University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Instead of the bard or the physician, Hunter
discovered that the clatter which had interrupted
his secret labours, was caused by the arrival of a
personage entirely unknown, and, as he soon began
to believe, unworthy his notice. He was a stout
but ill-looking man, with a soldier's coat and hat,
both worn and shabby, and Herman inferred at
once, that he was some private from a disbanded
regiment, returning to the life of industry
and obscurity he had left for the wars. As he
reached the porch, Herman saw that Dancy, the
farmer, who happened to be about the house, was
showing the new guest the way to the stable; and,
however, unprepossessing his appearance, he soon
perceived that he had already struck up a friendship
with Dancy, who talked and laughed, as they
jogged together round the crag, as if with an old
acquaintance. This set the painter's heart at rest;
and he soon afterwards discovered that the man,
being as humble in his desires as prospects, had
visited the Traveller's Rest less in search of entertainment
than employment, and had agreed with
the widow, or rather with Dancy, who assumed

the privilege of striking the bargain, to remain and
assist the hireling in the labours of the approaching
harvest, in consideration of receiving free quarters
and forage during that period.

In the conversation of such a man it is not to be
supposed the painter could have looked for any
source of interest; and, accordingly, he merely
gave him a glance as he strode away with Dancy,
leading a sorry gelding in his hand, and then took
a seat on the porch by Elsie, whose wheel, as usual,
was droning out its monotonous hum near the door.
Though hand and foot plied their accustomed task
with accuracy and effect, it was evident that the
poor widow's thoughts were not with her employment;
on the contrary, she was engaged in profound
and sorrowful contemplation; and, indeed,
for a sennight past, Herman had observed that her
fits of abstraction were unusually deep and frequent.

He sat down at her side, and addressed some
few questions to her in relation to the stranger, but
received such vague and irrelevant answers as
convinced him her meditations were too engrossing
to be easily broken. He proceeded therefore
without delay to seek some other means of amusing
his mind; and casting his eyes towards the
distant hall, he was, in a few moments, plunged in
reflections as absorbing, or even more so than her
own. Indeed, his interrogatories, though they did
not immediately rouse the old woman from her
lethargy, served the purpose of interrupting and
distracting her thoughts a little; so that she, by
and by, woke up, and recovered herself so far as
to look round her, and perceive she was not alone
on the porch. She surveyed the young man very
earnestly, until, at last, tears gathered in her eyes,
and her wheel stood still. The sudden ceasing of
the sound at once broke the spell that enchained

the painter's spirit; and looking up to Elsie, he
displayed a countenance on which the turn of
some darker thought had imprinted a character of
sternness, and even fierceness.

Elsie rose up, and stepping towards him, laid
her palsied hand upon his shoulder, saying, in tones
both solemn and impressively appealing,

“Drive these thoughts from your bosom, and
now depart. Why should you rest longer in this
place? Your limb is sound, your strength is restored;
and now begone, ere the calls of others,
and the anger of your own heart, shall drive you
into acts of blood, which, if you die not among
them, you will live only to repent.”

“Fear me not, mother,” said the youth, with a
faint smile. “On this subject, I have told you my
resolution before. I am, at the least, as good an
American as yourself; and whatever may have
been my original loyal and subjugating propensities,
I have now not a wish, nay, not a thought, of
playing the enslaver. Nothing on earth shall draw
me into the matter you think of.”

“Ay, but revenge though!” said the widow,
warningly. “You are dreaming of him whom
you think you should hate, and thirsting perhaps
for an opportunity to shed his blood?”

“You are deceived, Elsie. I will never lift my
hand against him, unless in self-defence. God is
the avenger, and, one day, he will avenge. I hate,
Elsie, but I will not shed blood.”

“And why then do you remain? If he, whom
neither knife nor bullet can destroy, looks upon
you again, as surely he will, and that perhaps
sooner than you dream of, he will entice you into
his bloody schemes; and though he escape, yet
will you perish.”

“Into his schemes I will not be enticed,” said

Herman; “and I rather hope, by argument and
persuasion, to draw him from them.”

