University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

A month swept over the valley, and found it restored
to its pristine quiet and loneliness. The confusion
resulting from the developments of the
eventful 4th had subsided, and men began to remember
the occurrences of that day almost as a
dream. Had the refugees really been in the Hollow?
The discovery of Parker's body,—the recovery
of his last letter, which had remained in
Hyland's hands in the hurry of separation from
his brother, to be, by a natural fatality, converted
into testimony against himself,—the nocturnal
scuffle in the park, from which captain Caliver
and the junior officer had come off with injuries,
though not serious ones,—and, finally, the sudden
disappearance of the painter and the eccentric
Ephraim,—were the only evidence to establish
the truth of such a visitation. No outrage had
been perpetrated either upon life or property; nor
could the keenest search of the county volunteers,
assisted by several detachments from the lines,
sent to scour the whole country, detect a single
vestige of the audacious outlaws. That they had
fled was manifest enough, but how and whither no
man could tell. It appeared from the letters of
Parker, that the chief object of Gilbert's return to
his native valley was the rescue of young captain

Asgill, of whom we have before spoken, out of the
hands of his jailers; and it is now well known,
that, among the devices to secure the life of this
unfortunate captive, `a plan was, in case of the
worst, arranged for his escape,' and secretly persisted
in, until it became evident that the humanity
of the American Commander-in-chief was his
truest safeguard. There remained, therefore, no
longer occasion for the services of Oran Gilbert,
to whom an exploit of this nature, requiring a man
of crafty and daring spirit, had been so properly
entrusted; and it was at first hoped, and then confidently
believed, that he had withdrawn entirely
from the neighbourhood, and, after disbanding his
followers, returned, in spite of the vigilance of his
foes, to New York; and, indeed, certain secret intelligence
was received from that city, that he had
been long since ordered to return, the project of
rescue being now as unnecessary as it was hopeless
of success. That he had committed no outrage
upon the unprotected inhabitants of the county
was supposed to be owing not more to the necessity
of avoiding all acts that might give the alarm,
and so draw attention towards him, than the positive
commands of the British Commander, whose
course in the present conjuncture of affairs, was to
the full as forbearing as that of his enemy.

These considerations restored confidence to the
county; and nothing remained for the good citizens
but to weave the chain of mysterious circumstances
attending the visitation into a web of wonderful
history, and to speculate upon the character
and fate of the painter and honest Ephraim. As
for the latter, ingenuity was for a long time at
fault, until the story of Mr. Leonidas Sterling became
generally known; when an opinion, hazarded
at first almost in jest, grew into a settled belief,—
namely, that these twain were one and the same

person, and that he who had deceived so well as
the ranting preacher, had deceived still better in
the semblance of the zealous quaker. The successful
fourberies of this modern Scapin obtained
for him a higher degree of credit than he had ever
won, while contracting his genius into the representation
of the kings of fiction; and he was remembered
and spoken of with a degree of good
humour, that perhaps explained the unwillingness
of his city friends to proceed rigorously against
him, when his treasonable practices were discovered.

As for the young Hunter, or Gilbert, as he was
now universally called, he was remembered with
no such favour. To be a scion of the tory family,
was enough to condemn him, even although (as
had been the case) he might have passed his days
afar from the contamination of his brothers' example,
and shared neither in their acts nor their
hostile spirit. But to be an associate,—an officer
of the very gang commanded by Oran,—was a
sin of inexpiable die, to which a double blackness
was given by his dissimulation and audacity. He
had resided among them as a friend and brother,
and yet was all the time playing the part of a spy
and betrayer; and he had capped the climax of
effrontery by taking part in the jubilee of liberty,
and even profaning with hypocritical lips the sacred
manifesto of Independence,—or so, at least,
he would have done, but for the interruption caused
by Oran's appearance. This seemed to them little
short of impiety, a sacrilegious mockery, indicative
as much of his contemptuous disregard of the
holy instrument as of his daring character. In
this spirit of indignation they proceeded to canvass
his whole history, raking up every little act
that could be remembered, and perverting each
into a manifestation of villany; the worst of which

