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The Past but lives in words: & thousand ages
Were blank, if books had not evoked their ghosts,
And kept the pale, unbodied shades to warn us
From fleshless lips.—Bulwer.
Let us revive the Past, and from the graves,
Long hallowed, wake the sleepers, and make them
Tread anew the paths they tred, and act once
More their several parts upon the stage
Of life, ere they retire forever.
—Anon.
—Rev. J.H. Clinch.
On the banks of the beautiful Ohio, some five or six miles above the large and flourishing city of Cincinnati, can be seen the small and pleasant village of Columbia, once laid out and designed to become the capital of the great West. This village stands on a beautiful plain, which stretches away from the Ohio in a north-easterly direction, between two ridges, for a goodly number of miles, and at the base of what is termed Bald Hill— a hill of a conical shape, from the summit whereof you can command every point of compass, and some of the most delightful views in the western country.
Standing upon this hill, with your face toward the south, you first behold, immediately below you, a cluster of dwellings, mostly white, with their green lawns in front, and their flowery gardens in the rear, with one or two neat, unostentatious looking churches rising above them, as if to give a quiet and moral beauty, if we may so express it, to the scene. Be yond these buildings, which constitute the principal village of Columbia, the eye at once falls upon an open, variegated and fertile plain, over which it wanders for something like a mile, to rest again for a moment upon a few brick and wood-colored houses, half hid amid a grove of beautiful trees, then upon the smooth, silvery Ohio, which here comes sweeping past with a graceful bend, and, lastly, upon the green and romantic looking hills of old Kentucky. Turning to the left, or eastward, you behold, some mile or two miles distant, a woody ridge, which intersects the Ohio at right angles, and, stretching away northward, forms the eastern boundary of the plain. At the base of this ridge, can be seen, here and there, a quiet farm-house, and portions of the Little Miami, as it rolls its silvery waters onward through a most delightful grove, to unite with, and be lost in, the placid bosom of La Belle Riviere. Between you and the Little Miami, and for many a mile up toward its source, lies the plain we have mentioned, now divided as far as you can see, into lots of four or five acres each, all of which, being under cultivation, present, in the summer season, with their different products, a pleasing variety of colors, as if to enchain the attention of the beholder with an unspeakable sensation of delight. Following the course of the plain away to the north-east, you behold, some few miles distant, another pleasant village, with its neat, white houses peeping from among the green foliage of the surrounding trees. Turning again to the south and west, and following the windings of the Ohio, you can perceive the village of Fulton along its banks, some two miles away, with here and there an elegant mansion, all standing out in bold relief against the green background of a neighboring ridge, and not unfrequently finding themselves mirrored in the river's placid bosom. A view of the delightful city of Cincinnati is here cut off by a bend in the ridge and river; but notwithstanding, the landscape, taken as a whole, is one of the most pleasing that can be found on the globe.
Such is an outline, only, of the scene which is presented to the beholder of modern days; but very different was it sixty years ago, when along the banks of the river and over the plain and hills, instead of the quiet village and its hum of civilization, and the many pleasant farms under cultivation, and the farm-houses sending up in graceful wreaths the smoke of their peaceful fires, there was a vast, unbroken forest, inhabited by the barbarous, untutored savage, and the thousand wild beasts of the wilderness. As it is with the early settlement of this portion of the country we have to do, we must leave the scene as it now exists, and go back to the period when the hardy pioneer left his comfortable and well-protected home, to venture hither, and dare all the dangers and suffer all the privations of frontier life.
As early as November, 1788, a party, consisting of some twenty persons, conducted by Major Benjamin Stites, landed at the mouth of the Little Miami, and began a settlement upon the purchase of ten thousand acres, which the Major had previously made from Judge Symmes. Among this party were many whose names afterward became noted in history, and whose descendants still occupy prominent positions in the community whereof they are citizens. They were the first adventurers into this region of country, and were a month in advance of the party which landed at, and erected the first log cabins on, the present site of Cincinnati. On their arrival, they immediately constructed a log fort, built several cabins or huts, and then proceeded to lay out the town of Columbia into streets or lots, on the plain we have described—believing at the time, that it would eventually become the great capital of the West.
Beginning at Crawfish Creek, a small stream which was to form the north-western boundary of the city, ascending the Ohio for more than a mile, and extending back from the river for three-quarters of a mile, taking in a portion of what is now called Bald Hill, they laid out the ground in streets and squares. The residue of the plain, between this imaginative city and the Little Miami, and for three miles up this stream, was cut up into lots of four or five acres each, intended for the support of the town, when it should come to maturity. These lots have since been divided by trenches, and so remain at the present day; and as you view them from Bald Hill, one covered with greensward, another with a crop of wheat, a third with corn, a fourth with oats, and so on, the whole plain appears like a many-colored carpet of beautiful squares.
The first pioneers of the Miami Bottom were soon joined by others; and, in the course of a few years, Columbia became quite a flourishing place, and, for a time, took the lead of its sister towns, Cincinnati and North Bend—the last since noted as the residence of General Harrison. At this period, these three villages, with the exception of Marietta, higher up the river, were the only white settlements in Ohio; and as it was more than suspected by the inhabitants of each, that one of them was destined to become the great emporium of the West, each looked upon the advancement of its neighbor with a jealous eye, and sought, by every means, to push itself forward to the grand desideratum. For a time, Fortune seemed bent on playing her pranks, by now favoring this one, now that, and so alternately raising and depressing the spirits of each; but, at last, as the world already knows, she yielded the palm to Cincinnati, by establishing there a fort and garrison, which rendered it, with its natural advantages, a place of greater security than either of the others, and, consequently, a more desirable location for those venturing into the Western Wilds.
About the period when rivalry between the places named was at its height—and when the momentous question was pending, as to which would be the favored spot of fortune, the Queen City of the West—our story opens. Columbia, as we said before, had already made rapid advances, and taken the lead of her rival sisters, in point of business and population. Over the broad plain, between Bald Hill and the Little Miami, were now scattered some forty or fifty log cabins, and at the southern base of this hill, on a little knoll—where, at the present day, can be seen a neat grave-yard, with its marble and sand-stone slabs recording the names of many who, since then, have gone to the shadowy realms of death—stood a rude sanctuary, the first building erected solely to the worship of God by the pioneers of the Miami Valley. Around this humble sanctuary was a grove of beautiful trees, in whose branches a thousand merry songsters, of all hues, sang blithely. Side by side with this place of worship, on the same knoll, amid the same delightful grove, was erected a block-house, for the protection of the inhabitants in the immediate vicinity. Hither, on a Sabbath morning, when the toil of the week was over, the villagers of both sexes, and all ages, would repair, to listen to the word of God, as it fell from the lips of the venerable Stephen Gano (father of the late General Gano), whose mild, noble, benevolent countenance, his long, white flowing locks, and his solemn, tremulous voice, as he raised his eyes to Heaven in supplication, or forcibly pointed out to his hearers the way to eternal life, made his remarks deep, grand and impressive. And the more so, it may be, that each felt himself to be in the wilderness, surrounded by the hostile savage, and knew not at what moment he might be called to his last account, a victim to the fatal rifle, or the bloody tomahawk and scalping-knife.
