University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
GLIMPSES OF COMING EVENTS.

The outlaw did not hear of Mary Clarkson's death
without some emotion; but the duration of his remorse
was short. He soon shook himself free from its annoyances,
and in a week more it was forgotten. Of the arrest
of old Clarkson, his own previous danger from the
hands of the latter, and several other details, connected
with his proceedings, Watson Gray did not suffer his
principal to know any thing. His main object was to
get his patient up and on his legs again, foreseeing that
a time was approaching, when a sick bed could be no
security for either of them in a region to be so shortly
winnowed with the sword of an enemy. His scouts occasionally
arrived bringing him reports of the condition
of the country: of the prospects of Rawdon's army, and
of the several smaller bodies under Greene, Sumter,
Marion, and Pickens. These reports counselled him to
make all speed. He did not press the outlaw with these
facts for fear that their tendency might be to increase his
anxiety, and discourage rather than promote his cure.
But his own anxious efforts were given, without stint or
interruption, to every measure by which his improvement
might be effected. No nurse could have been more devoted,
no physician more circumspect, no guardian more
watchful. The late attempts of Clarkson had given him
a mean opinion of the regulars which had been left to
take care of the barony, and to watch them was the most
irksome, yet necessary duty, which he had undertaken.
But he went to his tasks cheerfully, and, with this spirit,
a strong man may almost achieve any thing.

The tidings which were sometimes permitted to reach
the ears of Flora Middleton, were of no inconsiderable
interest to that maiden. She heard frequently of Clarence

Conway, and always favourably. Now he was harassing
the tories on the upper Saluda, and now driving them
before him into the meshes of Pickens among the Unacaya
mountains. The last tidings in respect to him
which reached her ears, were also made known to Watson
Gray by one of his runners; and were of more particular
importance to both of them than they were then
fully aware of. It was reported that a severe fight had
taken place between Conway's Blues and the Black
Riders. The latter were beguiled into an ambush which
Conway had devised, after the ordinary Indian fashion,
in the form of a triangle, in which twenty-three of the
Black Riders were sabred, and the rest dispersed. Gray
did not greatly regret this disaster. He was soon to be
free of the connection, and, perhaps, he conceived this
mode of getting rid of them, to be quite as eligible, and,
certainly, as effectual as any other.

“That fellow, Stockton, with his sly second, Darcy,
are the only chaps that might trouble us. They suspect
us, they know something, perhaps, and if Conway has
only cut them up along with the twenty-three, we shall
count him as good an ally as the best.”

Such was his only reflection as he communicated this
news to the outlaw.

“Ay,” replied the latter, “but why was there no
lucky bullet to reward the conquerer. That hopeful
brother of mine seems to own a charmed life, indeed.
I know that he goes into the thick of it always, yet he
seldom gets even his whiskers singed. The devil takes
care of him surely. He has proper friends in that
quarter.”

“We needn't care for him, Captain, so long as Rawdon
lies between us. If you were only up, now, and able,
we could whip off the lady, and every hair of a negro,
and take shipping before they could say Jack Robinson,
or guess what we are driving at.”

“Ay, if I were only up!” groaned the outlaw writhing
upon his couch. “But that `if' is the all and every
thing.”

“But you are better. You are much stronger. I

think this last week has done wonders for you; and, but
for the weakness, and the gashes in your face—”
The speaker paused without finishing the sentence.

“Very comely, no doubt: they will strike a lady
favourably, eh? Do you not think they improve my
looks wonderfully?”

There was something of bitterness in the affected indifference
with which the outlaw made this comment.
The other made no reply, and did not appear to heed
the tone of complaint.

“Give me the glass, Gray,” continued the outlaw.

He was obeyed; the mirror was put into his hands,
and he subjected his visage to a long scrutiny.