was his attempt to carry off Captain Loring's
daughter,—for so much they made of his parting
interview with the young lady,—and then, being
baffled in the base attempt, waylaying and attempting
to murder her affianced husband. In a word, he
was proved to be a monster of treason, perfidy,
and ingratitude; and few had the courage, fewer
still the disposition, to say a word in his defence.
It must be confessed that Dr. Merribody once, in
a fit of unusual generosity, declared to a whole
throng of raging villagers, `that the scoundrel
was an honest man and a gentleman after all, for
he had faithfully paid his bill, and even asked for
it, before it was presented;' but this impulse of
magnanimous friendship vanished when he came
to remember how much he had been imposed upon
in relation to the youth's true character, by some
deception Elsie Bell thought fit to play upon him,
under colour of admitting him to the secret. The
poet also, who, in the loss of Hyland, wept that of
his warmest admirer, contended `that he sang
better, and had a more refined literary taste, than
any body he ever knew.' Nay, even Captain Loring,
who had begun to esteem him as the apple
of his eye, was converted into a furious foe, which
was owing, in a great measure, to the discovery
of the young man's political inclinings, though his
anger was sharpened and augmented by Miss Falconer,
who took occasion, for a purpose of her
own, to reveal what the Captain had never dreamed
of himself. She gave him to understand, what
was indeed nothing more than true, that his ungrateful
protegé had endeavoured to detach Catherine's
affections from her brother, and divert them
upon himself,—an assurance that infuriated the
old soldier, whose wrath was not much mollified
when Miss Falconer succeeded in making him
aware how much his own extravagant patronage
of the impostor might have been construed into
almost positive encouragement of his presumption.
But bitter as was the worthy veteran's anger, it
was as capricious as his love had been. Whenever
he laid his eyes upon the unfinished painting,
which he commonly did a dozen times a day, he
would begin to bewail and admire together, and
swear `that his young Haman What-did-ye-call-it,
for all of his roguery, was the finest painter
that was ever known; and, adzooks, he thought
there must be some mistake about his being a tory
and a Gilbert.'

The occurrence of these incidents had naturally
made the poor widow an object of suspicion, as
having connived at the presence, and aided in the
concealment and flight, of the outlaws; and she
was even threatened with the vengeance of the
law, until Harry Falconer, to the surprise of every
body, stepped forward as her champion, and made
such interest for her as left her again in her lonely
and quiet desolation. Whether this display of generosity
was prompted by his own erratic feelings,
or was derived from the secret influence of the
Captain's daughter, Elsie knew not. Catherine
visited her no more; and within a week after the
explosion of the 4th, she left Hawk-Hollow with
her friend Harriet, and was absent for a considerable
period. Elsie saw her, as the carriage rolled
by; her face was very pale and haggard, as if
she had been suffering from sickness. When she
returned, young Falconer and a brother officer,
both mounted, pranced along at her side. She
looked from the carriage as she passed, and kissed
her hand to the widow, while her eye sparkled as
with its former fire. But Elsie beheld her not; as
she looked up, her eye caught the outlines of a
dark and stern countenance behind that of Catherine,

on which were the traces of age and broken
health.

She started from her seat, and gazed eagerly
after the rolling vehicle, but it was soon swept out
of sight. She remained upon her feet, until she
had seen it enter the park, and draw up before
Captain Loring's door, when she again sunk upon
her chair, muttering to herself:

“I saw him last a black-eyed boy, with a cheek
like the rose-leaf, and hair like the wing of a crow;
and now he comes with a cheek as withered even
as mine, and locks frosted still whiter. So let it
be with the villain; honour may fall on the snowy
head, but what lies in the bosom? And can he
walk over the knolls where Jessie walked, and
smile on those around him? There is thunder yet
in heaven, and a long reckoning yet to settle. Ah
well, ah well, we shall see what we shall see, and
I shall live to see it; for she cursed him in her
death-gasp; and I cursed too, and I prayed God I
might live to see the two curses light upon him together;
and together they will light, and I alive to
see it!” And muttering thus in one of those occasional
moods of darkness which had, perhaps more
than any thing else, served to fix the stigma of the
sibyl upon her, Elsie gathered up her wheel and
spindle, and retreated from her favourite seat on
the porch, to which she returned no more during
the day.