“Argument and persuasion! and these to be
tried on him?” muttered Elsie, looking around her
as if in dread. “When you can argue the wolf
from the neck of the dying deer,—when you can
persuade the rattle-snake not to strike the naked
foot that is trampling his back, then may you think
of turning him from his purpose, or changing his
wild and dreadful nature. He will have revenge,
and I know that he will obtain it. Years have
passed by,—(how many and how bitter!)—the
gray hair has joined with the black, the smooth
brow has turned to the furrowed, but the purpose
of his heart has not grown old and fainted; all is
now as it was, and so will be till the end. Think
not of drawing him to your opinions; but be certain
he will draw you to his. Go not near him,
avoid him, let him not see you, or speak with
you.”

“Fear me not, Elsie”—

“I do fear you. Alas, young man, trust not
yourself in his power; if he touches you with his
hand, you will fall. God forbid you should be
joined with him in the matter that is coming! I
had rather you were struck down by lightning
where you stand;—better were it for you, had you
slept under the Fall of the Grave.”

“Sure, Elsie,” said the young man, “there is
nothing so criminal and horrid in the enterprise,
after all. The rescue of a poor captive,—a boy,
too, of nineteen years, and the only son of a doting
and noble mother, condemned to death unjustly
and perfidiously, (that is a harsh word, Elsie!)
to expiate a crime committed by another,—
sure, this is an enterprise of humanity rather than
iniquity.”

“And do you think this is all?” cried Elsie. “A

darker project is in his mind, and a darker deed
will be soon accomplished. Why then do you
stay? Have you not seen enough, and mourned
enough? I tell you, when the marriage-day comes,
the wronger will come, and after him the avenger;
and who knows what dreadful deeds will be
done, before all is over?”

“If it be a marriage of blood,” said the youth,
“why so let it be. They are, I firmly believe, leading
Catherine Loring like a sheep to the shambles.
If they mean to wed her to young Falconer against
her will, why then, though there should be no other
man in the world to befriend her, I will stand by
her myself;—I will, Elsie,” he exclaimed, impetuously;
“and, if Falconer do not at once surrender
his claims, I will compel him!”

“What!” cried the widow, starting from him
in dismay: “What is this I hear? What! you,—
have you looked at Catherine Loring, then, as a
creature to be loved! Have you dared”—

“Nonsense!” cried the young man, with a visage
of flame; “I am enslaved to her by gratitude,
and I wish to do her a service. I owe her a life,
Elsie; and I will yield it up ten times over, before
she shall be driven into a marriage she abhors, and
which, I believe, is breaking her heart.”

“Miserable, insane, cruel young man!” cried
the widow, with unexpected energy,—“and it has
come to this, then? You have repaid her humanity
and kindness, by stealing away her affections from
her betrothed husband, and so making a lot, sorrowful
enough before, still more wretched! You
have”—

“Hold, Elsie,” exclaimed Herman; “it is you
who are insane. You told me yourself, she was
averse to the match.—And, as to stealing her
affections, If have done no such thing—they are
not so lightly come by. If they were, Elsie,—nay,

if they were really mine, Elsie, why should I not
make my claim to them, as well as another? I am
neither poor nor humble, neither degraded nor
corrupted; in all things of worldly good, I am
young Falconer's equal, and perhaps, in some, his
superior.”

“Ay!” cried the widow, with increasing vehemence,
“and if she smiled, and if that would win
her, you would shoot Harry Falconer through the
brain! Is it not so? This is dreadful! Oh, young
man, begone; remain not a moment longer in the
valley. You will commit a crime worse than self-destruction,
and one more hard to pardon!”

“I will commit no crime, Elsie; and none have
I yet committed. Your anxiety is absurd; and so
is your suspicion. That I have the most friendly
regard for Miss Loring, the most ardent friendship,
is true; but as to loving her, Elsie, that—why
that is all nonsense.”

“Perhaps it is,” cried the widow, “and Heaven
grant it may prove so. But go not near her again,
do not expose yourself to the intoxication of her
society. If not a wrong to yourself, it is an unkindness
to her. If you talk to her of escaping
from the marriage she hates, and she finds she has
a friend left in the world to aid her—ah, that
would ruin her! The desire of escape may madden
the wisest.”

“Fiddlesticks!” cried the youth; “I have no
such coarse and meddling ways of testifying my
regard; and a presumption of that kind would
banish me from her presence for ever. But, Elsie,
I tell you, I cannot bear the thought of her being
married against her will.”

“And how can you prevent it? By wedding her
yourself? That cannot be. By breaking her heart?
Yes, there you may succeed—it is breaking already;
and when you have added one more pang

to it, it will soon cease to suffer. Hearken, young
man; if you persist in this thing, you will be a
villain. Go up to the grove—get you to Jessie's
sleeping place; and consider how fast you are
treading in the steps of him who slew her.”

