and then muttered his thoughts aloud, half
to himself, and half to his ancient hostess, who had
drawn her wheel up to her favourite seat on the
porch, and added its drowsy murmur to the sound
of the oak-boughs, rustling together in the breeze:

“This, then,” he exclaimed, “is the little elysium,
from which wrong, and the revenge of
wrong, drove a once happy and honoured family,
to wander exiles and outlaws in the land? And not
one permitted even to lay his bones in the loam of

his birth-place! and no friend left to avenge or
lament! `Quis sit laturus in aras thura?' ”

The wheel of Alice revolved with increased
velocity, but she betrayed no inclination to yield
to the prattling infirmity of age; though she,
doubtless, of all persons in the country, was best
informed on the subject now uppermost in the
mind of the painter. He was in the mood, however,
for extracting such information as he could;
and after a moment's silence, he resumed, with a
direct question,

“That is Avondale Hall, is it not, good mother?”

“It is Gilbert's Folly,” replied the hostess, drily.
“We know no other name.—There are some call
it Falconer's Trump-card—but that is nothing.”

“Perhaps not,” said the young man: “but who
can tell better than yourself? Good mother Elsie—
you must forgive me for being so familiar; but, in
truth, I love the name—it was the name of my
nurse, the first I learned to utter:—I have a great
curiosity about these poor Gilberts; and, I was told,
no one could inform me about them so well as
yourself.”

“And why should you ask about them?” demanded
the hostess, who, as Herman had long
since observed, conversed in language that would
scarce have been anticipated from her appearance.
“They can have done you no harm, and certainly
they never did you good. You cannot fear them,
for they are dead; and you yourself said, they left
none to lament them.”

“But they left many to curse,” said Herman;
“and it is this that makes me curious to know the
truth about them. I have not heard any men pronounce
the name, without accompanying it with
maledictions; which were just so many proofs that
they were unsafe informants.”

“It is better then that they should be forgotten,”

muttered Elsie: “If they did wrong, bitterly have
they been punished; if they provoked men to
curses, the curses have been heavy on their heads,
and are now even heaped upon their graves. Yet
you speak of them not like others—how comes it
that you pronounce their name without a curse?”

“Simply because, never having received any
hurt at their hands, and having nothing of the
hound about me, I feel no impulse to join in the
cry of the pack, until I know what beast they are
baying. I saw, in the village, an old man begging;
I was told, his house had been burned down,
and his wife and children in it, by `the accursed
Gilberts;' I saw also, a miserable idiot, or madman,
I know not which, dancing along the road-side, and
inviting me to a wedding: I asked about him, and
was informed he dwelt of yore in the Wyoming
Valley, and was set upon by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow,
in the hour of his marriage, and he alone
saved of all the bridal party—I saw”—

“It is enough—God has judged them,” said the
old woman, with a voice both solemn and reproachful.
“All these things have they done, and
many more as dreadful and cruel. These are the
fruits of civil war; for men are then changed to
beasts. I knew a man of Wyoming, who was
killed by his own brother—shot through the head,
while he knelt down, begging for quarter of his
mother's son! God has judged these acts, for they
who did them are gone; and God will yet judge
the men that drove them into their madness.”

“They had cause, then, for what they did?”
asked Herman, with interest. “It was not in cold
blood, and upon deliberate choice, that they sided
with the tories against their countrymen?”

“Perhaps it was, perhaps it was not,” said Mrs.
Bell, mournfully. “A plough-furrow on the hillside
may grow at last into the bed of a torrent;

and what is but a cause for light anger, may, in
time, work the brain into a frenzy. But ask me
not of these things now: it was in a season like
this, twenty-four years since—but it is foolish to
remember me of it,—perhaps sinful. Some time,
perhaps, I may speak of these unhappy people to
you; but I cannot now. Trust, at least, that if
the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, as you called them,
did much wrong, they also endured it,—and that,
too, when they had not provoked it.”

Finding that his curiosity could obtain no farther
gratification at the present moment, Herman
Hunter again cast his eyes upon the mansion, and
being greatly charmed by an effect made by the
striking of the sunshine on certain parts, while
others lay in the broadest and deepest shadow, he
was seized with a fit of artist-like enthusiasm, and
arranging his drawing materials upon a little table,
which he drew into the porch for the purpose,
he was straightway immersed in the business of
sketching. While he was dotting down chimneys
and windows with great haste and satisfaction, he
was struck with a new and unexpected effect in
the picture. A scarlet mantle, beside which glittered
another of snowy white, suddenly blazed out
like a star from a clump of shadowy trees in the
paddock, and he became aware that two females
on horseback were issuing from the park, and
riding down the road. But losing sight of them
again, as they ambled into a hollow, and being now
really engrossed in his employment, he thought no
more of them, until they suddenly re-appeared
from behind a thicket no great distance off, galloping
forward with an impetuosity and violence that
would have done honour to veteran dragoons.