The person upon whom she invoked this malediction
was the father of Miss Falconer, who, with
Catherine and himself, made up the contents of the
carriage. As he stepped upon the porch of Gilbert's
Folly, from the vehicle, and received the
rough welcome of Captain Loring, it was with a
firmer bearing than would have been expected
from his apparent age and infirm health. He was
of tall stature, and, although greatly wasted, preserved

an erect military bearing. His countenance,
though hollow, withered, and of the sallowest
hue, was, even yet, strikingly handsome, and
his eye was of remarkable brilliancy, though of a
stern and saturnine expression. His brow was
very lofty, though not ample, and his mouth singularly
well sculptured, and indicative of decision.
On the whole, his appearance was at once commanding
and venerable; and even those who were
freest to whisper the tale of early profligacy and
maturer corruption, could not deny him the deference
due to his gentlemanly air and deportment.
A close inspection of his countenance would have
revealed no traces of the workings of an unquiet
spirit. The first glance showed him to be of
a temper thoughtful, reserved—nay, severe and
moody; but the second could discover no more.
A perfect self-command, a mastery not merely of
his countenance, but of his spirit, lifted him above
the ken of petty scrutiny; and if he wore a mask
in his commerce with men, it was like that iron
one of the Bastile, which when put on, was put on
for life, and was, at the same time, of iron. He
was a man upon whom even his children looked
with fear,—not that fear indeed which lives in
constant expectation of the outbreaking of a violent
spirit, but the awe that is begotten by a consciousness
of the inflexible resolution of the spirit
that rules us. This inflexibility is power, and power
is ever an object of secret dread, even with those
who love its possessor.

The austerity of his mind was not accompanied
by rigid manners, nor even coldness of feeling.
No one could be more courteous, and, at times,
even agreeable, than Colonel Falconer. He received
the welcomes of his kinsman with much
apparent pleasure, and himself assisted Catherine
from the carriage, and conducted her into the

mansion, congratulating her, with gentleness and
kindness, upon her return. “Yet you must grant,”
he added, “that even the smoke of a city can
sometimes renew the health, when the air of the
country fails. I would I might profit by these
mountain breezes, as I know you will, when you
have once recovered from your fatigue. But
let me see you but happy with my graceless Harry,
I shall not complain of my own infirmities.”—

On the third day after the arrival of Colonel
Falconer, the solitude of Hawk-Hollow began to
be broken by the appearance of divers carriages,
filled with gay and well dressed people, the destination
of all whom appeared to be Gilbert's Folly.
A few individuals, the more favoured of the villagers,
were seen mingling their equipages occasionally
with the others; but it was plain that the
majority of visiters were strangers, and had come
from a distance.

The object of such an unusual convocation of
guests at Gilbert's Folly, could not long remain a
mystery; and indeed it was known, several days
before, that it was to do honour to the nuptials of
Henry Falconer with the daughter of Captain
Loring. The wealth and standing of the bridegroom's
father were sufficient to secure him the
means of giving eclat to the ceremony, at a day
when that ceremony was always one of festivity;
and accordingly there appeared guests enough,
and of sufficient figure, long before night, at the
mansion, to convince those who took note of such
circumstances, that it would be such a wedding
as had never before been known in all that county.—And
such indeed it proved; though not even
the most imaginative could have foreseen from
what unusual circumstances it was to owe its
claim to be remembered.

Upon that day, while all others were laughing

and smiling, a deep and moody dejection seized
upon the spirits of the bridegroom's father; and
although he displayed his wonted courtesy in receiving
his guests, (they should be considered his,
for the bride was without kinsfolk, and her father
had invited none to partake of his joy, save a few
villagers,) the task of continuing to trifle with them
during the entire day became intolerably irksome,
and perhaps the more so that his habits had for so
many years accustomed him to solitude and privacy.
Worn out at last, he exchanged the noisy
apartments of the mansion for the shaded garden-walks;
until, finally, driven from these by an increase
of his melancholy and the presence of a
bevy of maidens, seeking flowers to decorate their
fair persons, or perhaps that of the bride, he fled
from them to the more unfrequented walks in the
park.

“Why should I mingle with this mockery?” he
muttered to himself, “and on this unhappy spot?
Let me look upon those scenes I have not beheld
for twenty-four years, and see if they have yet
power to move me.—There are none here to miss
me; and they will feel the freer and gayer, when
frightened no more by my death's-head countenance.—I
would the silly Captain had spared the
poplar-row: and yet I know not,—the old white-oak,
where—Faugh! that should be forgotten.
There is something new at least in the forest. The
shrubs have become maple-trees and beeches, the
old oaks and sycamores have rotted in their places,
and nothing is the same save the rocks and the
water.—Why should I fear, then, to revisit scenes
that have changed like myself? I shall never look
on them again, after this day.”