“Nothing so shocking after all. My mouth is something
enlarged, but that will improve my musical ability.
I shall be the better able to sing `Hail Britannia,' in his
Majesty's Island of Jamaica, or the `Still vex'd Bernadotte.'
Besides, for the look of the thing, what need
I care? I shall be no longer in the market; and my wife
is in duty bound to think me comely. Eh, what say you,
Gray?”

“Yes, surely; and Miss Middleton don't seem to be
one to care much about a body's looks.”

“Don't you believe it, Gray. She's a woman like the
rest; and they go by looks. Smooth flowing locks, big,
bushy whiskers, and a sharp, death-defying face will do
much among a regiment of women. I've known many
a sensible woman—sensible I mean for the sex—seek a
fool simply because he was an ass so monstrous as to be
unapproachable by any other, and was, therefore, the
fashion. The ugliness, in such a case, makes no difference.
But this is the only exception. You must be
monstrous or you must be handsome; and the more
monstrous—the more likely to be successful. There is
something in a title too, I grant you. Now were I a
lord or baronet—a count or marquis, you might slash my
cheeks with half a score more of such gashes as these,
and they would, in no degree, affect my fortune with the
fair. In that is my hope. I must buy a title as soon as
I have my prize, and then all objections will disappear.

Still, I could have wished that that d—d spiteful brother
of mine had subjected me to no such necessity. He
might have slashed hip or thigh, and gratified himself
quite as much in those quarters.”

“Let us carry out the project, and you have your
revenge!”

“Ay, and there's consolation in that for more points
than these. But hear you nothing yet from below?
What from Pete? If the boats fail us at the proper time,
we shall be in an ugly fix.”

“They will not fail us. Every thing now depends
on you. If you can stir when the time comes—”

“Stir—I can stir now. I mean to try my limbs before
the week's out, for, as the fair Flora forbears to come
and see me, I shall certainly make an effort to go and
see her. Has the poison touched, think you? Does she
feel it—does she believe it?” The outlaw referred to
the slander which Gray had insinuated against Clarence
Conway.

“No doubt. She's so proud that there's no telling
where it hurts her, and she'll never tell herself; but I know
from the flashing of her eye, after I said what I did about
Colonel Conway and Mary Clarkson, that she believed
and felt it. Besides, captain, I must tell you, that she's
asked after you more kindly and more frequently of late.
She always asks.”

“Ha! that's a good sign; well?”

“I said you were more unhappy than sick. That
you'd get over the body hurts, I had no doubt. But
then, I told her what an awful thing to fight with one's
brother, and how much you felt that!”

“Ha! Well, and then?”

“She sighed, but said nothing more, and soon after
went out of the room.”

“Good seed, well planted. I shall cultivate the plant
carefully. I fancy I can manage that.”

“Psha!—Here's the surgeon;” said Gray, interrupting
him with a whisper, as Mr. Hillhouse appeared at
the entrance.

The surgeon had forgotten or forgiven the slight to

which his patient had previously subjected him. He
was not a person to remember any circumstance which
might be likely to disparage him in his own esteem.
Besides, his head was now running upon a project which
made him disposed to smile upon all mankind. We will
allow him to explain his own fancies.

“Mr. Conway, good morning. I trust you feel better.
Nay, I see you do. Your eyes show it, and your colour
is strengthening. Suffer me to examine your
pulse.”

“I feel better, sir, stronger. I trust to get fairly out
of my lair in a week. I shall make a desperate attempt
to do so.”

“You are better, sir, but do nothing rashly. A week
may produce great results. There are but seven days in
a week, Mr. Conway—but a poor seven days—yet how
many events—how many fates—how many deeds of
good and evil, lie in that space of time. Ah! I have
reason to say this from the bottom of my heart. A week
here, sir, at this barony, has changed the whole aspect of
my life.” A sigh followed this speech.

“Indeed! And how so, pray!”

