University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The painter had long since made his way to
Gilbert's Folly. As he hurried through the park,
he discerned the figure of Miss Falconer; and notwithstanding
the obscurity of the hour, he knew
her at once, and avoided her. There was a moon
in the sky, but new, and low in the west; and, besides,
it was struggling with clouds that robbed it
of half its lustre; yet it cast ever and anon light
enough to enable a good eye to distinguish objects
on the more open portions of the lawn.

Not a little pleased at the prospect, thus offered,
of enjoying a tête à tête with the Captain's daughter,
though it might be only for a moment, he entered
the house and the little saloon in which he
had spent so many happy moments. It was empty,
but the door leading to the garden was open;
and the broad gravel-walk, fringed with low shrubs
and roses, was lighted by the taper in the apartment.
As he stepped out, his eye fell upon Catherine
Loring, who was that moment approaching
from the garden, her step hurried, and her countenance
displaying agitation, which was increased
the moment she beheld him.

“Oh, Mr. Hunter!” she cried, running eagerly
towards him, “I am very glad to see you, and I
am glad we are alone. We are all going mad
here at the Folly, and it is right you should know

it. You have—I am ashamed to say it, for I know
you have not deserved her dislike—made an enemy
of my cousin Harriet; the strangest suspicions
have entered her head; and she may offend you,
unless you are put on your guard. You must forgive
her: by and by, you will laugh at her folly,
and so will she; but at present she seems half-distracted
by the events of the day, the disasters of
her father, and her fears for the future. Did you
not meet her? Alas, she will be here in a moment!”

“Fear not,” said the young man, in hurried and
altered tones, but with an effort to be jocose; “she
is down by the park-gate, studying the stars, and
reading my own foolish history among them. Miss
Catherine,—Miss Loring,—I am aware of your
friend's dislike. I am not surprised—she will tolerate
your having no friend less interested than herself.”

“You must not speak thus, Mr. Hunter,” cried
Catherine, but in too much hurry of spirits to rebuke.
“I did wrong to show you her letter: that,
I fear, is the chief cause of her anger; and your
being a stranger, and so great a favourite with my
father—oh, and a thousand reasons more she has
found, or fancied, for supposing you are—that is,
that you have deceived us, and that”—

“That I am—an impostor,” said Hyland, hesitating
an instant at the word, but pronouncing it
at last firmly.

“Such is indeed her strange aberration,” cried
Catherine, apparently overjoyed that the idea so
repugnant to herself, had been conceived by the
suspected person, and without distress or anger;
“and,—and—but this is the maddest and most insulting
suspicion of all, (yet you must not be offended:)—
she thinks, you—really, I could laugh,
but that she has frightened me half out of my wits

—she thinks, you are even a tory in disguise!—a
refugee,—(ah, now I have said it!)—a comrade
of these wild and lawless men, come to spy upon
us, and murder us—(is it not too ludicrous?)—a
spy, an enemy, a traitor—nay, even a Gilbert—a
Hawk of the Hollow! I can laugh, now that I
have said it. And now, too, I am sure you will
not be offended, the suspicion is so very ridiculous:
yes, I am sure you will forgive her.”

“I do,” said the young man, sadly and falteringly,
“for her suspicion is just,—at least, it is just
in part—I am an impostor.”

“Heavens!” cried Catherine, “what do you tell
me?”

“That I have deceived and imposed upon you
—at least in name. I am neither spy nor refugee,
indeed, neither cut-throat nor betrayer,—but I am
Hyland Gilbert, a son of him who built this house,
and a brother of those whose name fills it with
horror. Miss Loring, Miss Loring!” he cried,
impetuously, seeing that Catherine recoiled from
him with terror, “is the name so dreadful even to
you? In nothing else am I criminal—do you think
I would do you a hurt?”

“Surely not, surely not,” cried Catherine, gasping
almost for breath, and speaking she scarce
knew what: “I do not think you would hurt me.
No, oh no! I have done you no harm, and my father
has been good to you.”