He composed his countenance into its ordinary
expression of severe and frowning calm, and directing
his steps through the grounds, as one familiarly

acquainted with their most hidden retreats,
made his way towards the Run, until he had reached
the path along its rocky borders, previously
trodden by Catherine and his daughter. He even
sat down under the sycamore, where Catherine
had begun the story of the wild Gilberts, and his
own early adventures; and here, as if there were
something in the spot to conjure up such memories,
he mused long and painfully on the same
dark subjects. Perhaps, also, as he looked upon
the turbulent water rushing at his feet, he pictured
to himself the resemblance it bore to the course of
his own life,—a current, which, although now sunk
into the composure of a river just losing itself in
the vast ocean, had dashed so long in a channel
full of rocks and caverns.

The current of his early life had been indeed as
wild, as tortuous, as tumultuous, as that before
him; and as he looked backwards upon its broken
course, he saw that the freshes of passion had left
as many ruins around it as now deformed the
margin of the streamlet.

When he rose from his meditations, it was with
a brow indicative of a deeply suffering mind; and
as he strode onwards, still pursuing the course of
the brook, a spectator looking at him from a concealment,
might have detected on his visage the
workings even of an agonized spirit, though it was
observable, that, even in this solitude, where there
seemed to be so little fear of observation, he still
struggled to preserve an air of serenity. The roar
of the waterfall fell upon his ear, and perhaps as
the voice of an old acquaintance; it did not rouse

him from his dream of pain, but seemed, although
he essayed to approach it, to plunge him deeper in
gloom; and he would perhaps have crossed the
rustic bridge without being conscious of the act,
had not his footsteps been suddenly arrested by a
figure that started suddenly in the path, and recalled
him to his senses. He looked up, and beheld a
young man, in a hunting suit and leather hat, with
the rifle and other equipments of a woodman,
standing before him. The texture of his garments
was coarse, and there was nothing in them to indicate
any superiority in the wearer above the
young rustics of the country; but he wore them
with an air of ease, a savoir s'habiller, by no means
common to the class. His figure was light and
handsome, and so was his face, though the latter
was miserably pale and thin, and marked with the
traces of grief, and the former considerably emaciated.
As he stepped into the path, he dropped
the butt of his rifle upon the earth, as if for the
purpose of arousing the abstracted comer by the
clash; and when the Colonel looked up it was not
without some alarm at opposition so unexpected.

“Fear not,” said the young man, eyeing him
with a mournful, yet steadfast gaze, “I design you
no hurt.”

“And why should you?” cried Colonel Falconer,
returning his gaze, with one that seemed
meant to rend him through. As he looked, however,
he faltered, turned pale, and thrust his hand
into his bosom, as if to grasp at a concealed pistol.
The act was observed by the stranger, and he instantly;
repeated his words,—

“Fear nothing,—at least fear nothing from me:
I desire to serve you, not injure.—Accident, or
Providence, has given me the means. You are
Colonel Falconer?”

“And you?” cried the gentleman, with an agitated
voice.

“I—what matters it what I am?” said the youth;
“I am neither footpad nor assassin,—let that satisfy
you. What do you in this place? Cannot
even conscience make you wiser? Methinks, there
is not a rock or a bush in this dark den,—there
should not be a rustle of the leaf or a clash of the
waters, but should tell you what you should expect,
when treading the soil of a Gilbert.”

“If you meditate violence, young man,” cried
Falconer, whose agitation visibly increased, the
more he regarded the figure before him, and who
now spoke with an emotion amounting almost to
terror, “heaven forgive you. But heaven will not
—there is no pardon in store for the young man
who assails the gray hairs of the old.”

“False, Colonel, false!” cried the youth, with a
laugh of singular bitterness, “or surely you had
never lived to tell me so. There was a man of
gray hairs, Colonel Falconer, who once lived
among these woods, and very happily, too; but a
young man struck him, and struck him to the
heart, Colonel; and the young man lived to have
a head as white and reverend as he whom he
slew! Yet fear not; again I say, fear not: I came
to save, not to kill. Hear me, and then away.
Begone from this place, and begone with such
speed as becomes a man flying from a loosed panther.
Mount your horse and away,—away instantly
and in return for the good deed of one
who has perhaps saved your life, speak not a word
to any human being of what you have heard and
seen in this place.”