“I, Elsie! This is extraordinary!”

“It is true. Both of you were carried, sick and
dying, into the house of a stranger; both of you
were received by guileless and open hearts; and,
when you have gone a little farther in your folly,
it can be perhaps said, that both left sorrow and
death behind them.”

“Elsie, this is shocking? Do you think me such
a villain as that man?”

“I do not,” said Elsie; “if I did,—if I thought
you were now, like him before you, plotting, even
in conceit, a wrong to that noble girl,—if I thought
this,” she added, with singular asperity, “I would
put hemlock into your food, though you were the
child of my own sister, and you should die before
morning!”

“I commend your zeal in the lady's cause, and
will myself endeavour to imitate it. But there, an
end, Elsie; we will talk of this no more. Your
fears are even more groundless than injurious. I
will leave the valley soon—perhaps very soon;
and I will murder no one, while I remain in it.”

So saying, to end a discussion which was becoming
disagreeable, he left the house, resolved to
make his way to the scene of his late disaster. In
this resolution he continued, until he reached the
park-gate; when, suddenly observing the flutter of
a white garment under the trees near to the mansion,
he turned from his path, and again found
himself in the presence of the Captain's daughter.

And thus it happened with him on the next day,
the next, and again the next; until the little thread
that tangled his spirit had become a web from

which there was no escape, unless by rending
away some of the vital limbs it encircled. He
sang and painted as before; nay, he assailed the
Battle of Brandywine with zeal and industry, and
had advanced so far with the work, before the
occurrence of unlooked-for events chilled his enthusiasm
and palsied his hand, that he was able to
carry it to the mansion, and exhibit it to the father
and daughter, that he might derive all the advantage
of their remarks on the most difficult feature
of his subject,—that is to say, the figure of the
Captain's deceased son.

In the meanwhile, he confirmed the good impression
he had long since made on his two friends,
and was indeed admitted to such intimacy with
both, as marked, not only their sense of his merits,
but their own simplicity of character. In the case
of the Captain, he certainly began to fill up the
gap made in his affections by the death of his son;
and as for Catherine, she soon appreciated the
value of a friendship based upon grateful recollections,
and, what seemed to her, a delicate and
purely disinterested regard for her weal and happiness.

The situation of this unhappy girl,—for such,
in truth, she was,—was of a nature to engage her
feelings warmly in favour of any one approaching
her with real friendship, as it was also to touch the
sympathies of the discerning and compassionate.

She was still very young, yet old enough to
feel the desolation of her father's house and fortunes,
and to be willing to sacrifice her own
happiness to secure that of her parent. At the

very moment when her father became a beggar,—an
outcast from the home of her nativity,
—her charms had won the heart of the young
Falconer,—`A lad,' as Captain Loring was
wont to say, `after a man's heart, and a woman's
too;' and the enamoured youth, with his father's
fullest approbation, and indeed warm encouragement,
claimed permission to throw himself at her
feet, and received it. Perhaps the consideration
of her father's misfortunes had greater weight
with Catherine than the temptation of wealth and
splendour; and perhaps the indifference of a young
and wholly unoccupied heart had also its share of
influence in determining her decision. It is certain,
if she did not consent with alacrity, she did
not refuse so earnestly as to make the Captain believe
the proposal was otherwise than vastly agreeable
to her; and, in truth, it was some considerable
time before she began to lament her easy consent,
and to feel that there was merit, because pain, in
the sacrifice. The great youth of the pair (for at
the time of betrothal, the lover was yet in his minority,)
had caused the nuptials to be deferred until
the close of the spring of the present year, but
a short time previous to which the attempt was
made on the life of Colonel Falconer; and that
occurrence had necessarily produced another postponement.
In the meanwhile, the maiden had
grown older and reflected more deeply; and the
regrets that began to wake in her spirit, though,
at first, she scarce knew why, became more frequent
and painful, as fame, or scandal, brought to
her ears stories of wild frolic and dissipation on
the part of her absent lover. These reports, to be
sure, were combated by Miss Falconer, and the
excesses they proclaimed made to appear, as they
always are in the case of the rich and happy, only
the natural outbreakings of a joyous and generous
spirit. But Harriet's skill could not prevent her
friend discovering that the young soldier had little
beside a comely face and a merry temper to recommend
him to her favour; and perhaps no circumstance
will sooner prejudice a woman against
a lover, not previously adored, than the discovery
that his mind is inferior to her own. The passion
of love is a material instinct; the sentiment is a
particle of the divinity, and can only exist when
called into action by the breath of spirit. Woman's
love is only deserving the name when it is purely
a sentiment, and based upon reverence for the
idol of her affections. In a word, Catherine found
she was to be wedded to a man she could never
hope to love; and it required her constantly to
keep before her eyes the situation of her father,
himself wholly incapable of retrieving, as he had
been of preserving, his fortunes, to prevent her
openly repining. To him, therefore, she could not
look as a friend, in her difficulty; his affection
could be indeed counted upon, but it could be
exercised in her favour only at the price of his
ruin. As for Miss Falconer, though she loved her
well, she knew that her spirit was entirely with
her brother, and that she encouraged, and did all
she could to promote, the match, for his especial
benefit, as a means of weaning him from a gay
and dissolute carrer, which threatened, if not
speedily checked, to terminate in confirmed profligacy.