To avoid a surprise and be prepared for any emergency, during the hours of worship, sentinels were stationed without the walls of the sanctuary, who, with loaded rifles on their shoulders, paced to and fro with measured tread, examining minutely every object of a suspicious character; while those within sat, with their weapons by their sides, ready, at a moment's warning, a given signal, to rush from the house of quiet devotion, to the field of blood and slaughter. Not only to church, but to their places of labor, where they repaired in companies, and, in fact, on all occasions, the early settlers went armed.
Besides the block-house on the knoll, there were one or two others nearer the river, and one some half a mile further up the plain, close by where now winds a broad and beautiful turnpike, and on the site of which now stands a private dwelling. Bald Hill (now owned by N. Longworth, one of the wealthiest gentlemen in the country, and by him devoted to the cultivation of the grape) was, at the period referred to, covered by a dark, dense forest, where prowled the wild beasts, and not unfrequently lurked the murderous Indian, seeking his "great revenge" on his more civilized and less wily foe.
Such, reader, is an outline view of the scene where our story is laid, and the condition of the country at the time of its opening. Having said this much of general facts, we shall now proceed to detail.
A lovely being, scarcely formed or molded—
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
—Byron.
Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shape, her features, Seem to be drawn by Love's own hand.
—Dryden.
Strange being he,
Of whom all men did stand in awe; and none
Knew whence he came, nor how, nor whither bound,
Nor cared to question. Strange things he told,
And true—then disappeared mysteriously. —Old Play.
It was a lovely day in spring, and earth had donned her raiment of many colors, and seemed smiling to the whispering zephyr that softly floated over her. The bright sun had already passed the zenith of the day, yet his oblique rays fell warmly upon the great forest, extending over the Miami Bottom, and pierced through the foliage, here and there, down to the earth, and kissed the violet, the rose and the lily, and danced to and fro to the music of the swaying branches. A thousand songsters, of all hues— from the bright red-bird, the black-bird, the paroquet of green and gold, to the white and plaintive dove—flew hither and thither, fluttered among the leaves, and made the perfumed air heavy with their melody. Here might be seen the bear, sitting upon his haunches, or lazily crawling off to seek his lair; there the timid deer, daintily cropping the green herbage, or, startled by some rude sound, bounding away with an unmatched grace and the speed of the flying arrow. Underneath the leaves, occasionally, lay coiled the wily copper-head, ready to strike his victim; and the sound of the rattle-snake could ever and anon be heard, giving the generous, but if unheeded, perchance fatal, warning. Here, too, more cunning, more deadly than all the dread beasts or serpents of the forest, might peradventure be found the swarthy savage, with his murderous weapons in hand, crawling stealthily and silently onward, to execute his fell design upon some innocent and unwary foe of his race.
But for the dangers everywhere lurking in this forest of beauty, it might have seemed a Paradise indeed, unsurpassed by that primitive Eden, where man first broke the holy command, and entailed misery upon his descendants even to the last generation of time.
But notwithstanding the peril which surrounded her, which perchance lay hid behind each bush and beneath each leaf, there was one, a fairy, beautiful being, who seemed to give no thought to danger, as if her own fair self were an amulet of safety. She was standing on the bank of the Little Miami, some two hundred rods above its junction with the Ohio, her back braced against a tall old Sycamore, her head bent a little forward, and her eyes, those sparkling orbs of the soul, resting upon the dark waters rolling slowly onward before her, perchance to catch a glimpse of her own fair face, perchance to watch the motions of the finny tribe, or perchance to behold the pictures of light and shade, which the sportive sunheams, streaming through the rustling leaflets, made upon the glassy surface of the quivering stream.
Beautiful creature! how shall we describe her? how convey, by the dull pen, to the optical sense, the etheriality, the reality, the sunny brightness of the being in form divine before us? We can give the outline of form—we can describe the shape of her features, the color of her hair and eyes—yet how shall we convey the ever-varying expression of her countenance—the buoyant, merry, sympathetic, versatile soul, which animated, and made to differ from others, the clayey tenement which it inhabited! We cannot— we despair of doing it; and yet we will do, to the extent of our ability, and let the imagination of the reader supply the deficiency.
Know then, reader, that she whom we have introduced to your notice, was an angel—not of heaven, but of earth; not pale and pensive, with wings upon her shoulders, as we sometimes see the tenants of paradise represented—but full of color, life, music, soul—a bright being, calculated to adorn the sphere where her lot was cast, and yet, when done, to "shuffle off the mortal coil," and be equally an ornament among immortals! Her age was sweet, glowing, imaginative seventeen; that age of all others in woman, the most peculiar and full of strange sensations; when she stands timidly, as it were, between two periods—girlhood and womanhood—just pensively looking back and bidding adieu to the one—just brightly looking before and greeting the other: when, if by chance she sees through the rose colored optics of love, the whole pathway before her seems strewn with bright, unfading flowers, and every thing appears so new and perfectly beautiful; and she dreams not that serpents, and thorns, and ashes, and coffin-palls, lie in her path, to make her weep and mourn, and sigh for the rest of the grave to which time is bearing her.
Bright, rosy, buoyant seventeen! how many thousands daily look back to it with a sigh, as they think of the hundred still unexecuted plans laid out for coming time, and contrast their present conditions with those they intended to occupy! At seventeen, all is sweet indecision, uncertainty and inexperience; and life is then to us only an ever-varying kaleidescope, where every thing we behold—no matter how we twist and turn it by pretended reason—is a beautiful flower; and flower upon flower, each more bright, lovely and fascinating than the last; and if we dream of change at all, it is always change for the better.
Happy seventeen, then, was she who stood leaning against the old sycamore—God keep her from the cold, stinging, unhappy experience of many of her sex! In form she was a beauty — light, slender, graceful—full of youthful elasticity and vigor—with a well developed bust—a small, white, plump, dimpled hand, and a foot so exquisite, it might have rivalled that of the divine Fanny of modern days. Her features corresponded with her form—were fine and comely, and radiant with the glow of health—but remarkable for nothing save expression. Had they been chisseled in marble; with the soul absent, they would not probably have even excited a passing remark; but with the soul there—that ever varying soul—they took the beholder captive to their charms, drew him forward as the magnet draws the needle, held him fast as the iron chain the prisoner. The predominant expression of her countenance was a bright, roguish, girlish smile, which almost invariably hovered around two as pretty lips as were ever seen, and was a type of her nature and happy heart. The skin of her features, though somewhat dark, was smooth and transparent, where every thought seemed to make a passing impression, as the light breeze upon the still bosom of a glassy lake. Her cheeks were tinted with the rose, and slightly dimpled; and her mouth was set with a beautiful row of pearly teeth. Her eyes were dark and sparkling, full of vivacity and animation, and yet so softened by long fringy lashes, that it seemed as if she were eternally looking love. Her hair was a glossy, light brown; and now, when the sunlight fell upon it (for her hood was held in her left hand), it gave out a bright, golden hue. On the present occasion, she wore a loose riding dress, carelessly arranged, which, together with her partially dishevelled hair, showed that her mind was not entirely occupied with external appearances. In her right hand she held the bridle rein of a sleek, coal-black steed, from the saddle of which she had apparently just dismounted; and by her side, lolling as if from hard running, and occasionally looking up into her sweet face, crouched a large, Newfoundland dog. For a moment she stood gazing into the limpid stream, in the position we have described her, and then giving her head a shake, as if to throw back the ringlets that had fallen somewhat forward over her eyes, she turned to her canine companion, and, in a clear, ringing voice, as if addressing an individual, said:
"So, my Bowler, you think you have had a hard chase, eh? In faith, I thought Marston's legs would prove too much for you?"
