University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Don Giovanni.

Thus ended the sketch of a story, imperfect,
perhaps tedious and unsatisfactory, but still a necessary
preliminary to the series of events that
completes the tradition. A mere womanly curiosity
was perhaps at the bottom of the nobler feeling
with which Miss Falconer sought to excuse
to herself the impropriety of urging the relation.
From the first to the last, it was meted out to her
reluctantly; and nothing but the command she
had long since obtained over a character less firm
and decided than her own, could have persuaded
the Captain's daughter to breathe a syllable of it
into ears, which, she could not but feel, ought not
to be opened to it. Miss Falconer had, moreover,
overrated her powers of scepticism; she had provoked
the story, as men commonly provoke an
argument,—that is, with a resolution not to be
convinced; but like the logician, in many instances,
when the discussion is over, her incredulity
was sorely, though secretly, shaken, and
nothing but her pride and strength of character
checked the humiliating avowal. Some circumstances
a delicate consideration for the feelings of
her friend, and an unconquerable repugnance to

speak more on the subject than could not be
avoided, had prevented the Captain's daughter
from relating. These would have thrown a still
darker stain upon the character of Colonel Falconer.
There was enough, however, said, to force
one disagreeable conviction upon Harriet's mind;
and this was, that, if her parent were even as
guiltless of ingratitude and wrong as her fondest
wishes would have him, calumny had, at least in
one secluded corner of the world, sealed him with
the opprobrium of a villain. It was a sore addition
also to her discomfort, that her penetrating
mind discovered how deeply her kinswoman was
affected by the hateful history: if she doubted,
she did not doubt strongly. Vexed, humbled, displeased
with herself and with Catherine, she rose
from the rocky shelf, on which both had seated
themselves when Catherine resumed the story, and
prepared to leave the scene, equally mournful and
unpleasant, when an incident occurred, which at
once gave a new turn to her feelings.

The Captain's daughter had observed the look
of dissatisfaction, and anticipated the movement,
by rising herself, to lead the way to the bridge.
As she started up hastily, her hat, which she had
loosened from her forehead, to enjoy the evening
breeze, now puffing among the flowers, fell from
her head, and her beautiful countenance and golden
ringlets were fully exposed. She raised her hands,
naturally enough, to catch the falling hat, and thus
assumed an attitude, of which she was herself unconscious,
but which, to one spectator at least, had
a character apparently menacing and forbidding.
This spectator was no less a person than the young
painter, who had rambled up the stream, and was
now making his way across the sycamore, to obtain
a view of the cascade, entirely ignorant of the
presence of such visiters; for while they maintained

their seats, their persons were concealed
behind the low wall, and their voices drowned by
the murmur of the water-fall.

A sudden exclamation, loud enough to be heard
over this lulling din, drew Catherine's attention to
the bridge; and there, to her extreme surprise, she
beheld the young stranger struggling among the
branches, as if he had lost his footing, while all the
time, his eyes, instead of being employed in the
more needful duty of looking to himself, were fixed
upon her with an air of the most unaccountable
wonder and alarm. The next instant, she beheld
him, to her own infinite horror, fall from the tree,
just as Harriet, starting up after her friend, had
also caught sight of the strange spectacle. Both
beheld the unlucky youth drop through the boughs,
and both at once anticipated the most dreadful termination
to such a misadventure; for a pitch over
the cascade among the savage rocks below, could
scarcely be less than fatal. The very instant she
saw that the young man had lost his footing,
Catherine uttered a loud scream, and then, driven
onwards by an irresistible impulse, darted towards
the river, to render him what aid she could. As
for Miss Falconer, the shock had deprived her of
her self-possession, and her tongue clove to her
mouth with terror. She neither screamed nor
rushed forwards to give aid, until her lethargy was
dispelled by a distant voice, that suddenly echoed
the scream of Catherine:

“Hark ye, Kate, you jade! hark ye, Kate, my
dear Kate! my beloved Kate! what's the matter?
I'm coming! I'll murder the villain! I'm coming,
Kate!”