With feelings of this kind constantly weighing
upon her breast—a consciousness ever present,
that in the death of an only and beloved brother,
she had lost a friend to whom she might have unbosomed
herself in grief, and from whom she
might have expected sympathy and relief,—it is
not extraordinary that the kindness even of a
stranger, expressed ever with delicacy and gentleness,

and uttered not so much in words as
actions, should make a strong and enduring impression
upon her feelings, and that she should
bestow upon him the frankest evidences of regard.

A circumstance—and it was the only one—
which seemed at first to threaten a speedy interruption
of their good understanding, served in the
end even to strengthen her confidence and friendship.
In an unguarded moment, and while under
a strong impulse, the young man alluded to the
approaching nuptials, and that in a manner so
plainly indicative of his knowledge of Catherine's
feelings, and of the sacrifice she was to be compelled
to make, that she was justly alarmed and
offended. She felt as a woman, that this was an
indecorum and presumption of the most unpardonable
nature; and the reproof it brought upon
the offender's head, was the stronger for being
mingled with the tears of humiliation. But even
this was forgiven, when several days elapsed without
bringing the youth back to the mansion, and
she reflected how much his offensive intermeddling
must have been caused by the sympathy she was ever
so glad to possess. She was really rejoiced, when
her father, astounded and concerned, and finally
enraged, at the unaccountable absence of his
favourite, sought him out, and dragged him, almost
by force of arms, to the mansion, and she heard
his footsteps once more sounding on the porch;
and Herman soon perceived that she had discharged
from her mind all anger, if not all remembrance
of his ungoverned zeal, and was disposed
to treat him with as much confidence as before.
In truth, she was one of the few we meet in the
world, and perhaps as seldom even in woman as

man, of that angelic quality of spirit, which mingles
inaptness to take offence with the greatest
readiness to forgive it; and as all he had said was
made offensive not so much by its nature as by
the position of the offender himself, and would
have been proper in the case of a near kinsman
or old and familiar friend, she easily persuaded
herself that the very rudeness was an evidence of
regard, which she did wrong to punish with severity.
She never perhaps afterwards smiled with
the same gayety, or conversed with the same
unreserved freedom; but she treated him with
much confidence; one proof of which, from its
singular nature, and the important, though secret,
influence it had upon the young man's conduct, it
is necessary to mention. She took occasion one
afternoon, when her father was sleeping, and her female
companions were occupied afar-off in various
domestic duties, to call his attention to the subject
of the outrage on Colonel Falconer, with which
as an intimate at Gilbert's Folly, he was, of course
familiar. `She had,' she said `a letter from Miss Falconer
in relation to the unhappy and mysterious affair,
and to certain steps that lady was taking in consequence
of it. These,' she added, `though of a
singular nature and questionable propriety, she
would not perhaps have presumed to communicate
to another, as they were in a degree confidential,
were they not accompanied by a call upon herself
for co-operation, under circumstances so perplexing
and embarrassing, that she felt herself at liberty
to ask Mr. Hunter's assistance and advice,—the
former for her friend, the latter for herself. She
judged, from many expressions he had let fall, that
Mrs. Bell had made him acquainted, in part at
least, with the history of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow;
for which reason, he would be able to
understand the letter without comments from her.
He had seen one individual who figured prominently
in the letter; and his opinion and recollections
of him would undoubtedly be acceptable to
Miss Falconer. On the whole, she was persuaded
he could assist her in what she felt to be a difficulty;
and perhaps he might be able to suggest
something for the benefit of her friend.'