“You see in me, Mr. Conway, a man who has lived
a great deal in a short space of time. In the language
of the ancient poet,—Ovid, it is—my life is to be told by
events, and not by lingering years. It is a book crowded.
I have passed through all the vicissitudes of a long life
in Europe, India, and America; I have ate and drank,
marched and fought, played the man of pleasure and the
man of business,—stood in my friend's grave, and often
at the edge of my own;—saved life, taken life; and practised,
suffered and enjoyed, all things, and thoughts, and
performances, which are usually only to be known to
various men in various situations. But, sir, one humbling
accident,—the trying event, which usually occurs to
every other man at an early period of his life, has
hitherto, by the special favour of a benign providence,
been withheld from mine!”

“Ah, sir, and what may that be?” demanded the
outlaw.

“I have never loved, sir, till now. Never known the
pang, and the prostration; the hope and the fear; the
doubt and the desire; 'till the fates cast me upon the
banks of the Congaree! Melancholy conviction! that
he who has survived the charms of Europe and India—
who has passed through the temptations of the noble
and the beautiful, the wealthy and the vain, of those beguiling
regions,—should here be overtaken and overcome
by the enemy in the wild woods of America.”

“Indeed! It is indeed a most dreadful catastrophe!
Gray, hand the doctor a chair, a glass of water, and if
you have any Jamaica,—”

“No, no!—I thank you, no!—I will take the chair
only.”

“And pray, sir,” said the outlaw with a mock interest
in the subject—“when did you suffer from the first
attack, and who do you suspect of bewitching you?”

“Suspect of bewitching me!—a good phrase that!—
I like it. My suspicions, sir, as well as yours, should
naturally be strong that I am the victim of a sort of
witchcraft; for, how else should a man fall so suddenly
and strangely in a strange land, who has stood unshaken
so long.”

“Very true! a very natural reflection, sir. But you
have not said who you suspect of this cruel business.”

“Ah, sir, who but the fair damsel of this very house.
What woman is there like unto her in all the land.”

“Ha! Is it possible!”

“Possible!—why not possible?” demanded the surgeon.
“Is she not young, and fair, and rich in goods
and chattels, and who so likely to practise sorcery?”

“True, true!—but doctor, are you aware that you are
not the only victim? She has practised with perhaps
greater success on others.”

“Indeed! Tell me, I pray you, sir!”

“Nay, I can only speak from hearsay. My friend
here, Mr. Gray, can tell you more on the subject. The
story goes,—but I must refer you to him. Gray, take a
ramble with Mr. Hillhouse, and see if you cannot match
his witchcraft case with one or more, much worse, if

possible, than his own. Let him see that he does not
lack for sympathy.”

Gray took the hint, and the surgeon readily accepted
the invitation to a walk, in which the former continued
to give to his companion a very succinct account of the
duel between the brothers, and the engagement supposed
to be existing between Clarence and Flora. The artful
confederate of the outlaw, taking it for granted that a
person so supremely vain and silly as the surgeon, might
be made to believe any thing, and could scarcely keep
secret that which he heard, adapted his material in such
a way as to make it appear that the fight between the
brothers arose in consequence of the cruel treatment
which Mary Clarkson had received at the hands of the
younger. A purely magnanimous motive led the elder
brother into the difficulty.

“Now, Mr. Conway, your patient, as soon as he
heard that Colonel Conway was courting Miss Middleton,
pursued him to reproach him for his breach of promise
to the poor creature. The proud stomach of Colonel
Conway couldn't bear that, and he drew upon Mr. Conway
and wounded him in the face before he could put
himself in preparation. The poor girl who had been
following the colonel, everywhere, in boy's clothes,
ran between them, and got her death, there's no telling
by whose hands. And so the case stands, at present.
Mr. Conway, your patient, of course wouldn't speak
against his brother; and I s'pose, the marriage will go
on between him and Miss Flora, unless—she may
have changed her mind since you're come to the barony.”