There was no mistaking the tones of Captain
Loring, even altered as they were by anxiety and
vociferation; and Miss Falconer recognising
them, screamed out, “Quick, uncle, quick! for

heaven's sake, quick!” and ran to the side of her
friend.

The torrent, leaping along like a mill-race for
the little distance that intervened betwixt the
treacherous bridge and the fall, had immediately
swept the young man from his feet; and as
Catherine bounded to the verge, flinging out, with
as much daring as presence of mind, the scarf of
Harriet, which she had instinctively snatched up,
in hope that he might seize it, she saw him swept
by her like a feather in a whirlwind, and instantly
hurried over the falls. The spectacle was really
terrific; and as Miss Falconer caught sight of the
dreary figure—the outstretched arm and the despairing
countenance, revealed for one moment, as
some rocky obstruction on the very brink of the
cascade lifted the body half from the flood, and
then instantly plunged it out of view—she lost what
little courage remained, and was no longer capable
of yielding the slightest assistance. If such was
her overpowering terror, it might have been supposed
that the Captain's daughter, who, whatever
the vivacity and quickness of her mind, possessed
little of the boldness of spirit that characterized
her friend, would have been reduced to a state of
imbecility still more benumbing and helpless. But
this youthful girl concealed within the cells of a
heart all of feeble flesh, a principle of feeling that
could upon occasions, though she knew it not herself,
nerve the throbbing organ into steel; and, at
such times, if her brain was confounded, impulse
governed her actions with an influence more useful,
because more instant of operation.

Dreadful, therefore, as was the spectacle of the
youth dashed down the abyss under her eyes, and
almost in reach of her arm, she did not pause, like
Harriet, to scream after the Captain, who was undoubtedly
drawing nigh, and at an unusual pace;

but leaving this to be done by her companion, she
ran down the rocks that led to the base of the fall,
and the next moment Harriet beheld her rush boldly
into the water. The instant she reached the basin at
the foot of the cascade, which was broken by rocks,
black and slippery from the eternal spray, she
caught sight of the body—for such it seemed—rolling
in the flood where it boiled over a ridgy mole in
a sheet of foam. It was scarce two paces from the
bank, and though the torrent gushed over the rock
with great impetuosity, it was shallow, at least in
the nearer portion; and, unless too rash and daring,
there was little danger she could be herself swept
over the ledge among the deep and dangerous
eddies below. She stepped therefore upon the
rock as far as she durst, and stretching out her
hand, succeeded in grasping the insensible figure,
as it was whirling over at a deeper place and in a
fiercer current. All her strength, however, availed
nothing further than to arrest the body where
it was; and she must have speedily released her
hold, or been swept with it herself from the ledge,
when a new auxiliary, attracted by the same cries
that had alarmed Captain Loring, came unexpectedly
to her assistance, crackling through the
bushes, and bounding over the rocks on the opposite
side of the pool, which was a wilderness of
rock and swamp. No sooner had this personage
beheld her situation, than he ran a little lower
down, where the stream was again contracted,
sprang across from rock to rock, and immediately
darted to her side. With one hand he dragged—
or, to speak more strictly, he flung her, (for his
actions were none of the gentlest,)—out of the
water; and with the other, he lifted the unlucky
painter from the torrent, and bore him to the bank,
saying, as he laid him at the maiden's feet, in a
voice none of the mildest in the world,

“Why, here's fine sport for a May-day, and a
rough end to a fool's frolic! How many more of
you must I fish up?”

By this time the gallant Captain Loring, urged
by anxiety for his daughter, (not knowing that the
danger concerned another,) into a speed that he
had not attempted for twenty-five years, made his
appearance at the top of the fall, and seeing her
stand shivering with fright over what she esteemed
a dead body,—for the painter showed not a
single sign of life,—with a stranger of questionable
appearance at her side, he burst into a roar of
passion, crying, “Hark ye, you vagabond villain!
if you touch my girl”—when his rage was put to
flight by Miss Falconer suddenly finding tongue,
and exclaiming, “He has saved the poor youth's
life;—that is, Kate saved him, and this man helped
her. I never was more frightened in my life! Let
us go down, uncle—I fear the young man is hurt.”