With this preliminary explanation, she proceeded
to read Miss Falconer's letter, not stopping at
those parts which alluded to the painter himself,
and of which she made diverting use, though here
and there for obvious reasons, altering some of the
expressions, and apologizing for others in a humorous
way. It may be supposed, and with justice,
that she carefully abstained from reading all
those passages in which she was herself spoken
of, in connexion with her affianced lord; and, indeed,
the occurrence of these always caused her
lip to quiver, and her finger, tracing the lines as
they occurred, to hasten onward to the next fitting
paragraph.

The letter was to the following effect:

“And so Monsieur Red-Jacket is alive and well,
and handsome, and paints, and has a good singing
voice, and is altogether a genteel young personage!
Well now, though I detest his very memory, and
never see a scarlet waistcoat, without thinking of
two galloping fools, and another standing on a
porch grinning, I am quite glad you fished him out
of the river, since you have thereby got such a
conformable well-behaved young man to keep you
company, for lack of a better,—the doctor and the
rest of those village noddies being all insufferable,
as I always agreed. If he can really succeed in
obtaining your likeness, retain him in the Hollow
by all means, even if you have to break an arm for
him over again. We must have at least two

copies, one of which will set our beloved Harry
frantic, and the other I will keep myself. The man
may fix his own price; and, besides, I'll patronise
him, though I do detest him. Harry shall sit to
him, I assure you; and perhaps I also—just as I
happen to like him—that is his painting, not himself.
Do you remember, as we sat at the sycamore
tree, I wished him `a harder sleep that night
than he ever had before?' There's something odd
in the coincidence; a hard night he had of it, from
your own account, poor rouge. I only thought of
an old bed and damp sheets, such as I supposed it
likely enough he would find at that old witch's. I will
wish bad luck no more, believing I have some magical
power that way, which might, sooner or later,
lead me to commit murder. However, I have more
important matter for discoursing on.

“Papa is recovering fast; indeed, he was pronounced
out of danger before I reached him; and
he already talks of banishing me again to the green
fields. To tell the truth, I have grown more inquisitive
than ever; and it is plain, he is tired of me.
That story, Kate, has set my brain spinning; but
blessed be thou for telling it! There will such
good come of my knowledge as will perhaps astound
you, and him too.—But you shall hear.

“The assassin is wrapped round about with
mystery,—a most singular doubt. My father is, or
rather was, (for he never pronounced the wretch's
name, except in the first moment of confusion and
terror,) positive that the blow was struck by the
Hawk of the Hollow; and who should know better?
Yet, I can tell you, there are circumstances
pointing so strongly at another man, that every
body pronounces him guilty, except myself and, I
suppose, papa; and these they are. There was (I
speak of the man as if he were dead, for he seems
to have killed and buried himself,) a certain vagabond

in our town, called Sterling, or Starling,—a
man of much shrewdness, some talent, and possessing
a degree of rough humour and wit which
made him a favourite with many of our citizens,
some of them quite respectable, and delegates in
Congress. Nobody exactly knew how the man
lived; though it was generally supposed by gambling.
An accident of no great importance in itself,
revealed the fellow's true character and occupation
to my father, who forthwith acted as honour
and patriotism commanded him to do. This Sterling
was a spy,—a pensioned spy, whose duty
was to reside at our Congressional head-quarters,
and by cultivating acquaintances among the honourables,
pick up as much intelligence in relation
to secret legislation as he could; and there is no
doubt, the villain has laboured so well in his vocation,
that the British commander-in-chief has been
often apprised of our intentions as early as our
own leader. It is said that Sterling was once an
actor; they say, he has strong comic talents, but
has a mad conceit he was made to shine in tragedy.
He once got up a sort of company in our town,
with the expectation of establishing a theatre. However,
his friends all turned upon him the first night,
the piece being tragedy, and laughed and ridiculed,
and finally carried the matter so far as to hiss the
poor wretch off the stage. They say, my brother
Harry (1 believe it was before he entered the
army,) was a ringleader among the hard-hearted
censors.—An exemplary youth, he! He was ever
a most incorrigible mischief and plague, notwithstanding
his excellent heart; and the duel he
fought with his captain last winter, (a warm
friend of his now,) was caused by one of his
freaks of humour.—But marriage cures all that,
you know.—However, I must speak of Mr. Sterling.

