"Not all the wealth of Eastern kings;" said she,
"Has power to part my plighted love and me."
DRYDEN.
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! Phoebe! 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.