“Stay,” cried Colonel Falconer, recovering
from his terror, yet speaking with a choking voice,
“I owe this caution to a”—

“To an enemy,” cried the other, turning from
him.

“Stay, I charge you,—I command you,”—and
as the Colonel spoke, in a sudden revulsion of feeling,
he grasped the arm of the youth, who had
already placed his foot upon the fallen sycamore,
for the purpose of crossing the stream. To the
surprise of Colonel Falconer, he discovered that
even the strength of his aged arm was superior to
that of the young man, who seemed to have been
enfeebled by long sickness. He struggled to release
himself, but not succeeding, he turned upon
his captor, and shedding tears, said,

“If you will seize me, I have no strength to
resist, nor any means of defence but this—and I
will not use it.” As he spoke, he cast his rifle to
the earth. “You have but to will it, to complete
the ruin you have begun.”

“Alas, young man, unhappy young man,” said
Colonel Falconer, “I know you, and would recompense
your humanity, if such it really be. You
should not, at least, perish like the rest of your mad
and infatuated brothers, and yet you are rushing
upon the same destruction; you have not been
gently nurtured, to live the life of a bravo and outcast.
I have heard of you, of your generous acts
—of at least one,—nay, two; for Henry Falconer
confessed you had both spared and saved his life.
I can save you, young man,—I can and will;—
and,—think of me as you please,—I will do it for
your father's sake. You were not meant for this
dreadful life, on which you are embarking.”

“Such as it is,” said Hyland Gilbert, picking up
his rifle, for the Colonel had withdrawn his hand,
“I am driven to it by you and yours. Now, Colonel
Falconer,” he added, leaping on the tree,
“mock me no more with a sympathy I despise as
much as I hate him who offers it. I am not your

prisoner, and I will not be. I am weak and almost
helpless—thank your son for that, and the skill
that was exercised at the expense of one who had
scarce ever fired a pistol in his life—I am weak,
but I am armed and desperate. Follow me no
further, for I trust you not. Follow me not, or be
it at your peril.”

He made his way across the bridge, but slowly
and painfully; and Colonel Falconer observed
more clearly than he had done before, that all his
motions were laborious and feeble, and that, notwithstanding
the arms he carried, he was entirely
at the mercy of any one who chose to assail him.
A thousand different feelings took possession of his
breast, and among them pity for the unhappy condition
of one, who, if he had inherited a deep
hatred for himself, was not without a claim upon
his feelings, and feelings deeper even than gratitude.
He had been, of course, made acquainted
with the extraordinary developments effected by
the cunning, or perhaps the good fortune, of his
daughter; and he was especially interested in the
account of the discovery of the youngest Gilbert
in the person of a young man, who, until that discovery
was made, had so recommended himself
even to strangers by the gentleness of his manners,
and the apparent blamelessness of his life.
Partaking little in the suspiciousness of his daughter,
he judged the actions and character of the
youth with more leniency and justice than others,
though he kept his inferences locked up in his own
breast; and, happily perhaps for Hyland, Miss
Falconer had not thought fit to apprize him of
what she deemed the presumption of the youth in
becoming the rival of her brother. He saw in him,
therefore, a young man in no wise resembling his
fierce brothers, from whom he had been separated
in early infancy, and one whom perhaps a mere

desire to revisit the scenes of his childhood had
drawn to Hawk-Hollow; and he thought, with
justice, that nothing but the revealment of a name
universally detested, by exposing him to sudden
danger, had driven the young man to seek refuge
among men of blood, whom he would otherwise
have avoided. The confession of Henry Falconer,
(whose jealousy was rather wrath at the presumption
of his rival than any unworthy suspicion of
his mistress,) that he had fought a duel with the
`confounded tory lieutenant,' as he always called
him,—that his antagonist had endured his fire, and
although hurt, as he believed, had refused to return
it,—and, finally, that he had very generously
interfered to save him from one of the gang, who
was on the point of blowing his brains out,—was
additional proof to Colonel Falconer that this
orphan son of a man he had deeply injured was
not by choice among the refugees, but forced
among them by the ill will and violence of his own
children. The wrong he had done to one member
of Gilbert's family had, indirectly at least, produced
the destruction of all but this one; and he
was now on the point of sinking into the abyss
which had swallowed the rest, though worthy of
a better destiny, unless a hand were stretched
forth to save him.