“My father obtained such proofs of the treason
of the lord of the buskin as might have brought
him to the gallows, and he was thrown into prison;
from which, however, he escaped as soon as
was convenient. I think, it happened eleven days
before the outrage was attempted; and long before
that, he was supposed to have succeeded, by verifying
Shakspeare's words, (that is, by esteeming
the world at large the boards of a theatre, and
playing many parts thereon,) in passing the lines
of the army, and reaching New York in safety.
Indeed, he was, in a week's time, almost forgotten.
But now comes the marvel.

“My father had entered the pavilion, (as I wrote
you before,) to get certain papers. They were
the very documents in relation to this man's case,
—the proofs of his treasonable practices, &c.,
which were put into papa's hands, when he volunteered
to conduct the prosecution. The man was
really such a favourite, that all others were quite
cool in the matter, and rather disposed to let him
off, than push matters to extremity, especially as
hostilities were almost over: even Harry interceded
for him. Papa, however, was determined
to bring him to justice; and therefore volunteered
in the case. He had these very documents in his
hands, when the assassin, (whoever he was,) who
had previously concealed himself in the pavilion,
or stole into it after him, suddenly assailed him;
and, what is curious, it was found, when they
came to examine afterwards, that these papers
had all vanished, together with my father's purse,
and a small-sword which he always kept hanging
up in the study.

“The next thing discovered was, that a certain
horse, the property of this Sterling at the time of
his arrest, but which some one had seized upon and
sold, to satisfy some claim or other, had disappeared

from a neighbouring farm, where it was at pasture.
The animal being traced, it was found that
he had ambled up the river, supporting the weight
of an individual, who, although assuming to be a
fanatical parson, had so many points of resemblance
to the original owner of the horse, that it
was immediately affirmed, he could be no other
than Sterling himself, playing off a character of
which he was notoriously fond;—a ranting, canting
parson, as Harry says, being one of the impersonations
with which he was wont to set the table
in a roar. You know the rest of this man's story;
his sudden appearance at Elsie Bell's, at the very
moment when we were discoursing of the Hawks
under the sycamore;—his flight over the river,
and his sudden disappearance. I suppose, he assumed
some new disguise that deceived the pursuers.

“These things favour the opinion of the mass, who
will believe nothing less than that the murder was
attempted by Sterling, in revenge of my father's
zeal in bringing his villany to light. But now remember,
that papa was the only one who saw the
assassin; that he knew the faces of both parties;
and that he affirmed the villain to be Oran Gilbert,
without so much as mentioning Sterling's name.
Can there be any striking resemblance between
the two traitors? Might not a course of extraordinary
coincidences have assisted the Hawk in
adopting (even without knowing it himself) the
appearance and manner of Sterling in disguise?
Nothing should be thought too incredible in such
a case, for the whole matter is a wonder.

“I have not space to mention all I wish, or all I
have learned, that confirms my father's words.
This, however, is certain: Oran Gilbert is not dead,
but alive, and is engaged somewhere upon some
villany; but where and what—ay, there's the rub.

I have received intelligence not to be doubted a
moment, that he was in New York, and that he
left that city, about two months since, on some secret
enterprise.

“Now, Kate, I have little more to tell you, except
that I have turned thief-taker; that I am convinced
Oran Gilbert was the midnight assassin,
and is, at this moment, lying in wait in a certain
place, with the expectation of renewing the attack
on my father's life; and that I, weak woman as I
am, have laid a trap for the cruel and remorseless
villain, which may bring the doom he is projecting
for another upon his own head. Don't stare; and
don't say any thing of the matter. You cannot
comprehend the spirit that now inspires me; I am
playing the part of a man, but in a very ladylike
way, and all to guard my father from the knife
that is still outstretched against him. You shall
know all in good time—sooner perhaps than you
imagine. It is necessary to my purpose that I
should have a minute description of Gilbert, his
height, figure, eyes, hair, nose, mouth, his age, &c.:
get it of Elsie Bell, and don't let her suspect you
have any object beyond mere simple curiosity.
If we could make the old creature speak, I warrant
me she could tell us enough of the villain. I
entrust this matter to you. Don't scruple: you
can deceive as well as any body, when the spirit
of woman seizes you; and the end we have now
in view will excuse a mountain of duplicity. You
can also make inquiries (but, mark you, not of her
—don't let her suspect suspicion,) in relation to the
appearance of the preacher Poke. Your bonny
Red-Jacket, the dauber, can doubtless answer satisfactorily
on this point, painters being commonly
good observers. As for your father, I interdict all
counselling with him; for, first, his memory is not
to be relied upon, being somewhat dependent upon