Here she turned, and stepping around the tree, patted the proudly arched neck of her horse: while the dog arose, and approaching her, rubbed his head in a familiar manner against her hand.
"Ah, Bowler, dog, you look tired," she continued, stooping down and playfully caressing the brute; "you can watch, better than keep Marston's company—particularly when he is in such fine running trim as now. Come, Marston," she added, to the beast, "let us away again, for I trust you are now refreshed;" and as she adjusted her dress, preparatory to mounting, she struck out in a full, silvery voice, in the following
SONG.
"Well sung, pretty Kate Clarendon," said a deep, heavy voice behind her.
Kate (for the fair being we have described was none other than our heroine), who was in the act of mounting, started and wheeled around with a look of alarmed surprise; while the horse pricked up his ears, and the dog, with a savage growl, sprang in front of his mistress, ready to defend her with his life.
"Be not alarmed, fair being," continued the strange voice; and at the same instant, a thick cluster of bushes, growing on the bank of the stream some ten paces distant, was parted by a large, sunburnt, hairy hand, and a tall, athletic, singular looking figure emerged therefrom. Toward him the dog now sprang furiously; but the next moment, and ere he had gained half way between his mistress and the stranger, he dropped his tail between his legs, and then wagging it in token of recognition, trotted up to the other as if to solicit a caress.
The new comer, as we have said, was a singular looking being. In stature he was tall—being full six feet—and in person very ungainly. His legs and arms, each very long and sinewy, were joined to a crooked, bony body. He had tremendous breadth of shoulder, from which he tapered down to his feet, in shape not unlike a wedge. His neck was slim, but full of large muscles and veins, which seemed to stand out from it like cords. His head was rather large, even for his body, with features very coarse, and, to one unacquainted with him, exceedingly repulsive. He had a big, Roman nose, sallow, sunken cheeks, and a prominent chin, covered with a thick, coarse, dirty, grizzly beard, which extended down even to his broad, hard, bronzed bosom, and added, to his otherwise unpleasing exterior, an almost ferocious look. About his eyes, if indeed eyes they could be called, he had a remarkable appearance; and a stranger, at first sight, would have pronounced him totally blind. The lid of one eye was closed entirely; and that of the other so much so, as just to leave a dull, lead-colored rim of the lower part of the ball visible. To add to this disagreeable appearance, the nearly closed lid quivered continually, like the leaf of the aspen; while the ball of the eye rolled around in every direction, as if the owner were suffering mortal agony. Above these lids, across the lower portion of a high, dark, wrinkled forehead, extended light, shaggy brows; and his hair, which was also light, coarse and matted, came down to his shoulders. He wore no hat; but instead, a strip of deerskin, painted white, on which were some strange devices in black, passed across his brow, and around his head, giving to him an air of mystery. His costume was as simple as an Indian's. It consisted of a frock made of deerskin, with the hair outside, which was worn next his body, reached to his knees, and was tightened around his waist by a rough belt. To this frock were no sleeves, and, in consequence, his brawny arms were entirely naked; neither did it fit close around his neck, but left a large portion of his breast bare also. On his feet were moccasins, which completed his attire; and in his belt, instead of the usual weapons of that day, was only a long knife. Strapped to his back was a rude knapsack, in which he carried jerk, a blanket, and various implements. In one hand (the nails of which were very long, and the back of which was thickly covered with hair) he held a stick of witch-hazel, at one end of which were prongs, not unlike the tines of a fork. To conclude, the age of this strange personage might have been forty, or perhaps fifty, so difficult was it to determine by his rough, weather-beaten countenance. His voice was very deep, a little inclined to the sepulchral— and his language, ever good, was often metaphorical.
Such is a description of the personal appearance of one of the most remarkable individuals ever known. Who he was, or whence he came, none could tell. Among the settlers of the early times, he appeared mysteriously, and as mysteriously disappeared; and as he pretended to be gifted with second sight, or a sight into futurity, there were not wanting those superstitious enough to believe him either a supernatural being, or leagued with the devil. This feeling he took care to foster, by his acts, such as incantations, strange mutterrings to himself, occasionally a wild manner, and eccentricities of various kinds. In fact, it is not to be wondered at, that, in those times, he should excite a feeling of awe and superstition; for often, when thought far distant, would he make his appearance among a group of individuals, who had perchance been conversing of him; and this so suddenly, many times, as really to alarm them; and then again, ere any one was aware how, as suddenly disappear. He was sometimes on the pretended search for mines or money, and not unfrequently did he excite persons to dig for treasures. He told fortunes, occasionally, and occasionally, too, uttered prophesies and prophetic warnings. Among the whites he came and went as he chose, and also among the savages, who respected him as a "great medicine" and prophet—to injure whom would be to offend the Great Spirit. By the latter he was called Kitchochobeka, or Great Medicine; and by the former, Blind Luther, the Necromancer.
As soon as Kate saw his person in full, she said, with a gay laugh:
" 'Pon my word, Luther, for once you startled me, for I deemed myself entirely alone."
"We are never alone, Kate," returned the other, shaking his head gravely; "the spirits of the dead are always with us."
"O, come, come," rejoined the fair girl, tossing her head gaily, though not without a perceptible shade of uneasiness in her countenance: "Come, come, Luther, do not seek to make me superstitious; you can find plenty of proselytes without me, you know. But tell me—how long have you been concealed in you thicket?"
"As long as it would take you to count ten."
"But how got you there so silently?"
"By my will, and the wings of the wind."
"By your will, for one thing, most undoubtedly; but as to the wings of the wind—why, I rather think that a joke of yours—eh, my conjuror?" and the gay girl closed with a laugh.
"He to whom the future is as an open scroll, legibly written, never stoops to joke," was the grave reply.
"And do you really pretend to know the future, in sincere earnest?"
"Do you pretend to know the voice of your own mother, girl?"
"But now," said Kate, in a coaxing, coquettish tone, "be honest, Luther, for once, now do, and tell me—have you any faith in yourself? All in confidence, you know, between you and I; for of course I will never mention it. O no, I will give you a proud example of a woman keeping a secret;" and the black eyes of fairy Kate sparkled with a roguish expression.
"You jest, girl," replied the other, solemnly, and in an offended tone, "with the great mysteries of nature. Have I faith in myself? Have you faith in what you behold? Look yonder, and tell me what you see!" and he pointed with his finger toward the great luminary of the day.
"I behold trees, and leaves, and birds, the sky and sun," answered Kate, who looked in the direction indicated by the finger of the other.
"And do you believe the things you nave named really exist?"
"Most assuredly I do."
"Why do you so believe?"
"Because I see them."
"And see you nothing more?"
"Nothing of importance."
"I do," rejoined the Necromancer, in a guttural voice, so changed from the tone in which he had just been conversing, that Kate turned to him with an involuntary expression of surprise and wonder; which was not lessened, by observing him standing with his gaze fixed on high, in wrapt meditation, while every feature seemed expressive of some strange sight, and his lips moved as if uttering words, though no sound issued from them.
"And what do you see, strange man?" inquired the maiden, after a minute's pause, while a thrill of mysterious awe made her blood creep coldly through her veins.