These considerations,—a memory of the wrongs
he had done and the reparation he should make,
together with the present prospect of the poor
youth in a state that might make him the prey of
any enemy who might meet him, and some sense
of the generosity of the warning he had just
given—excited Colonel Falconer's feelings, and
moved him with an impulse, which caused him at
once to cross the brook, pursuing the fugitive, and
intreating him to stay. Whether it was that his
motive was misunderstood, and that the young man,

in the agitation of his spirits, supposed that he was
followed merely for the purpose of being arrested,
or whether it was because he found himself in a
spot peculiarly calculated to arouse his most
vengeful feelings, it is certain that he became excited
to anger by a pursuit designed only in kindness.
He clambered up to the little enclosure of
the grave, and was about making his way through
the narrow passage betwixt the two rocks; when,
hearing the pursuer close at his heels, he turned
round, displaying a countenance so fierce and intimidating,
that it instantly brought the Colonel to
a stand.

“Villain!” he cried, throwing aside his rifle, and
drawing his knife, “God has sent you to your
fate—you are treading on Jessie Gilbert's grave!”

If the words had been thunder-bolts, they could
not have sooner unmanned his pursuer. He started,
shivering from head to foot, and looking down,
beheld the dreary hollow, from which some pious
hand, perhaps that of Hyland himself, had plucked
away the weeds, leaving the stalk of the rose-bush
flourishing alone at its head.

“Oh, holy Heaven!” cried Colonel Falconer,
dropping upon his knees, and wringing his hands,
while he gazed with an eye of horror upon the
couch of his victim, “the grave of Jessie Gilbert!”

“Of the mother and the babe!” cried the young
man, advancing towards him, with looks of vindictive
fury; “and here, gray-headed though you
be, you deserve to die. To this place of shame,
man of ingratitude! you consigned the victim of
your villany; and here it is fitting she should have
her revenge.”

But if Hyland Gilbert was a moment disposed
to play the part of the avenger, it was only for a
moment. His wrath was instantly disarmed by a
burst of grief from the wronger, so overpowering,

so agonizing, that he at once forgot his dreadful
purpose, and felt himself melting with commiseration.

“She has had—she has had her revenge,” cried
the wretched man; “death had been too cheap a
retribution, and therefore it has been ordained in
a life of misery,—and such misety, oh heaven!
Would to God I had died in her place, though it
had been with a world hooting me to the scaffold.
Yes, Jessie, I am a villain, and thou knowest, how
much greater and viler than ever was thought,
even by thee. But thou shalt have justice,” he
added, beating his breast, “yes, thou and thy murdered
babe, though I give up my children to be
sacrificed to thy memory.”

“My father was right,” muttered Hyland, as
the foe of his family poured forth the wild expressions
of a remorseful spirit; “he charged me to
leave the destroyer of his peace to God and his
fate; and God has made his fate an existence of
retribution.—Arise, Colonel Falconer,” he added,
sternly; “profane this holy resting-place no longer
with the mockery of repentance. Fly, and secure
your wretched life for further remorse; for here it
is in a danger of which you do not dream. Begone,
and remember what I charged you—Hah! do
you hear?” he cried, as a whistle as of a bird came
from the forest behind and below the rocks. “Up
for God's sake!” he cried, seizing the penitent by
the arm, as if fear had supplied him with new
strength, and hurrying him across the brook. “Begone,
or you are a dead man. To the bushes,
quick—to your horse, too, or your carriage. Dally
not a moment, but begone. Say nothing of what
you have seen or heard; and fear not for your children
or friends—no harm is designed any of them.
Away—save your own life, for no other is in danger.”

With these charges, pronounced in the greatest
haste, he took his leave, recrossing the brook, while
Colonel Falconer, torn now as much by fear as he
had been a moment before by anguish, fled through
the wood, and over the hill, until he had reached
the mansion. Here calling for his servant, and
ordering a horse to be saddled instantly for himself,
and another for the attendant, he prepared to
leave the house, which he did in a few moments,
and almost without being observed, the wedding-guests
having retreated to the garden and the
pleasant walks behind it.