Somewhat astonished at such an unexpected
display of spirit, he dropped his pencil, and for an
instant supposed that their ponies were running

away with these damsels errant. They were not
attired for the saddle, and seemed rather to have
sprung upon their palfreys from some sudden
whim and spirit of frolic than with a purpose of
leaving the park, in which he had first caught
sight of them. They were arrayed merely in
simple walking-dresses of white, over which one
had flung a light scarlet shawl; and instead of
caps or round hats, they had low and broad-brimmed
hats of thin felt, without veils, much better
fitted for rambling in, over sunny meads, than
for displaying to the winds on horseback.

His suspicion that their ponies had taken the
matter into their own hands,—or rather the bits
into their own teeth, was of short duration; and
as they advanced with increased rapidity, he saw
plainly, by the mirthful rivalry displayed in all
their actions and gestures, that they were positively
running a race, the scarlet mantle being the
winner,—or, so far, at least, as a full length would
go, in full prospect of winning.

Not a little diverted at the spectacle, and the
merry cries with which they encouraged their
steeds, he rose from the table, to take a better
view of the fair jockeys, as they should brush by;
when, to his great surprise, no sooner had they
reached the little oak-yard that conducted to the
Traveller's Rest, than they made a rapid wheel,
and came dashing up to the porch in a style worthy
of a race-course.

It happened, either because he was in part concealed
by the veil of nasturtions that grew near to
where he had placed his table, or because they
were too much engaged in their frolic to raise
their eyes, that the young painter was seen by
neither of the ladies, until they were within six
yards of the porch; when the headmost, suddenly
observing him, drew up in such confusion that she

had well nigh jerked her pony over on his back.
He perceived at once, that his appearance at the
Traveller's Rest was wholly unexpected, and was
any thing but welcome to the adventurous pair.
Indeed, it was manifest that the consciousness of
having been detected by a stranger engaged in
such jockey-like amusement, had greatly disconcerted
them both.

All this the young man observed in a moment,
and could scarce suppress the smile that gathered
over his visage, even when he saw that the confusion
of the foremost damsel had discomposed her
palfrey. However, as he looked into her face,
florid at once with exercise and shame, he beheld
a pair of such radiant black eyes, flashing with
mingled mirth and vexation, and withal a countenance
of such haughty and decidedly aristocratic
character, as instantly put him upon his best behaviour.
He took off his hat, like a well-bred gentleman,
and advancing from the porch, would have
taken her pony by the rein, had she not instantly
recovered herself, and turned the animal aside,
with an empress-like “I thank you, sir!” He
thought the refusal of assistance, so respectfully
offered, was somewhat ungrateful, and even rude;
but she looked so beautiful, he could do nothing
less than testify his admiration by another bow.

Meanwhile the second maiden, whose confusion
seemed, at first, even greater than her companion's,
and who blushed at the sight of him with
even painful embarrassment, recovering herself
more quickly, (for her filly was not so restiff as
the other,) rode up to the porch, and saluting the
ancient widow, who had risen to receive her, exclaimed,
though with a flurried voice,

“You must pardon us, good Elsie—we came to
visit you—but we knew not you had guests with
you.” Then turning to Herman, just as her friend had

rejected his proffered assistance, she said, with the
sweetest voice in the world, as if to make amends
for the rudeness, “We are much obliged to you,
sir—but the horses are very gentle.” She then
turned again to Dame Bell, and, as if resolved to
explain away as much of the cause of visitation as
possible, said,

“We are looking for my father, Elsie; and we
thought, that, instead of waiting for him in the
park, we would ride by your house, and ask you
how you did. We will not intrude upon you
longer.—Good by, my dear Mrs. Bell.”

With these hurried expressions, and having inclined
her head courteously to the painter, she
rode out of the yard, followed by her companion;
when having hesitated a moment, as if uncertain
whether to continue upon the road or not, they
suddenly came to a decision, and rode back towards
the paddock, though at a much more moderate
pace than before.

So great was the admiration with which Herman
Hunter regarded the beauty of the red shawl,
that he had scarce bestowed two glances upon her
friend. He had noticed indeed, that a profusion of
gold-shadowed locks and eyes of extreme gentleness
and sweetness, gave a very agreeable expression
to a countenance at least two years younger than
the other's; but as there was none of the spirit of
fire breaking out at a glance from those loop-holes
of the soul, to make an instant impression on his
imagination, as had been the case with the other,
he lost the opportunity of satisfying himself by
another look, how well her charms might endure a
comparison with those of her companion. His
admiration was doubly unfortunate; since, little as
it deserved such a return, it laid the foundation for
a spirit of hostility, little short of absolute hatred,

in the bosom of the lady, as will be seen in the
sequel of this tradition.