“Ah! ha!” said the surgeon. “You've enlightened
me very much, Mr. Watson Gray. I'm greatly your
debtor. You are a man of sense. I thank you, sir,—
I thank you very much. Suppose we return to the
mansion. I am anxious to change these garments.”

“Change them, sir! What, your dress?” The
blunt mind of Gray couldn't perceive the association of
ideas taking place in the brain of his companion.

“Yes, I wish to put on a dove-coloured suit. The

dress which I now wear, does not suit the day, the circumstances,
nor my present feelings.”

“What, sir!” demanded Gray in feigned astonishment.
“Have you got a change for every day in the
week? I have but one change in all.”

The surgeon turned upon the speaker with a look
which plainly said,

“Impertinent fellow, to venture upon such an offensive
comparison.”

He contented himself, however, with remarking,—

“The wants of men, my good friend, differ according
to the rural natures, moods, and changes of mind by
which they are governed. I have no doubt that two
suits will be ample enough for your purposes; but for
me, I have always striven to make my costume correspond
with the particular feeling which affects me. My
feelings are classed under different heads and orders,
which have their subdivisions in turn, according to the
degree, quality and strength of my several sensibilities.
Of the first orders, there are two—pleasure and pain;
under these heads come cheerfulness and sadness; these
in turn have their degrees and qualities—under the first
is hope, under the second, fear,—then there are doubts
and desires which follow these; and after all, I have
omitted many still nicer divisions which I doubt if you
could well appreciate. I have not spoken of love and
hate—nor indeed, of any of the more positive and emphatic
passions, but for all of which I have been long
provided with a suitable colour and costume.”

“You don't mean to say that you're got a change
suitable for every one of these?” said the woodman with
some astonishment.

“You inquire, Mr. Gray, with the tone of one who
will not be likely to believe any assurance. Oblige me
by witnessing for yourself. I had arranged to examine
my wardrobe this very noon, as a sort of mental occupation,
with which I relieve the tedium of repose, and
bad weather, and unpleasant anticipations. Do me the
favour to assist me in this examination. We may probably
gather from it some useful lessons, and I will endeavour

to explain, what's at present very imperfectly
understood, the singular propriety of my principles.
You shall be able, when you have heard my explanation,
to know from the dress I wear, what particular
condition I am in that day. A man's costume, if properly
classed, is a sort of pulse for his temper. This
morning, when I rose, under the influence of one set of
moods, I put on a meditation costume. I am in a brown
dress you see. That shows that when I put it on, I was
in what is vulgarly called a `brown study.' Circumstances,
the grounds of which you cannot, perhaps, conjecture,
prompt me to go back and change it for one of a
dove colour. You may perhaps comprehend the meaning
of this hereafter.”

“I reckon it's something about love, that dove colour,”
said Gray bluntly. “Dove and love, always go
together.”

“Ah, you are quick. You are naturally an intelligent
person, I suspect. You will comprehend sooner than I
expected, but come and see—come and see.”

“This fool will do us excellent service,” said the outlaw,
when, at his return, Watson Gray recounted the
events of the interview. “He will go to Flora Middleton
in his dove-coloured small-clothes, and find some way of
letting her know what a scamp Clarence Conway is, and
what a martyr I have been to the cause of innocence
betrayed. You did not let him guess that I had a
hankering after Flora myself.”

“Surely not: I just let him know enough of the truth
to lie about. He'll do mischief with it.”

“And mischief is our good—it works for us. Let him
kill Clarence Conway in her esteem, and he, certainly,
is not the thing to be afraid of. But did you really count
his breeches?”

“No, God help me!—I shook myself free from him
as soon as I could. I'd as soon pry among the petticoats
of my grandmothers. But he had an enormous
quantity. I reckon he's used up all his pay, ever since
he began, in this sort of childishness.”

