35. XXXV.
THE RESEMBLANCE.
THE old man gently caressed the soft hair of the
child, and gazed into her face, which was all
April smiles and tears, with a depth of tender
affection which made the countenance, ordinarily
so proud and cold, almost beautiful and winning.
Then raising his head, Sir William Powys, or the Wizard,
if we may be allowed to still employ the name by which he
was most generally known, looked around upon the crowd,
who regarded him with strange and superstitious interest.
There were many persons in the assembly whose heads had
moved significantly from side to side when the strange personage
demanded a private interview with Lord Fairfax.
No good would result for his lordship, these wiseacres declared,
from yielding to this demand. Once alone with
him, the wizard would be sure to “bewitch” him—he
would cast a spell on him, and then vanish in a cloud of
brimstone. Some of these philosophers were by no means
certain that if this were not the case, the mysterious wizard
would not be seen issuing from the window of the tavern,
mounted upon a handsome flying horse, once Lord Fairfax;
now destined to bear the prisoner away in triumph to
some diabolical revel of witches in the depths of the “Hog-Back.”
It resulted from this condition of public feeling, that
when the wizard, who had fulfilled the expectations of the
more moderate among the wiseacres, by procuring a prompt
acquittal through his interview with the Earl, looked round
upon the crowd, they recoiled with an unmistakable expression
of dread, and left him standing, almost alone, with his
child, in the middle of the apartment.
A slight curl of the firm lip greeted this movement, and
the wizard was about to turn away indifferently, when
suddenly his eyes were riveted upon a richly-clad figure,
framed, as it were, in the doorway, and gazing upon him
with deep interest and sympathy.
That figure was that of Falconbridge, who, having
watched the absurd trial, and witnessed the scene between
the prisoner and his daughter, now rejoiced at the result,
and regarded them, as they stood wrapped in each other's
embrace, with kindly smiles and pleasure.
The wizard fixed upon the young man, as he stood thus
framed in the doorway, like a picture, one of those glances
which seem to penetrate into the soul of the person upon
whom they are riveted. There was much in the gallant
and graceful form of Falconbridge—in his proud, laughing
face, and elegant costume—to attract attention; but the
look now bent upon him was not one of simple admiration
or curiosity. It expressed surprise, deep feeling, and a
species of wondering doubt.
The young man perceived the glance directed toward
him, and without understanding it, approached, and said,
kindly:
“I am rejoiced at your acquittal, sir; as much for your
own sake, as you seem very old, as for your little daughter.
My father taught me to respect and bow to purity and devotion
wherever I met with them, and I think I cannot be
mistaken in saying that your child is both innocent and
courageous—faithful and noble-hearted.”
With these words, which were uttered in that tone of
simplicity and sincerity, which characterized his voice, the
young man held out his hand to Cannie, extending the
other toward the old man.
The girl's soft, little fingers glided into those of Falconbridge,
and a grave, sweet glance, shining through the tears
in her eyes, rewarded the speaker.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, in her low, musical voice,
“for speaking so kindly to us—to grandpapa. You are not
like those people who have gone—your face is kind.”
And Cannie pressed the hand frankly, and looked
“thanks!” with her whole heart.
The old man had, however, drawn back unconsciously
when Falconbridge greeted him. He had not taken the
hand. Still, looking at him with that strange air which we
have described, he said:
“What is your name, sir?”
The words were almost rude, but the tone in which they
were pronounced did not so impress the hearer. The
wizard plainly intended no slight—it was some mysterious
sentiment of wonder which spoke in his voice, in his abrupt
question: and the young man comprehended this instinctively.
“My name is Falconbridge, sir,” he replied, wth a courteous
inclination; “I have but recently come to this region.”
“Falconbridge! I thought so! I was sure of it!” murmured
the wizard. “Strange! Strange! who would ever
have believed!”——
There he suddenly stopped. By a sudden and powerful
effort he controlled his emotion; his countenance subsided
again into its customary calmness, and he bowed in return,
taking the hand which was still half extended.