As the gay but disconcerted pair rode away together,
he could scarce content himself until they
got beyond earshot, before he exclaimed, with the
most emphatic delight,

“I vow to heaven, my dear mother Elsie, she is
the most beautiful creature I ever laid my eyes
on!”

Alice responded with a faint sigh and a yet
fainter smile; but her countenance immediately
darkened, while she muttered,

“I pity her, poor child. The storm is coming
upon her that she dreams not of; the curse will
swallow up all that are, and shall be, of his house;
and she in whom there is no wrong, and who was
born no child of an unjust father, will share the
penalty with his children. Yes, yes,” she added,
straining her eyes, after the maidens, “I shall see
her bright eyes dimmed with tears, and then
closed,—her yellow locks parted over a forehead
of stone and death,—and perhaps help to lay her
in the earth out of men's sight, as I have helped
with one who was as young and as fair!”

“I vow, mother Elsie,” said the young man, surprised
at the prophetic sadness and emphasis of
her speech, but still more at the mention of “yellow
locks,” while his own thoughts were musing
upon ringlets of raven. “I vow, you have mistaken
me altogether. I meant the other lady, the
black-eyed, angelic creature, who tossed her head
at me with such disdain,—and, hang it, incivility,
too; for it cannot be denied, she was uncivil.”

“I thought you were speaking of the Captain's
daughter,” said the widow, coldly.

“I know no more about the Captain's daughter
than my grandmother,” said the youth, irreverently;
“nor do I care half so much. But tell me

Elsie,—who is that black-eyed creature? I never
beheld any body to compare with her!”

“She is the daughter of Colonel Richard Falconer,”
said the hostess, resuming her labours at
the wheel, yet apparently disposed to reply to any
farther interrogatories the young man might propose.
But the painter seemed satisfied with what
he had heard. He exclaimed at once, with a look
of strong disgust,

“Why then may the fiends seize the fancy, and
my fool's head along with it! Hark'e, good dame
Bell, did you ever hear of the old heathen Lamia?
the Lemures, as they were sometimes called?”

“I have heard of some such beasts of Peru,”
said the complaisant hostess; “and I believe they
are a kind of camels.”

“Oh, that's the llama, the pretty little llama,”
said the young man, with the good-humour that
became an instructer. “The Lamiæ were monsters
and sorceresses of Africa, with the face and
bust of women, and the body of a serpent,—a sort
of land mermaids. (By the by, do you know, I
saw a mermaid once? Some time, I will tell you
all about her; but, just now, all I can say is, that
she was monstrous ugly.) These Lamiæ often
bewitched men, who looked them in the face: if
you looked there first, you were so blinded, you
could not perceive their true deformity, until assisted
by the counter-spell of some benevolent magician.
Now, Elsie, this is my thought: I hold
Miss Falconer to be a Lamia; and the sound of
her father's name was the spell that opened my
eyes to her true ugliness. Pho!” continued the
youth, observing the incredulity and wonder of his
auditor; “the image is a bad one after all, for it
conveys an improper impression. I should say,
that I am like the Lamia's lover, not Miss Falconer
like the Lamia. To tell you the truth, I have

heard so many ill things said of the father, that I
feel myself heartily inclined to hate the daughter.
A vixen, I warrant me!”

The old woman regarded him earnestly, and
then replied,

“Little cause have I to love Colonel Falconer,
or to speak well of him and his; yet why should a
stranger like you, assume the post of the judge,
and visit the father's faults upon the head of his
offspring? But you do not speak seriously. I
know no evil of Miss Falconer, and I have heard
none. This is the first time I have ever seen her so
near to my threshold: and I know not what strange
fancy could have brought her hither. As for Miss
Catherine, the Captain's daughter, she often comes
to inquire about me. Poor child! she fears not
the `old witch,' for she has done no harm to me
nor to any other mortal; she does not hate `wicked
old Elsie,' for hatred dwells not in her nature;
but she looks with respect and pity upon the miseries
of age and penury. And many a good deed
she has done me, when others passed me by with
scorn and hate. Would that I might go down to
the grave in her place! were it but in memory of
her goodness. But when the bolt is aimed at the
little willow, even the withered old oak cannot
arrest it.”

With such expressions as these the old woman,
if she did not re-inspire Herman Hunter with admiration
for Miss Falconer, succeeded at least in
awakening some interest for the younger lady;
which was greatly increased, when he came to
suspect, from some expressions Elsie let fall, that
the miseries she seemed so confidently to predict
as being in store for the maiden, were predicated
upon the knowledge of a contemplated union between
her and the brother of her friend. It was
plain, from what Elsie said, that this was to be a

marriage of convenience, in which Catherine's
affections were to be sacrificed, or disregarded.
It is true, that Elsie did not directly affirm this to
be the case; but the inference from her expressions
was consequential and inevitable; and Herman
only wondered that the young lady, whom
he now pictured to himself as dying of a broken
heart, should have looked so rosy and happy.