"A century of futurity, and God permitting man to seize upon the elements and harness them to his task," answered Luther, in a solemn tone. "I behold, springing from the earth, only a few miles distant, a great city. I behold the light and smoke of its fires, and hear the voices of many thousand inhabitants, and the clink of the hammers of industry, and see it it gradually spreading itself, enlarging on every hand, as the eagle when he raises his wings to soar on high. I behold the dust of the earth put into a great crucible, and lo! it comes forth another substance. It is seized, and wrought upon, and shapcd like no living thing that now exists; and yet it is to be a thing of life and motion, with rolling legs, and speed beyond the speed of the deer, endurance beyond calculation, and strength exceeding a hundred horse. Its breath, its vitality, its soul, is vapor; and though it travels with tearing velocity, through mountains, over streams, hollows and plains, dragging a thousand times its own weight behind it, yet so gentle is it, when properly handled, that a child can guide and command it; but once let it get the upper hand, and the strength of ten thousand men would be no more to it than a thread to a ship in the gale. I behold, too, the great timbers of the forest transformed to leviathans, whose vital power is also vapot, and which, with spoutings that can be heard afar off, glide swiftly over the bosom of rivers, against wind and tide, and plow foaming channels in the mighty deep, and carry the sons of earth in their great bosoms. I behold the red lightning, also, drawn from the thunder-car of heaven, and sent courier throughout the Christian world. I behold the great blue vault of heaven turned to an ocean, over which sail ten thousand ves sels, looking down upon, forests and mountains, that now to us seem almost impassable barriers. And I behold plague, and famine, and war, and blood, and fire, and flood, and desolation, and woe, and crime, stalking apace, by whose dread calls and thunderings, thrones totter, governments of tyrants are overthrown, and liberty shoots upward, like a beautiful tree, and spreads its ever-green branches abroad to the uttermost ends of the earth, beneath which all nations at last repose in security, and smoke together the calumet of peace. And the vision has gone from me—and all is darkness—and I behold no more—for the great seal of obscurity is now set upon my sight."
During this speech of Blind Luther, his countenance was lighted up with the fires of an enthusiastic soul, until in part it had the sublime look we conceive the seers to have had of old, when they uttered those great and mystic truths, which shall descend to all generations; and our fair heroine gazed upon him in wonder, not unmingled with admiration; for there was something lofty and elevating in his manner and strange eloquence. As he concluded, he waved his hand with a majestic gesture, and then turned suddenly to Kate.
"You think me demented—or perhaps an idiot; yet what I have just uttered, is written on the great seal of the nineteenth century. You do not understand it—you think me an impostor, perhaps?"
"No, Luther," answered Kate, "not an impostor; but I fear, at times, you let a wild imagination get the better of your reasoning powers."
"It is seldom," returned Luther, "that I condescend to experiment, in order to convince frail mortality I am what I pretend; but in the present instance I shall do so; as it is necessary, for your future welfare, that you believe in me, and adhere to my instructions. Behold my power!"
As he concluded, he brought the fore-finger of his right hand in front of his face, and strode slowly toward Kate, who fixed her gaze upon him in curious wonder. When he had reached within a pace of her, he paused, fastened his eye upon hers for a moment, and said:
"You are now under the influence of my spirit. You have not power to move a limb without my consent."
Kate made an effort to move, but found, in truth, she had not the command of a single muscle. She was like a rock. Not even her eyes could she turn away from that strange being who stood before her. For the first time in her life she felt superstitious—for the first time in her life she secretly acknowledged a power in man beyond the scope of reason. As she thought upon it, her blood ran cold, and cold drops of perspiration stood upon her face and body.
"And now you believe," said the Necromancer, at length, waving his hand.
"I believe you are a wonderful being," answered the other, with a shudder.
"Yet fear me not girl; I am your friend. Open me your hand."
Gazing for a few moments into the soft, white palm, which Kate, in compliance with his request, now extended toward him, he said, solemnly:
"Eventful destiny is thine—thou of the sunny locks, fairy form,
and laughing eye!" And he proceeded to chant the following mystical
lines:
"Where the parent stem is broken,
'Neath the tree that's old and oaken—
Where the night-wind cool is blowing,
O'er the life-blood warmly flowing—
By unchanging Fate's decree,
And Almighty Destiny,
One shall stand thou sawest never,
Yet shall see and love forever:
And he unto thy spirit,
Shall a legal right inherit:
Yet moons shall come and wane,
And the harvest leave the plain,
And the earth be green again,
And tribulations sore
Shall befall thee o'er and o'et—
Ere thy evil all be mated,
And thy web of joy completed.
Come, ye fates, and set the seal,
On what I of ye reveal!"
He paused, and struck the palms of his hands three times together.
"These are strange words, Luther," said Kate, "and I do not understand them."
"Thou shalt understand all in time," answered the other.
[Here he touched the band around his head]
"My mission first is ended, and so I leave thee. Farewell!"
He waved his hand, and turned to depart; but just as he did so, Kate uttered a piercing scream, and wheeling suddenly around, Luther perceived her features distorted with horror—for notwithstanding his apparent blindnes, he could see very distinctly. She was looking upward, at an angle of sixty degrees; and turning his own gaze in that direction, he beheld, to his amazement and alarm, the fiery, glaring eyeballs of a large panther, crouched on a neighboring tree, and just in the act of springing. There was not a moment to be lost; and catching Kate by the arm, as though she were an infant, he swung her upon the back of her coal black steed, and shouted: "Away! away!"
The next moment, horse and rider were bounding over the plain, and man and beast were closing together for the death struggle; for in his haste to spring, that his prey might not escape him, the panther had fallen a little short of Luther, who, dodging quickly around the tree, had thus time to draw his knife and prepare himself for defense.
As to Kate, knowing that she could render Blind Luther no personal assistance, she rode swiftly to an open field, some quarter of a mile distant, where several laborers were at work, to whom she quickly made known the peril of the Necromancer. Seizing their rifles, which were always their companions, some five or six hardy fellows started immediately to the assistance of Blind Luther (whom all knew and respected), preceded by Kate herself. When they arrived at the spot, to their astonishment, they found the panther lying dead, but not a single trace of his opponent.
"He's not here now," said one.
"He's the devil," returned another.
"Wonderful being," observed a third.
Uttering such, and similar remarks, they spent some half an hour in examining the animal, the ground round about, and then returned to their labors, more than ever convinced that Blind Luther was something superhuman.
As for Kate, she explained to the others how Luther had suddenly appeared to her, and the manner of their separation; but of their conversation she told nothing; and her thoughts on what she had seen and heard she kept to herself. As she rode slowly over the plain, however, to the dwelling of her father, some half a mile distant, a close observer might have seen a sedateness on her countenance, a sadness in her eye, that accorded but ill with her naturally light-hearted, merry look.
—David Homphreys.
Misfortune does not always wait on vice, Nor is success the constant guest of virtue.
—Havard.
George Clarendon, the father of our fair heroine, was a native of eastern Pennsylvania, and only son of a gentleman, who, to use the phrase, was "well to do in the world." At an early age, he was sent to school in Philadelphia, where he received a good education, and became acquainted with a merchant's daughter, between whom and himself sprang up an intimacy, which, in course of time, ripened into an ardent passion, and was at last productive of a happy marriage. Not having any set occupation, he entered into partnership with his father-in-law; and for many years afterward, the firm of Cooly & Clarendon was extensively known and respected.