The conjectures of the outlaw, as respects the course

of the exquisite, were soon realized. But a few days
had elapsed when he availed himself of an opportunity
to pursue Flora as he saw her taking her way through
the grounds in the direction of the river. His toilet,
however, was not completed when he caught a glimpse
of her person through the window; and the task of
completing it, always one of considerable pains and duration,
enabled her to get considerably the start of him.
She had passed the sentinels, who were sauntering at
their stations, and had reached the lonely vault where
her ancestors reposed. The solemn shadows of the
wood by which it was encircled pleased her fancy; and
the united murmurs of the pine tops and the waters of
the Congaree, as they hurried on at a little distance below,
beguiled her thoughts into the sweet abodes of
youthful meditation. Flora Middleton was, as we have
endeavoured to show, a maiden of deeper character and
firmer qualities, than usually distinguish her age; perhaps,
indeed, these characteristics are not often possessed
in equal degree among her sex. Firmness of character
usually implies a large share of cheerfulness and elasticity;
and these also were attributes of her mind. Her
life, so far, had been free from much trial. She had
seldom been doomed to suffering. Now, for almost the
first time, the shadows of the heart gathered around
her, making her feet to falter, and bringing the tears
into her eyes. The supposed infidelity of Clarence
Conway had touched her deeply—more deeply than
even she had at first apprehended. When she first heard
the accusation against him, and saw the wretched condition
of the poor girl whom she believed to be destroyed
by his profligacy, she said, in the fervour of virtuous indignation
which prevailed in her mind,—“I will shake
him off for ever, and forget that I ever knew him!” But
the resolution was more easily taken than kept. Each
subsequent hour had increased the difficulties of such a
resolution; and in the seeming death of her hopes alone,
she discovered how entirely her heart had found its life
in their preservation. When she believed the object of
her attachment to be worthless,—then, and not till then,
did she feel how miserable its loss would make her heart.
Perhaps, but for the very firmness of character of which
we have spoken, she would neither have made, nor
maintained, such a resolution. How many are the dependent
hearts among her sex, who doubt, distrust, fear,
falter,—and—accept! Who dare not reject the unworthy
because they cannot forbear to love. Flora Middleton
felt the pain of the sacrifice the more deeply, in consequence
of the conviction which her principles forced upon
her that it must yet be made. Could she have faltered
with her pride and her principles, she would not have
found the pain so keen. But she was resolute. “No!
no!” she murmured to herself, as all the arguments of
love were arranged before her by the affections—“No!
no! though it kills me to say the words, yet I will say
them. Clarence Conway, we are sundered,—separated,
for ever! I might have borne much, and witnessed
much, and feared much, but not this! This crime is too
much for the most devoted love to bear!”

She was suddenly startled from her meditations by a
slight whistle at a little distance. This was followed by
a voice.

“Hist!” was the gentle summons that demanded her
attention from the thicket on the river banks, as she
turned in the direction of the grounds. Her first feminine
instinct prompted her to fly; but the masculine resolution
of her mind emboldened her, and she advanced
towards the spot from whence the summons proceeded.
As she approached, a head, and then the shoulders of a
man, were elevated to the surface, as if from the bed of
the river; and a closer approximation proved the stranger
to be an old acquaintance.

“John Bannister!” exclaimed the maiden.

“Yes, Miss Flora, the very man, what's left of
him.”

“What's left of him, John Bannister. Why, what's
the matter? are you hurt?”

“No, no, Miss Flora, I say what's left of me, only,
because, you see, I don't feel as if I was altogether a
perfect man, when I have to dodge and shirk about, not

able to find my friends, and always in a sort of scatteration
of limbs for fear that my enemies will find me. I
am pretty well to do in health at this present, thanks be
to God for all his mercies, though, when you saw me
last, I reckon you thought I was in a bad fix. But I give
'em the slip handsomely, and used their own legs in
coming off.”

“How was it, Bannister?—But, come up. You must
be standing rather uncomfortably there?”