Meanwhile, Catherine, whose courage and presence
of mind had almost deserted her, so soon as
she beheld the young man safe ashore, being roused
by the rough accents of the stranger, and the
death-like appearance of the youth, exclaimed, in
tones of entreaty, for the man had turned away,
as if to depart,

“Do not go.—Alas! you came too late! Help
us yet a little, or the poor youth will die where he
is. Pray, hold up his head—indeed, he is very
much hurt!”

“Hurt! To be sure he is,” cried the stranger,
with infinite coolness, bordering upon a sort of
savage contempt, or at least disregard, of the
miserable spectacle, “knocked as clean on the
head as if a refugee had been at him. So, d'ye
hear, my young madam, there's no great need of
troubling yourself more about him; and here come
enough of your good folk to groan over him. As

for me, I have no time for moaning. If you want
help, just scream over again; and, I reckon, you'll
have the whole road at your elbow.”

Catherine had herself performed the office of
humanity she had so vainly asked of the stranger;
she stooped down, and beckoning to her father
and Harriet, who were descending the rocks, to
hasten their steps, she raised up the painter's head,
and endeavoured, with a faltering hand, to lossen
the neckcloth from his throat. Struck by expressions
so rude and unfeeling, she looked up for a
moment, and for the first time took hasty note of
the person and lineaments of her preserver. He
was a man of middle age,—perhaps forty or more,
with a long shirt or frock of coarse linen thrown
over his other garments, and a broad-brimmed,
round-crowned, slouching hat, like the favourite
sombrero of the Spanish islands, which was, however,
painted of a fiery red, and varnished, so as
to resist the rain. His stature was not considerable,
nor was his appearance very muscular, yet
he had given proof of no mean strength in the case
with which he dragged the painter and herself
from the water. His countenance, without being
coarse or ugly, had yet a repulsive character, derived
in part from several scars, the marks of violent
blows from sabres or other weapons, one of
which seemed to have destroyed his right eye, for
it was bound round with a handkerchief; but perhaps
the forbidden air was rather given by the
savage fire that glimmered in the other, and the
perpetual frown that contracted his brows. His
hair was grizzled, and fell in a long lock over
either dark and bony cheek. His mouth was particularly
stern, grim, menacing, and even malevolent
of character,—or so the Captain's daughter
thought. All these things Catherine observed in
a moment; yet, however unfavourably impressed

by them, she could not refrain from again imploring
his assistance, saying, with the most earnest
accents,

“If you be a Christian man, do not leave us.
We are none here but two feeble women, and an
infirm old man; and before we can procure assistance,
the young gentleman may perish. We will
thank you,—we will reward”—

“Good heavens!” cried Miss Falconer, who had
now reached the foot of the rocks, and beheld the
pale and bleeding visage that Catherine so falteringly
supported, “he is dying!”

“Dying! Who's dying?” echoed the Captain,
limping up to the group; “Adzooks; what! my
painter? my handsome young dog, that was to
paint me my son Tom Loring? my Harman What-d'ye-call-it
from Elsie Bell's? Hark ye, Mr. Red-hat,
or whatever your name is, I intended to arrest
you on suspicion—Adzooks, I believe the young
dog's dead! He looks amazingly like my son Tom.
Hark ye, Mr. Harmer What-d'ye-call-it, how do
you feel? Why, adzooks, he's clean gone!—Hark
ye, Mister Red-head, fetch him up the rocks—
We'll carry him to the Folly.”