During this time, a daughter was added to the family—the bright, rosy, mirth-loving Kate, whom we have just described, and on whom both parents doated fondly, looking upon her as an angel sent from Heaven to minister to their happiness. Years rolled onward, and all went smoothly; and of course Kate, who gave promise of making a beautiful and intelligent woman, was not neglected. As soon as she became of a suitable age, she was sent to school, and every means possible taken to secure her a pol ished education—which she, to her praise be it said, was not slow to profit by. At the age of fourteen, she returned to her parents. At fifteen, extensive preparations were being set on foot for giving a grand party, that she might make her debut in society; but ere the consummation of this event, the firm of Cooly & Clarendon, to the utter astonishment of every one, suddenly failed. This was caused by the failure of a large mercantile house in England, with which our Philadelphians had a too close business connection.
After having honorably discharged their debts, by other property in their posession, Clarendon and his partner found they had but little left them; and the former at once resolved to take what means he had, and set out for the West forthwith; there to embrace the more sure, if not more profitable, occupation of agriculture.
Having completed his arrangements, he bid adieu to his friends, and departed with his family, on a journey of adventure to the frontiers. His first stopping place was Pittsburgh; but not satisfied with the appearance of the town, he joined a party descending the river, and landed at Marietta Still dissatisfied, he joined the party of Major Stites, and was one of the first who landed at the mouth of the Little Miami, on the ground we have before described.
About half, or perhaps three-fourths of a mile above the mouth of the Miami, and a hundred rods west of this stream, was the spot selected by Clarendon for his residence. Here, soon after his arrival, he erected a comfortable log-cabin, whither he soon removed his wife and daughter, who meantime had remained at Marietta.
As must naturally be supposed, it was anything but agreeable to people brought up in the refined manner of the Clarendons, and used all their lives to luxury, to be changed so suddenly from their former enjoyments, to all the rough, rude customs of pioneer life; and from a state of security and ease, be transported to one of danger and hardship. But they had counted the cost beforehand, and prepared themselves for the worst; so that the change proved less severe than it might otherwise have done. Happiness is not to be found in externals— it lies within, and depends altogether upon the mind—and as the Clarendons, instead of fretting and complaining of what they could not alter, strove to look upon everything as happening for the best, and sought to be cheerful and to cheer each other with words of hope and encouragement, so they soon found themselves in possession of enjoyments beyond what at first thought seemed possible for them to obtain.
As for Kate, always light-hearted and merry, she was not slow in finding means to make life pass gaily and agreeably, even in the wilds of the frontiers. She was exceedingly fond of the art eques train; and that she might not be deprived of all the priviliges to which fortune had hitherto entitled her, her father purchased the steed, on which the reader has already seen her mounted, and on which it was her delight to scour the surrounding country, accompanied by the playmate of her youth, the faithful Bowler.
Kate soon grew to like her new home, and to be the favorite of every one who knew her. Her frank, cheerful, merry disposition and winning ways, won the hearts of all; and there was not a man, woman or child, in the village of Columbia, but spoke of her in the highest terms of praise; nor one whose face did not grow brighter at her coming. She ever had a cheerful word and a smile for all, either young or old. She was the belle of the village, by general acclamation, and yet none were envious. Whatever Kate did was perfectly right; and as to the young men, the greatest poltroon of them all would have put his life in jeopardy to gratify her slightest wish. She was a queen, and reigned supreme; and though England's sovereign of modern days may possess more power and splendor, yet Victoria, in the height of her popularity, never had admirers more ardent, nor subjects more devoted, than had simple Kate Clarendon.
Our fair heroine had but one fault—perhaps this was not a fault, strictly speaking—but if so, it was a fault of circumstances—one of which almost every pretty woman is guilty—and one which, if not carried to extremes, is certainly pardonable: she was, in a measure, a coquette. Among the villagers she had many admirers, of whom there were three, genteel young men, special suitors for her hand, at the opening, of our story. For these three, it was rumored, Kate held a preference over all others; but which one of the three was most admired by the fair girl, none could tell—not even themselves—for to-day it was apparently this one, and the next day that, so that each was alternately buoyed up with hope, and depressed by disappointment. All the gossips contended she had a choice; but the difficulty lay in finding out the favored one. Whenever Kate was importuned on the subject herself, she invariably replied with a laugh, that she liked them all, but that her choice was neither. This, however, was not believed; and those who strove to keep a record of every event transpiring in the world of Columbia, were daily on the look-out for the news of a wedding—of beholding the merry Kate caught in the noose Hymenial.
The father of Kate, was a man some forty years of age, large and well-proportioned, with a noble, manly, handsome countenance, and manners dignified and pleasing. Among the villagers he was very popular; and being a man of fine intellect and education, he was looked up to, by most, with much deference and esteem. His wife was a mild, quiet lady, of a sweet, benevolent disposition, a few years his junior, who also stood high in the estimation of the people; so that, among all the villagers, there was, probably, no family that en joyed a greater share of genuine, heart-felt popularity, than the Clarendons.
The residence of the Clarendons was a well-constructed double cabin, with puncheon floors and clap-board roof. Their furuiture, of course, was of the plainest description; for in those days, and in this section of country, it was impossible to have other. They had some good clothing, and a number of small articles of value, which they had brought with them from the East. The cabin itself stood upon a very slight knoll, and fronted the west, surrounded by a tall grove of beech, sugar-tree, locust, &c.—with the exception of an acre in the rear, that had been cut away, and the ground turned into a handsome garden of vegetables and flowers. There seemed but one fault in the whole arrangement; and that was, that the dweliing was too much exposed—its nearest neighbor being at the distance of nearly half a mile. This was remarked upon by some of the settlers at the time of its erection; but Clarendon himself declared that he had no apprehension, and the subject was never again referred to.
Time rolled on smoothly, and the Clarendons, at the date of our story, found themselves once more in rather prosperous circumstances. But as it is with Kate we have for the present especially to do, we will return to her forthwith.
—Pope.
There's danger in the dazzling eye,
That wooes thee with its witching smile.
—Mrs. Osgood.
But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch—so full of mirth,
The overflowing of an innocent heart.
—Rogers.
Upon the youthful mind of Kate, the words of the Necromancer made a deep impression; and for several days after their interview, it was noticed by her friends, with some concern, that, contrary to her usual manner, she appeared sad, thoughtful, and even abstracted. But as it was known she had received a severe fright from the panther, the cause was attributed to this, and every one looked to see it gradually wear off, and behold her again bright with her own cheerful, happy smile. Wear off the sadness certainly did; and a week from the event we have chronicled, Kate appeared the same smiling, joyous being as before.
About this time, the young people of Columbia decided on having a ball—which, if it could not rival in splendor some in the older settlements, might, at least, in heart-felt enjoyment. Accordingly, an appropriate place was selected, a fiddler engaged, and every preparation thought necessary for the coming event speedily set on foot. The building chosen for the purpose, was a new double cabin, which had just been completed, and only waited this kind of christening, as some of them termed it, for the young couple, who were to tenant it, to take up their abode therein. Flowers of all hues, together with sprigs of cedar, were collected; and the walls and ceiling were decorated with hangings of green, and with beautiful festoons and boquets. In one apartment a long table was spread, and covered with such delicacies as the country then afforded; and many dishes there were (composed of deer, bear and buffalo meat), which, among us of the present day, would be considered great rarities. An old banner of stars and stripes (that had been somewhat torn and riddled in the long and sanguinary struggle of the Revolution, which belonged to one of the settlers, who had himself carried it in the heat of battle, and which was held in great veneration by all) was procured and arched over the door of entrance; and not all the purple and crimson robes of royalty, could have excited one tithe of the pride in the bosoms of those simple-minded pioneers, than did this soiled and dirt-begrimmed bunting of "red, white and blue."