“For God's sake, Miss Loring—Catherine—
compose yourself,” cried the young man, both
amazed and shocked at the impression his words
had produced on a mind almost unhinged by long
and brooding sorrow. “What, I harm you? I
would die to protect you from the least evil.”

“And you are a Gilbert, then? a foe to the land
of your birth, a disguised enemy, an associate of
thieves and murderers?” cried the maiden, with

sudden energy, and in a passion of tears' “oh, Mr.
Hunter, I thought better of you!”

“Think better of me yet,” he exclaimed, catching
her by the hand, “for as there is a heaven
above us, I have done nothing to deserve your
hatred. All that I have done—and it is nothing
but concealment—was to do you service, and to
obtain your friendship.”

“Go—stay no longer here—you must come no
more,” cried Catherine, weeping bitterly; “and
would you had never come, for I thought you were
my friend—my friend, and my poor father's. I
don't believe you are a bad man, or that you will
do a wrong to any one; but you must go. Yes,
go,” she added, wildly, “for you are in danger.
They will arrest you; and then what will become
of you? It was Harriet's talking of this,—of arresting
you,—that made me tell you, that you might
show her how much she was deceived. Go, go!
and never return more. A moment, and the officers
will be here: Harriet has sent for them. Go,
Mr. Hunter, go!”

“I will not, Catherine,” cried the youth, giving
way to the most vehement emotion: “I know that
they are sacrificing you; and I will remain till you
are rescued, come what will. You hate this young
Falconer; you do, Catherine,—you cannot conceal
it: he is unworthy of you—he shall never
marry you.”

“You will drive me mad! For heaven's sake,
Mr. Hunter—is this the way to show your friendship?”

“My love, Catherine, call it my love. I love
you, Catherine Loring, and I will save you, even
against your will. Say that you hate Henry Falconer,
the wretched son of a still more wretched
father—say that—nay, place but your hand on
mine, and you shall”—

“Never!” cried Catherine, wildly; “I love you
not—I hate you! Release me. Is this the way
you repay my father's good deeds? Go, Mr.
Hunter: you have made me more unhappy than
before.”

“I will make you happy, Catherine. I have
wealth—nay, and reputation, Gilbert though I be.
I will go to your father, I will demand you at his
hands”—

“Kill me, first—kill me, rather than speak to me
thus!” cried the unhappy maiden, in unspeakable
agitation. “Is this the way to talk to me? You
should know better, for I am to be given to another.
Oh, that you had never come to our house!
Go—I forgive you—I will tell nobody. If they
find you, they will kill you: Harriet has shown
me they can take your life. Hark! they are
coming! I hear their voices! I hear my father's!
I forgive you, Mr. Hunter; yes, I forgive you—
but I will never see you more! no, never!”

“Catherine!”—

“Never! I swear it—never, never! I am vowed
and betrothed. If you stay longer, I shall die!
Oh, have pity on me, and go: have pity on me,
for my father's sake,—pity, pity!”

These wild and hysterical expressions were concluded
by a shriek; for at that moment the ill-fated
girl, who had been all the while struggling, though
feebly, to make her way into the little saloon, beheld
Miss Falconer, followed by her father and
the young lieutenant, rush into it. As she screamed,
she burst from the grasp of the impassioned
lover, and, running forwards, threw herself into
the Captain's arms.

“Oh, the hound! the villain!” cried the veteran;
“he has been killing her! Shoot him down, run
him through, knock him on the head! Here, you
Aunt Rachel! Phœbe! Daphne! Dick! Soph! and the

squad of you! Oh lord, Harry, my dear, the dog
has murdered her!”

“No, father, no, no, no!” cried the maiden,
clinging, almost in convulsions, to his neck; “I
am very well, father,—a bat flew in my face,—a
snake came into the garden, and I don't know
what! But it is very foolish, father,—I am always
very foolish!” And with these incoherent expressions,
in which even the whirl and tumult of a suffering
heart could not repress an instinctive effort
to distract notice from the young man in the garden,
she fell into a state of pitiable prostration,
which engaged the whole attention of her father
and kinswoman.