While the Captain thus poured forth his mingled
wonder and lamentation, a surprising change came
over the visage of the stranger. He no sooner
understood from the mention of the lodging-place
and profession of the young man, that he did not
belong to the party before him, and had therefore
no greater claim upon their humanity than on his,
than he at once dropped his rude and disregardful
air, saying, as he released the others from the care
of supporting the wounded unfortunate,

“I am neither stock nor stone; but I thought
you had idlers enough to bury your own dead.
And so the younker is a stranger to you? a bird
of old Elsie's, and none of your own roost? And

this young lady was trying to save his life? I beg
your pardon, if I have been rough with you, young
madam.”—He pronounced these words with a
tone mild, and almost regretful; then turning to
the Captain, he resumed, “Well, Captain Loring,
for I believe that's your name,—what shall we
do with this broken-headed fool? You see, here's
an arm broke, and a gash on the head that might
do credit to a tomahawk! How shall we get him
to Elsie Bell's? I can carry him, sure enough—but
'tis a long mile off.—And then for a doctor?
Here's a shoulder slipped, Captain. The fool! that
must tumble down this dog-hole water-fall! Captain,
you have servants and horses—you must send
for a doctor.—Poor boy, how he groans!”

“Hark ye, Mr. Red-head,” said Captain Loring,
“we will carry him to the Folly, and cure him
like a Christian. Just get him up these rocks here,
and I'll give a lift myself; and hark ye, Mr. Readhear”—

“But the doctor, Captain? the doctor?” cried
the stranger.

“He is at the house!” cried Catherine, eagerly.
“We saw him ride there ourselves!”

“Adzooks! to be sure he is! so Sam told me!
What a fool I was to forget it!” exclaimed the
Captain. “Come along, up the rocks, double-quick
step—march!”

The eyes of the stranger sparkled at the announcement
of surgical assistance being so unexpectedly
close at hand; for he seemed to have
conceived as sudden a liking to the luckless painter
as had the Captain himself. He raised him tenderly,
and with singular ease, from the ground, and without
a moment's delay, clambered up the rocky
path that led to the platform. Then striding rapidly
to the treacherous bridge, though encumbered by
a burthen at once so inconvenient and piteous, he

crossed it with a better fate than had distinguished
the attempt of the painter, and, almost before the
others had reached the deserted grave, was
making his way over the shaded path at a pace
that soon promised to carry him out of sight.

“Haste, father, dear father!” cried Catherine,
to whom the terrible scene of peril and suffering
she had witnessed and almost shared, had given
a new energy, and, indeed, a new nature; “haste,
or the man will miss the path, and the young gentleman
die. Or stay—I will climb the hill here,
and run to the house for assistance, and Harriet
will walk faster, and point out the way.”

“The path is broad, the wild fellow pursues it,”
cried Miss Falconer, giving the veteran the impulse
of her own activity. “What could have
brought the young man to the brook? What could
have brought this wild barbarian? Nay, uncle,
what could have brought yourself?”

“Sam told me,” muttered Captain Loring; and
of a thousand broken and confused expressions
that now fell from his lips, all that the maidens
could understand, as they hurried him along, was
that he had met one of his labourers at the parkgate,
who had seen them take refuge in the wood,
and was then engaged catching their ponies,
which were running wildly about,—that he had
instantly left his carriage, and was seeking them
along the stream, when he heard the shriek of his
daughter. Something else of much more importance,
he seemed labouring to give utterance to;
and this being nothing less than the fearful intelligence
in relation to Colonel Falconer, which he
knew not how to impart, his mind became so confounded
betwixt fear of its effect upon the lady,
indignation at the outrage, and the thousand other
emotions which were distracting his breast, that
the more he essayed to speak, the more mysterious

became his expressions; so that the whole
group had reached the door of the mansion, before
a single suspicion of his object had entered the
mind of either Miss Falconer or her friend. He
mingled the oft-repeated name of her father with
that of the dreaded Gilberts, and this again with
Tom Loring's, and the painter's; now he burst
into a frenzy of apprehension lest Catherine, whose
garments were dripping with wet, and, in one or
two places, spotted with blood from the wounds of
Herman, should have suffered as many hurts as the
youth himself, and now he fell into lamentations
over the loss of `that grand picture of Tom Loring
dying!' which, it seemed not altogether improbable,
death might prevent the poor painter ever
attempting.