his imagination, you know; and secondly, because
we must take no more confidants into the confederacy
than we can help. Every thing depends
upon secrecy. I long to tell you the whole matter,
but dare not yet—no, not even so much as the
names of my counsellors, auxiliaries, agents, &c.
By the way, did you observe Lieutenant Brooks?
He is very genteel and agreeable, I assure you—
and the shrewdest, boldest-witted brain for his
youth I have ever seen. He will attend upon
Harry, and you will adore him.—But my third sheet
is out, and so I must conclude.

“As for your fourth of July jollification that you
talk of so sentimentally, I hate all such merry-makings.
What do I care about Jingleum, and
his orations? Could they find no more reasonable
Demosthenes? And then the folly of dragging up
drums, and cannons, and militia companies, dogs,
horses, and women in their Sunday clothes, to the
sacred solitudes of Hawk-Hollow! Sure, you are
all gone crazy: it is profanation. I should not
wonder if the martial din of the jubilee should bring
a regiment or two from the lines upon you. We
shall see what will come of it.

“Addio—Do my bidding, and keep my counsel.

“Mem. It is very odd, I forgot the postscript.”

The contents of this epistle, as Catherine saw,
greatly surprised, and indeed confounded the painter;
and it was some moments before he could
shake off his embarrassment so far as to comment
upon it. `He esteemed it very singular,' he said,
`and very improper, that Miss Falconer should
engage in an enterprise such as she so significantly
hinted at; and he thought she was impelled by a
species of frenzy. Her suspicions, that the assault
upon her father had been committed by a Gilbert,

were ludicrously absurd. How was it possible
her father should, in a single glance, and almost in
darkness, recognise a countenance he had not seen
for more than twenty years? How could it be
believed that such a man, a refugee captain, long
since formally outlawed, should force his way into
the very strong-holds of his enemy, commit a crime
of unexampled daring, and then, with audacity
still more astonishing, direct his steps towards the
district where he was so well known? How incredible,
that a man of his wild and stubborn habits
could adopt a disguise so outré as that of Nehemiah!
How much more incredible, having taken
such pains to shed a foeman's blood, that he should
have done his work so bunglingly! The idea was
preposterous. Every thing went to show that
Sterling was the assassin; and it was quite probable,
nay, it was almost certain, that Nehemiah and
Sterling were one and the same person. He could
not pretend to say, or to know, or to be very certain,
of course; but he was sure Nehemiah was an
impostor, much more familiar with tags from play-books
than scraps from the Bible, and so he had
told the man himself, though not in direct words;
the consequence of which was, that he instantly
took the alarm, crossed the river, and escaped.
As to the request made of Miss Loring in relation
to the information she was expected to obtain of
Mrs. Bell, that was as unworthy of Miss Falconer
as compliance would be on the part of Miss Loring.
It was quite proper, indeed, she should ask Elsie
for information, but not without apprizing her of
the object in view. But even this was needless;
he had heard Elsie speak of Oran Gilbert's appearance,
and he could assure Miss Loring that no two
persons could be more unlike than he and the ranting
Nehemiah, the one being a man of middle size,
the other a giant. He would advise Miss Falconer
to adopt two measures, which would go farther to
effect her objects, (which, he supposed, were, to
protect her father from future danger, and to
punish his enemy,) than all the witty and masculine
stratagems in the world. If Oran Gilbert
were really alive, and within the American
lines, then let her persuade her father to remain
in the city, afar from his dreaded vengeance;
there he most certainly was safe. To punish the
assassin, application should be made to the British
commander-in-chief at New York; and as the
atrocity was purely of a civil nature—a case of
malicious, inexcusable violence—it was highly
probable he would be at once brought to justice.'

With remarks of this kind, which appeared to
her to be founded in good sense, he satisfied Catherine
that her confidence had not been misplaced
or unprofitable; and the time waxed on, without
causing any abatement of her good opinion, or any
interruption of an intercourse highly agreeable to
her own feelings.