The belle of the ball was, of course, to be our youthful Kate; and as she was to be escorted thither by one individual only, and as there were three young men who laid equal claims to the honor of being her beau-gallant for the occasion, there was, as a natural consequence, some peculiar sensations excited in the breasts of each, in regard to which should be the favored one.
Unwilling to take an undue advantage of each other, they met to decide the matter by themselves. Among other things, one proposed that they should draw lots for the preference; another, that they should run a race for it; and the third and last, that they should all go in a body together, and allow her to make her own selection. This last proposition was finally agreed to, as the point at issue would, in this way, be decided by the girl herself; and, consequently, each would know which was the most favored suitor of the three.
Accordingly, the next morning, which was a beautiful one indeed, and the third preceding the gala night, our three lovers mounted themselves on fine horses, and together rode over the plain toward the residence of their fair umpire, to have the pending question decided by her own sweet lips and voice—each to be made happy or miserable, as the case might turn out.
Kate was seated in the door of her cot, gazing upon the lofty old trees, that threw their deep, cool shadows over the luxuriant earth beneath, watching the birds that hopped from branch to branch, and listening to their happy, musical, artless songs, the while humming some tune herself, in a corresponding strain of melody. At length the tones of her voice swelled out, rich and clear, in the following
As Kate concluded, she leisurely cast her eyes over the plain, and, as she did so, an observer might have seen them widen, brighten and twinkle with an expression of quiet, mischievous satisfaction. Turning to her mother, who was seated behind her some little distance, within the cottage, needle-work in hand, she said, gaily:
"I do wonder, mother, whether you and I are going to be taken by storm, or whether it be me alone."
"Why so, Kate?" inquired Mrs. Clarendon.
"Why, yonder come three gallant gentlemen, all mounted, who individually honor me with their addresses and words of flattery. One alone, or one at a time, is enough, Heaven knows!—but, heigh-ho, here are three together—what shall I do?
"Well, Kate, if you would follow my instructions, you would not be troubled this way," returned the mother of our heroine, reprovingly. "Why don't you make a selection, and dismiss the others? It does not look well to see a young lady with too many beaux, I can assure you."
"But which shall I select, dearest mother mine?" asked Kate, with a roguish smile.
"How should I know! Select the one you esteem the most."
"But suppose they are all alike in my estimation?"
"Why, then, you do not love any, and so discharge them all."
"Discharge them, indeed!" rejoined Kate, laughing. "Why they would all go mad, and hang or drown themselves—that is, if I may believe their assurances—and then what awful crimes would be laid to my charge, and what a weight would eternally be on my conscience!"
"Go to, Kate," replied her mother, smiling; "there is no use in trying to do anything with you, for you turn everything into ridicule. You are a spoiled child, Kate, I fear."
"Heigh-ho! I fear so, too," rejoined Kate, drawing a long sigh, and pretending to be very serious, although she could scarcely refrain from a burst of merriment. "But I say, mother, would I not be worse spoiled indeed, should I discharge all these gay youths, and have not a single one left to help myself with? O, would not that be awful!" And Kate clasped her hands together, with a stage struck air, and rolled her eyes upward in mock solemnity.
"Have a care, child, or that will be your fate in earnest," said her mother, her own risible muscles requiring a great effort to keep them quiet, as she gazed upon her daughter. "Have a care, Kate, or they will discharge themselves."
"Do you think so, mother? O, wonderful youths! how I envy them such firmness of decision."
"Many a gay coquette has died an old maid, despised and rejected by those she once flirted with, and rejected herself," pursued Mrs. Clarendon. "Better take warning in time daughter mine."
"An old maid!" exclaimed Kate, in mock horror, shaking her head, and throwing about her sunny curls in wanton profusion. "O, horrible fate—horrible! To think of living without a lord to control all one's actions—to hold the purse—to give one grave advice on the most trifling subjects—to tell one how to dress—where one may go—when one must stay at home;—to think of living without a family to slave for—to have no one to take care of but one's self:—oh! this must be horrible! No, no! I must not think of such a thing; and as here come my cavalier gallants, I will strive to secure one, at least, in time to save me from a destiny so awful."
As Kate concluded, the three young men we have alluded to, rode up to the door, and each made his obeisance, and spoke his morning salutation.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Kate, in return. "Really, I know not what to think of beholding you three together. Are you on a mission of peace or blood?"
"Peace, most decidedly," answered the foremost, a fine, comely youth of twenty, with dark, bright eyes, brown curly hair, and an intelligent countenance. He was the son of a respectable citizen of the village, and was called Albert Danvers.
"We never enter a lady's company with any other motive," added the second, a square-built, robust, jolly-faced young man of nineteen, whose countenance indicated health and happiness. He was also the son of a settler, and was called Orville Danbury.
The third member of the party was older, more marked in his apperance than either of the others, and consequently will require a more minute description. His age was about twenty-three, and his figure slim and tall. His features were rather effeminate than manly, with a pale, sallow complexion, and were expressive of habitual thought on gloomy subjects. He had black, sunken, piercing eyes, a straight, well-formed nose, a rather pretty mouth, and a round and prominent chin. His lips were thin and habitually compressed; and when he smiled, which he did but seldom, and then as if by an effort, there lurked around them an expression both sensual and sinister. He had little, very little beard—so that his face was as smooth almost as a lady's. His forehead was high, but not of a prepossessing cast, and was marred by deep furrows, as if the mind were continually employed on some difficult theme. His hair was black and curly; and what was somewhat rare in that part of the country at that day, was kept well oiled and brushed. His suit of fine broad-cloth, neatly fitted to his person, contrasted forcibly with the coarse, loose, home-made, woolmixed grey of his companions.
The origin of Rashton Moody (so he termed himself) was not definitely known to any of the villagers. About a year previous to the date of our story, he made his appearance in Columbia, bearing a pack upon his shoulder, and with him bringing the implements of a surveyor. As a person of his profession happened to be wanted at the time, he was immediately given employment, and had remained in the vicinity ever since. His dress, occupation, and finished manners, at once made him the beau ideal of all the young ladies of the village, to whom his slightest expression was an oracle of wisdom; and in whose pale, thoughtful, half-melancholy countenance, they saw enough to excite their sympathies, together with a world of romance; and consequently, of all their imaginings, he was the hero. But if all fancied him, it was evident that he did not reciprocate; for after a time, he gradually withdrew his company from all save Kate Clarendon; and if there chanced to be a gathering where she was not expected to be present, Rashton Moody was invariably absent. Had Kate not been a great favorite with all, this marked expression of regard for her alone, from one so universally popular, must have made her many enemies among her own sex.