But if the Captain brought confusion with him
to the mansion, it was evident, at the first glance
Miss Falconer had of it, that the deranging fiend
had been there before him, and still kept possession.
The sun was then setting—a multitude of
persons, old and young, sallow and sable, were
bustling about in the shadows of the porch, some
running to and fro with burthens in their hands,
others shouting and screaming, or staring about
them in speechless wonder; the carriage stood at
the door, the ancient charioteer sitting whip in
hand, as if expecting orders to start at a moment's
warning, while a smart mulatto in livery was engaged
strapping a portmanteau behind it. Horses,
saddled and bridled, were hitched to trees, or held
by servants; dogs were barking; pigeons flying
about; and in a word, it seemed as if the inhabitants
of the Folly, male and female, human and
animals, were one and all preparing, in some ecstasy
of confusion, to desert its troubled walls.

“In the name of heaven, uncle! what means all
this?” cried Miss Falconer, recognising in the

livery-servant a personal attendant of her own father,
and in the portmanteau which he was fastening
to the carriage, one of the repositories of her
own womanly vanities.

Before the Captain could answer a word, the
confusion was doubly confounded by the clatter of
hoofs, and in an instant two horsemen in military
apparel, came thundering up the avenue, as if the
lives of a community depended upon their speed.

“My brother Henry, as I live!” cried the lady,
starting forward. “Captain, what is the matter?
Brother! heavens, brother! what can all this
mean?”

At this, one half of the human elements of the
chaos lifted up their voices, and groaned aloud,
“Oh, the Gilberts! the bloody Gilberts!”

“Sister!” cried the foremost of the young soldiers,
flinging himself from his steed, catching
Miss Falconer in his arms, and speaking with a
manner strangely compounded of horror and merriment,—“they
have been at dad again! but don't
fall into a fit—there's no murder this time! no,
egad, only a few scratches. Don't be alarmed.—
Ah, Miss Loring! my dear Miss Catherine!—you
look dreadful pale—don't be frightened—beg pardon
for coming in such a condition. Heard of it,
Harry?—(my friend, Brooks,—Lieutenant Brooks,
of the troop)—knew they'd send for you,—bent
out of course—deflected, made a detour, as we
say,—to fetch you. Not a moment to lose—must
be in town by sunrise, if horse-flesh can carry
us.—How d'ye do, Captain? All ready for marching?”

“Yes, all ready,” said the Captain, recovering
his tongue. “Don't be afraid, Harriet, my dear—
Kate, bid your cousin good-bye. No great harm
done,—only a little flesh wound that you can stitch
up with your needle—by the lord, that's all! Must

send you away—father sent a message after you
—must have you to nurse him. Be a good girl,
don't cry; 't an't all bad wounds do damage; saw
many tomahawk-slashes at the fatal field of Braddock,
and some got well. Tell the Colonel I'll be
down to see him, and hope to fetch the assassin
along.”

“The assassin, Captain?” cried the young officer,
as he leaped upon his horse, his sister having
been already, almost without any exercise of her
own will, thrust into the carriage, and the door
secured. “Quick, Phil, you scoundrel, will you
never have done strapping?—The assassin, Captain!
oh yes, the assassin!—Remember the description—
tall man, lantern-jawed, white horse,
with a dappled near fore-leg, a black coat, and
preaches!”

“Hah!” cried Captain Loring, with a shout of
triumph, “saw the rascal, and meant to arrest him,
but couldn't stand his sermons! I couldn't, by the
lord!—Your horse, Phil! your horse! doctor, I'll
take yours!—Whoop, Harry, you dog! down to
the old witch's, and we'll nab him yet!”