“Pretty well off, thank you. There's a dug-out
under me, and as I've only a word or two to say, I
needn't git up any higher to say it.”

“Well, as you please; but how did you make your
escape from the British, John?”

“Ah! that's a long story, Miss Flora, and there's no
needcessity for telling it any how. Some other time
when the war's over, and every man can be brave a bit,
without danger, I'll let you know the sarcumstances.
But jest now, what I come for is to give you warning.
You've got a sly rascal as ever lived in your house, at
this present, that never yet was in any one place so long
without doing mischief—one Watson Gray—”

“Why, he's attending on Mr. Conway.”

“It's a pair on 'em, I tell you. That Watson Gray's
after mischief, and it's a mischief that has you in it. But
don't be scared. I want to let you know that there's
one friend always at your sarvice, and nigh enough to
have a hand in any business that consarns his friends.
If any thing happens, do you see, jest you hang a slip of
white stuff—any old rag of a dress, or handkerchief,—
on this bluff here, jest where you see me standing, and
I'll see it before you're gone far, or I'm no scout fit for
the Congaree. If there's danger to you, there's help too;
and so far as the help of a good rifle and a strong arm
can go,—and I may say Miss Flora without familiarity
—a good friend—dang my buttons, if you shan't have it.”

“But, John,—from what quarter is this danger to
come? What is it—how will it come?”

“Ah, that's the danger. You might as well ax in
what shape Satan will come next. But the d—l's in

your house, that's enough. Be careful when he flies he
don't carry off much more than he brought in. May be,
you'll see a man to-morrow or the next day, coming to
Watson Gray; he's about my heft, but jest with one half
the number of arms. He's a stout chap, poor fellow, to
be cut short in that way. Now,—you can trust him.
If he says to you—`come;'—do you come! If he says
`stay,' then do you stay; for he's honest, and though he
seems to be working for Watson Gray, he's working
handsomely agen him. You can trust him. He's our
man. I convarted him to a good onderstanding of the
truth, but I had to make every turn of it clear to him before
he'd believe. We had two good argyments, but I
throw'd him the last time, and he's been sensible to the
truth ever since. 'Twas him that helped me out of the
British clutches t'other day. But we won't talk of that.
Only you jest believe him, and hang out the white flag,
here, under the bluff, if ever you need a friend's sarvice.”

“You confound and confuse me only, John Bannister,
by what you have said. I believe that you mean me
well, and that you think there is some danger; and I
am willing to trust you;—but, I don't like this half confidence.
Speak out plainly. What am I to fear? I
am a woman, it's true, but I am not a coward. I think
I can hear the very worst, and think about it with tolerable
courage afterwards; nay, assist somewhat perhaps,
in your deliberations.”

“Lord love you, Miss Flora, if I was to tell you the
little, small, sneaking signs, that makes a scout know
when he's on trail of an inimy, you'd mount-be only
laugh. You wouldn't believe, and you couldn't onderstand.
No! no! jest you keep quiet and watch for the
smoke. As soon as you see the smoke, you'll know
there's a fire onder it; which is as much as to say, jest
when you see any thing onderhand going on—scouts
running this way, and scouts running that, and Watson
Gray at the bottom of all and busy, then you may know
brimstone's going to burn, and maybe gunpowder.
Keep a sharp eye on that same Watson Gray. Suspicion

him afore all. He's a cunning sarpent that knows
how to hide under a green bush, and look like the yallow
flow'r that b'longs to it.”

“You said something about Mr. Conway—Mr. Edward
Conway, John?”

“He's another sarpent. But—”

The head of the scout sank below the bank. He
had disappeared, as it were, in the bottom of the river;
and while Flora Middleton trembled for apprehension,
lest he had sunk into the stream, she was relieved by
the accents of a voice at some little distance behind her,
as of one approaching from the house. She turned to
encounter Mr. Surgeon Hillhouse in his dove-coloured
underclothes.