“I thank you, Mr. Falconbridge,” he said, coolly, “and
beg you will not attribute my singular question to any disposition
to affront you. You bear a very remarkable resemblance
to a person whom I once knew; this must be my
excuse for the very rude reception I have given to your kind
speech and sympathy.”
“It is nothing—I scarcely noted it,” returned the young
man, smiling, “and as to any kindness, I am sure, sir,
that I deserve no praise. My heart leaped when your child
came so bravely to your side—and I bow to, and honor her.
I have never seen a princess or a queen—but I think she is
worthy to be either!”
“Oh, sir,” exclaimed Cannie, blushing, “you make me
feel ashamed! It was nothing for me to come to grandpapa's
side. He is all I have in world, and I love him
dearly, with my whole heart. And you, grandpapa,” added
Cannie, turning and whispering to the old man with a smile,
“you know you love me just as dearly.”
“That is very certain,” was the low reply, accompanied
by the look which always came to the face when it was turned
toward the girl; “and now, my child, let us go to our
private room. We must remain here all night—but we will
return home early in the morning.”
“Come with me, sir,” said the voice of Lord Fairfax, at
the speaker's elbow, “I have ample room for you and your
daughter at Greenway Court—it will be far more comfortable.”
“I thank you, my lord,” returned the other, with a ceremonious
inclination, “but the nights grow chill, and my
daughter is delicate.”
“The blinds of the chariot may be easily closed, sir,”
said the Earl, looking wistfully at Cannie.
“Your lordship will not consider me ill-bred—that is to
say ungrateful—if I still decline your goodness. If my
child should wish at another time to visit Greenway Court,”
added the old man, exchanging a look with the Earl, “it
will give me true pleasure to bring her thither—or to entrust
her to our good friend here, Mr. George. May I take
that liberty, Mr. George?”
That liberty! thought George, as his heart gave a bound
at the idea of a long gallop through the prairie, with Cannie's
arm around his waist; but he suppressed his delight,
and replied with extreme gravity and politeness, that it
would give him very great pleasure.
“And now, my lord,” said the wizard, “let me, before I
leave you, say how much I am indebted to your lordship,
for my release from this prosecution—a prosecution which
I dreaded far more for the grief it caused my child than on
my own account. I am old, and care little what comes to
me—whether of weal or woe—but she is young and tenderhearted.
Thanks! thanks, again for our freedom!”
The speaker was standing as before, with his arm around
Cannie, and by them stood Falconbridge, smiling. Not
only the Earl, but George, and Captain Wagner, who were
near at hand, were struck with the singular resemblance
between the three, and afterwards spoke of it. One was
seventy, and gray-headed; the second twenty-three or four,
and in the bloom of manhood; the child, a girl of fifteen,
with innocent, sweet eyes, and tender lips. But the resemblance
was as perfect in all three as if they were the
offspring of the same parents.
For a moment they remained thus motionless, then bowing
again, the wizard retired with Cannie to a private
room, having arranged with Mynheer Van Doring on the
way, for a vehicle in the morning.
Lord Fairfax turned to Falconbridge, and said;
“I think you have not yet consulted me upon your affairs,
Mr. Falconbridge. If it suits your convenience at the present
moment, you might accept a seat in my chariot, and
sleep at Greenway. What say you, sir?”
“I accept your lordship's offer with many thanks,” was
the reply.
And very soon the young man and the Earl were rolling
toward Greenway, beneath the new risen moon, which mingled
its light with that of the setting sun, and communicated
to the dreary stretch of prairie land a wild and mysterious
charm.
As to George, and Captain Wagner, they remained at the
Ordinary for reasons best known to themselves, but easily
comprehensible by the reader. George staid because
Cannie would spend the night there; the Captain because
his eloquence had triumphed in favor of Winchester; and
the fair Mrs. Butterton was, no doubt, ready to thank, perhaps
to reward him.
Meanwhile the chariot containing the Earl and Falconbridge
rolled on in silence. The few common-place words
had died away. Lord Fairfax seemed deeply preoccupied.
At last, as they approached the clump of trees, indicating
Greenway, the Earl raised his drooping shoulders, uttered a
long, deep sigh, and muttered:
“I wonder if a single heart beats still for me, in dear old
England. No, I think not one!—not one!”