In the meanwhile, the maidens rode on, returning
towards the park, until they reached the grove
in the hollow, where they were sheltered from view.
Here they paused, and the Captain's daughter gave
at once the flattest contradiction to all Elsie's piteous
allusions to the state of her feelings, by looking
archly into her companion's face, and then bursting
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

“Well, what now, dear Hal?” she cried, while
tears of genuine merriment swam in her eyes and
rolled on her cheeks; “what do you think of your
race now? Shall we try it over again?”

“Upon my word, Miss Loring”—

“Kate! call me Kate, or never look to see me
laugh more,” exclaimed the Captain's daughter.
“Now pray, cousin Hal, do you not think we have
exhibited our horsemanship somewhat too advantageously
to-day? Fy, Harriet, I will never forgive
you! To think we should go galloping in
this manner, almost into the arms of a young fellow
with a scarlet waistcoat! It is too ridiculous!”

“So much for dragging me along after you, to
the old witch's!” said Miss Falconer, pettishly.

“After me?” cried the other, with increased
mirth; “why, you were leading—you had beaten
me by full a length and a half, as the jockeys call
it:—so much for not starting fair! And as for
dragging you there, Harriet, pray do me justice;
you know it was your own wicked suggestion altogether
that carried you thither, and my frailty that

made me follow. It is all a punishment on you,
for breaking the commandment, and running after
the forbidden fruit. Oh, curiosity! curiosity! when
shall we poor women shuffle the little tempter from
our bosoms? But pray, cousin, what made you
treat the young man so rudely? Sure, he was
very handsome and well-behaved; and sure, young
gentlemen, handsome and well-behaved, are not
so plentiful in Hawk-Hollow! I think we will get
pa to invite him to dinner.”

“Well, Catherine,” said the other, “you are
merry to-day; but it happens so seldom, and I am
so glad of it, that I pardon you, although your
mirth is all at my expense.”

“You are angry with me, Harriet?” said the
Captain's daughter, riding up to her friend, and
stretching forth her hand. Her frolicsome spirits
vanished in a moment, and the change on her
countenance and in her whole manner, from extreme
gayety to impetuous emotion, was inexpressibly
striking and touching.

“Angry? by no means,” said Miss Falconer, as
Catherine flung her arm round her neck and kissed
her. “Poor wayward Kate! I would you could
laugh at me for ever. Why do you cry, mouse?
You are certainly the most extraordinary mad
creature in the world!”

“Yes, I am,” said Miss Loring, smiling through
her tears; “I can't abide being talked stiffly to.
But what shall we do? Shall we ride up to the park?
Shall we sit down here, and play long-straws for
sweethearts? Shall we take heart of grace, and
ride on in search of papa? Or shall we play termagant
again, whip, cut and spur, whoop and
halloo, and call Monsieur Red-Jacket to stand up
for umpire? Any thing, dear Hal, to kill time,
and find you amusement.”

“Was Monsieur Red-Jacket so handsome, after
all?” demanded Miss Falconer.

“I don't know,” said Catherine: “He kept his
eyes so fixed upon your own face, I could not
half see him. But, really, he seemed to admire
you very much—I suppose, because you were first
in! I don't see how you could have the heart to
treat him so uncivilly, when his admiration was so
manifest, and his bearing so respectful?”

“Was it, indeed?” said the other, shaking her
head, as if regretfully. “Young, handsome, well
bred, and an admirer—and yet, I know, I shall
never abide the sight of him. What! see me riding
in full race, with whoop and halloo, and all that, as
you say, like a grazier's daughter!—poh, it is intolerable:
it can never be forgiven!”

“Why, he saw me, too,” said Miss Loring;
“and I am sure, I forgive him! And it is no such
great matter, after all.”

“No great matter, to be sure; but small ones
govern the world. No one can forgive being made
ridiculous, especially a woman of spirit. Come,
we will gallop back to the park, and leave the
Captain to find his own way.”

With these words, they returned to the paddock.

In the confession of a weak and capricious prepossession,
which was perhaps more than half
serious, Miss Falconer showed an almost prophetic
sense of what would be the future temper of her
mind towards the unlucky Herman. Neither the
manifest folly nor injustice of the sentiment, even
when gratitude should have expelled it from her
bosom for ever, could prevent it ripening into
jealousy and final dislike; and unfortunately circumstances
of an accidental nature soon arose to
give a double impulse to these unamiable feelings.