Now, as often happens in such cases, the individual himself, and the preference shown by him for her company, were less agreeable to Kate, than they would have been to almost any other unmarried lady in Columbia. But Kate, as we have said, was a little inclined to be coquettish; so that whatever might be her real feelings, they were concealed by a dissemblance that completely deceived all; and, moreover, it was perfectly natural that one of her turn of mind should feel flattered by the attentions of a personage so much sought for by others, whether she cared for him herself or not. Had Kate expressed the real sentiments of her heart, she would have said that she liked Danvers, could endure Danbury, but that the company of Moody was really disagreeable to her. Notwithstanding all this, however, there was, to her, rare sport in having what she termed three devoted lovers of respectability; and so she encouraged all collectively, but managed to evade committing herself with any individually. Her plan was adopted more for her own amusement, doubtless, than for any other purpose. Her delight was in drawing them on to a certain point, and then, just as the conversation was becoming somewhat serious, adroitly turning it by some light remark foreign to the subject. As she cared less for Moody than either of the others, so she feared him the more; for there was something about him, that, in spite of herself, always made her gloomy, and chilled all the warm impulses of her joyous heart. Could she with propriety have dismissed him, doubtless she would have done so; but to do this, while receiving the attentions of others, would have called for an explanation, and she had none suitable to give. Neither would it do, as she looked upon the matter, to wound his feelings, by treating him less civilly than his rivals. Thus matters stood between the various parties, at the time we have chosen to introduce them to the reader.
"Well, Sir Knight of the Black Armor," said Kate, addressing Moody, in a tone of innocent raillery, after having waited a sufficient time for him to begin the conversation, "how is it that your lips are more sealed than your companions in arms of the Hodden Grey?"
"True love is ever silent," returned Moody, laconically, fixing his dark, piercing eyes upon Kate, in a manner so earnest, as to draw a blush to her cheek.
"Nay," said Kate, rallying, "that is not to the point, sirrah! We were not talking of love."
"Only thinking," observed Moody.
"Nay, sir, I deny that, for myself, I was even thinking of love."
"I cannot say as much for myself," sighed Moody.
"Faith, but you are becoming sentimental," replied Kate, forcing out a ringing laugh, to cover the embarrassment she felt from a remark so pointed. "Come, my gallant cavaliers," she added to all, "will you not dismount, and honor the dwelling of a poor maiden, for a short time?"
"Why, as to that," replied the first speaker, Albert Danvers, "I can say, for myself, that nothing would be more agreeable to me, were it not that I think the errand on which we came can be better done as we sit."
"I agree with you," said Danbury.
"Say on, my noble seniors—I am all attention," replied Kate.
"As I have been appointed spokesman," said Danvers, "I may as well—"
"Not make any blunders," put in Kate, with a laugh.
"Exactly."
"Well?"
"Well, first you must know, fair Miss Clarendon—"
"Stop!" interrupted Kate; "no eulogy on the party present. No flattery to the face, Albert."
"Well, then, you must know, Miss Kate, if you do not already, that a few nights since, in solemn conclave met, the young people of Columbia decided on having a ball—rude, it is true—but still a ball—and the best we can give."
"Hum!—indeed!—Well?"
"And at this ball, it was anxiously hoped, and certainly expected, would be collected all the fair faces of the town."
"Yes?"
"In which case, Kate Clarendon could not be absent."
"Hum!—flattery again."
"Whereupon the query afterward came up, as to which should be the lucky man, out of a certain three, to escort her thither."
"Which was decided—"
"Nay, which has not been decided at all, but left to your own fair self to say."
"How? I do not understand you."
"Why, simply, Miss Kate, you are to choose out of the three before you, which one you will have for your gallant on the occasion."
"In earnest?"
"Earnest, I assure you."
Kate looked at the three mounted young men, for a moment, seriously, and then burst into a wild, merry laugh, and clapped her hands with childish delight.
"Well, if this is not the funniest thing I ever heard of," she exclaimed: "Three young men, riding off to their lady-love together, to be piched from as a farmer would select a sheep from his flock for the slaughter. Well, trot out here, and let me consider.
"First," continued Kate, as if soliloquising, "there is Albert Danvers—a good-looking fellow enough, but then he don't know how to sit his horse properly, keeps his knees too stiff, and is too tall, I think, and broad in the shoulders, to suit my taste. Then there is Orville Danbury—not quite so good-looking as the first, is too short and clumsy, has a face too big, and laughs too much: I can't take him. Lastly, here is Rashton Moody—too tall, too slim, too pale and sallow, dresses too nice, and don't laugh enough; and when he does laugh, makes one have the cold chills. He won't do. Gentlemen," concluded Kate, her dark, sparkling eyes twinkling with merriment, "I have thought the matter over, seriously, and, 'pon my word, I really don't think I shall be able to make a choice."
"Then," said Moody, quickly, "allow me to tender my services alone."
"Why, really, Sir Knight of the Black Armor, I—"
"Unfair! unfair!" cried Albert and Orville. "Kate must make her own selection, or we go back as we came—those are the terms of agreement."
"Terms, or no terms, I shall do as I think proper," replied Moody, haughtily.
"Come, come—no airs here!" returned Danvers, his dark eyes flashing.
"Do you pretend to dictate to me, sir?" retorted Moody, angrily.
"Hold, comrades! you are in the presence of a lady," said Danbury.
"And pretend to come on a mission of peace," rejoined Kate. "I thought you would be at each other's throats soon, when I saw you ride up. Fie! my cavaliers—for shame!"
"Your rebuke is just, and you shall hear no more from me of a quarrelsome nature," replied Danvers. "But come—will you not make a choice between us, for your escort to the ball?"
"I fear to choose now, lest I revive the quarrel," answered Kate, pointedly.
"I pledge you my honor, that I will abide the decision without a word," said Danvers.
"And I," said Danbury.
"I shall do as the others," said Moody, sullenly, compressing his lips, and looking downward.
"I have it!" exclaimed Kategaily, a new idea at the moment striking her. "I have it! I will decide it by a race. I will have my Marston, and mount him, and have five rods the start, and he who overtakes me first, shall be my companion for the ball. What say you, my cavaliers?"
"Agreed!—agreed!"—cried Danvers and Danbury, in a breath.
"I shall take my chance of course," said Moody, drily.
"Mother, where is Icha?" inquired Kate, springing into the house.
"He is at work in the garden, child; but what strange freak have you got in your head now?"
"A race for a lover," answered Kate, laughing; and darting to the door in the rear, the next moment her clear voice was heard calling, at the top of her lungs, the name of Ichabod Longtree.
Presently an answer was returned; and shortly after, the personage bearing the poetical appellation just mentioned, made his appearance. He was a tall, gaunt, bony man of thirty, with a long, thin visage, small, grey, cunning eyes, a large nose and mouth, with teeth projecting, a falling off, double chin, and, taken as a whole, anything but a beauty. For many years, while the Clarendons were in good circumstances, he had served them in the capacity of gardener; and so attached had he become to the family, particularly to his "little pet," as he was wont to term Kate that when he was paid off and discharged, he refused to go, and begged, with tears in his eyes, that he might be allowed to accompany them to the West. For some time, Clarendon tried to dissuade him from this; but finding his arguments of no avail, he at last consented, on condition that he must expect no wages, unless he, Clarendon, again became prosperous. As affection, not money, was the tie which bound Ichabod Longtree to the Clarendons, so he, in consequence, made one of the party, and had remained with them ever since—employing his time as gardener, hostler, and an attendantin general upon the ladies.
"Well, Icha," said Kate, as the personage in question made his ap pearance, "saddle Marston, and bring him to the door. I am off for a race."
"Yes, and some day you'll jest git your neck broke in a race, my little pet," returned Ichabod.
"Never you mind my neck, but do as I bid you!"
"O, don't fear me; I'll go straightway;" and off went Ichabod for the horse.