While the Captain gave utterance to these expressions,
he seized upon the nearest horse, and
mounted him—a feat, that nothing but the frenzy
of his enthusiasm could have urged him to attempt;
for his infirmity had almost altogether incapacitated
him from riding, save at the gentlest pace.
But the recollection of the zealous Nehemiah, the
assassin of his friend, now sheltered under a roof
that he fancied, in the ardour of the moment, he
could almost touch with his hand—and that holy
impostor a villain so notorious and redoubted as
the chief Hawk of the Hollow!—the fiery conception
scattered his years and infirmities to the winds,
and in an instant he was astride the beast of mettle,
galloping over the park at full speed, followed by

the two soldiers, as soon as they comprehended
the meaning of his words—by the coach, which
the venerable Richard set in motion upon an impulse
of his own—and by some half a dozen of the
male loungers, some on foot, some on horse, and
all fired with the prospect of capturing a foe so
famous and so deeply abhorred.

The pale gibbering ghosts, that start in affright
at the magical alarum of the early chanticleer,
could not have vanished from their doleful divan
with a more impetuous haste, than did full two-thirds
of those human beings from the mansion,
who had given such life to it a moment before.
In an instant, as it seemed, the hall was left to solitude;
and the rough stranger, who still sustained the
mangled frame of the painter, and had stood staring
in astonishment at a scene so unexpected and confounding,
had some reason to fear he was left to
relieve the sufferings of his charge as he could,
and to relieve them alone. A dark frown gathered
over his visage, as he beheld the crowd rush away
almost without bestowing a look upon his piteous
burthen, or upon him; and he was about to mutter
his indignation aloud, when it was pacified by
a husky voice exclaiming in his ear,

“Hum, hah! bless my soul! what, drowned, eh?
is the gentleman drowned? a case of suspended
animation?—Hillo, Jingleum, stop! Come back,
Pepperel! 'Pon my soul, 'tis the identical redjacket
we saw at the Rest! Why, what the devil's
all this?—Beg pardon, Miss Loring!—Bless my
soul, I hope you ain't hurt? Blood about your
sleeve, and look very pale and nervous! A little
wine, with”—

“Think not of me, doctor,” replied Catherine.

“Attend to the young gentleman. This dreadful
surprise and the hurry of my father—it will explain
all, and excuse all. Aunt Rachel will show

you a chamber: command every thing—every
thing shall be done that you order. Hasten, doctor,
pray hasten, and relieve the young gentleman's
sufferings. Gentlemen, pray give your assistance
to this good man, and heaven—yes, heaven will
crown your exertions with success!”

With these hurried expressions, and still more
earnest gestures, the young lady gave an impulse
to the group now gathered about the wounded
man, and he was immediately carried into the
house and out of her sight.

“Oh, Miss Katy,—beg pardon—that's to say,
Miss Catherine,” cried a buxom, blubbering damsel,
whose quavering treble had borne a distinguished
part in the late din of voices, and who had
no sooner laid eyes on the young lady, which she
did as soon as the tumult was over, than she ran
bustling hysterically to her side,—“never saw you
in such a pucker! hope we shan't all be murdered.
Such dreadful contractions were never heard of—
great big hole in your sleeve—the Gilberts all
come to life again, and will murder us as sure as
we live!”

“Be quiet, Phœbe—come with me to my chamber—I
don't think he will die!”

“Hope not, Miss Katy,—that's Miss Catherine;
but they shot him right through the head with a
blunderbush, and slashed him to pieces with a baggonet.
Oh, the cruel murders! And Philip, the
yellow boy, says—Lor' 'a' mercy! Miss Katy,
what's the matter?”

“I am sick, Phœbe, very sick—it will be over
directly. Don't call your mother—don't disturb
any one; let them stay with the young gentleman.”

With great difficulty, assisted by the girl, whose
station in the house, without being altogether so
exalted as that of an humble companion, was yet,

at least in her own estimation, far removed from
that of a menial—the young lady made her way
to her apartment; when the impulse that had supported
her energies through a scene of distress for
so long a time, passed away, and was succeeded
by prostration both of mind and body—by shuddering
chills and assaults of partial insensibility,
that terminated in fits of weeping, and these again
in deep dejection of spirits, such as of late years
had been a more prevailing characteristic than
any other.