In a few minutes, the coal-black pony of Kate stood before the door, arching his proud neck, and pawing the ground, impatient to be off. Kate, meantime, had thrown on her riding-dress, and in another moment she was in the saddle.
"Now, my cavaliers," she said, gaily, "square your horses' heads, and wait the word."
Complying with her request, each put his beast on a line with his neighbor, while Kate rode out in front, to a suitable distance, and turning upon her saddle, said:
"Ready, all! Now!"
At the last word, her riding-whip touched the flank of Marston, and away bounded the fiery beast with great velocity, and forward leaped the horses of the rivals, in eager chase.
It was a beautiful and novel sight. Erect upon her rushing steed, motionless as if carved there from marble, sat Kate Clarendon, her tightened reins held gracefully in her snowy hands, speeding onward fearlessly, amid the labyrinthian forest, gradually gaining upon her pursuers, who now, becoming separated from each other, somewhat, by the difference in the speed of their horses, were spurring and whipping forward with all their might. On, on they dashed—startling the tenants of the wood—causing the birds to flutter and twitter above them, or leave what they considered a dangerous vicinity— while ever and anon the ringing voice and laugh of Kate, echoing through the forest, urged on her pursuers almost to desperation. Forward they dashed, for half an hour, on a circuitous route, when the horse of Moody, being of exceedingly good bottom, began to distance his rivals, and gradually gain upon the pony of Kate. This Kate perceived with any thing but satisfaction, and urged Marston to do his best. In vain, however, did her noble animal renew all his powers of velocity; in vain fell the whip upon his flanks; he had met with more than his equal; and steadily the beast of Moody came bounding forward, every step shortening the distance between them. At last, Kate, who saw she must soon be overtaken, sought, by a manoeuver, to turn, pretend to yield, and then suddenly pass Moody, and by a straight course, gain her home in advance of him, and thus clear herself; but the design was anticipated— the effort failed—and two minutes after, the hand of Moody was laid upon her bridlerein.
"I have won!" he said, his black eyes sparkling, and a rather malicious smile of triumph hovering around his almost white and closely compressed lips. "I have won, Miss Clarendon—fairly won."
"You have won, that is certain, whether fairly or not," replied Kate, pettishly, with a vexed expression on her usually laughing countenance.
"I have won, by your own proposal, at all events," he repled, rather coolly, "and of course I shall claim my reward."
"Of course you will claim it," rejoined Kate, pointedly, "and of course you will get it."
"You seem displeased, Miss Clarendon."
"Hamlet says, `I know not seems,' " answered Kate, drily. "Let us return."
"Perhaps if one of my rivals had won, you would have been better suited," observed Moody, fastening his eyes keenly upon his fair companion.
Kate made no reply; but jerking the rein of her beast rather hastily, started him into a gallop.
A cloud suddenly came over the face of Moody, and he placed his hands to his temples, as if in pain. Then dark thoughts could he traced in the gleam of his eyes, and a cold, sinister smile played around his mouth. Then muttering—"If you tread upon a serpent, beware of his fangs!" He tightened his rein, and, spurring forward, soon overtook Kate, who was riding in advance. When he reached her side, his countenance had resumed its usual expression. On their way to the residence of our heroine, they were joined by the others, who, after passing some few dry congratulations on the termination of the chase, and perceiving all was not right, relapsed into silence. The remainder of the way was passed without a word from either party. At the door of the cottage, each took leave of Kate, rather ceremoniously, and then departed— Moody by himself—not one of the four pleased with the morning's work.
—Mrs. C. H. W. Esling.
Do I not in plainest truth tell you,
I do not, nor I cannot love you?
—Shakspeare
Repulse upon repulse met ever—
Yet gives not o'er, though desperate of success.
—Milton.
At an early hour, on the evening of the ball alluded to in the preeeding chapter, Rashton Moody, finely mounted, rode up to the door of the Clarendons. Kate had previously completed her preparations, and in a few minutes she was mounted on her beast, and bearing him company to the place appointed. But although she strictly complied with her agreement, in accompanying him to the ball, yet it was clearly evident to Moody, by her manner, that his company was not so agreeable to her as he could have wished. All his efforts to draw her into conversation, only resulted, on her part, in the utterance of monosyllables; so that, in a short time, he gave up the attempt in despair; and the remainder of the ride over the plain was passed in silence—both occupied with thoughts of their own—those of Moody, we fear, not being of the most harmless nature imaginable.
The ball turned out to be a fine affair—at least for those days— and great hilarity prevailed. Kate, on the present occasion, however, seemed not herself. She danced, it is true; was lively and even gay; but those who observed her narrowly— and there were many who did, among whom were Danvers and Danbury—perceived that the feeling of joyousness, usually so apparent on such occasions, was sadly wanting. Some, who noticed it, even went so far as to question her on the subject; but she even replied, with a forced laugh, that her looks must belie her, as she never felt more cheerful in her life.
Moody, too, was more cold and distant than usual; rarely spoke to any, and then very briefly; seldom smiled, and altogether seemed in an ill-humor. But the dance, notwithstanding, went gaily on; the fiddler, to the best of his ability, "discoursed his eloquent music," and a stranger, to have seen the sparkling eyes, the rosy cheeks radiant with smiles, and the bounding forms, as they whirled over the floor, and heard the jests, and the laugh, and peradventure the gay song, from such as chose not to be occupied with the "fantastic toe," would have pronounced it a happy assemblage, without one present who did not feel what all seemed to enjoy.
Between ten and eleven o'clock the company was invited to partake of refreshments, and all crowded to the adjoining apartment, where ample justice was done to the viands before them, and where the same hilarious feelings continued to prevail. As soon as this was over, Kate announced her intention of returning immediately. On hearing this, every one looked surprised, and a dozen crowded around her at once.
"Are you ill?" inquired one.
"Or displeased with the ball?" said another.
"Or grown exceedingly sober of late, and wish to keep good hours?" added a third.
"None of these, I assure you," answered Kate.
"What is it then?" asked a fourth.
"O, I see through it," cried a fifth, a young man, rubbing his hands together, in a manner expressive of mirth about to be enjoyed: "I see through it. She's not been herself the whole evening, and I can guess the cause."
"Out with it, then," cried one.
"Shall I tell, Kate?" asked the young man, with a leer, and smiling mischievously.
"Certainly," replied our heroine, a little sarcastically; "if you know anything, tell it, and put these anxious friends out of suspense. Don't you see they are dying for your knowledge?"
"Yes, let us have it, Charley, do!" put in a merry girl of sixteen.
"Why, then," said Charley, maling his face long and serious, "you must know my most worthy friends, that Miss Kate Clarendon, the beautiful being here before you, has had a quarred with her lover, Mr. Rashton Moody, and is anxious to make an escape early, in order she may have time and opportunity to put all to rights again before she sleeps."
A hearty laugh followed this speech, with cries of "Good! good!" "That is it, for the world!" "Stupid we did not see it before."
The features of Kate flushed, an angry frown came on her brow, her eyes flashed, and she bit her lips in sheer vexation.
"The gentleman informant," she said, with a touch of severity, "always was remarkable for his penetration; and I have no doubt he could see completely through a mill-stone, as we say in the East— provided, that is, there were a hole through it eight inches in diameter. For once, however, allow me, who ought to know, to say, with all deference to his superior judgment, that he is most decidedly mistaken. Ladies and gentlemen, I wish you all a happy evening!" and turning upon her heel abruptly, Kate, with a dignified, but graceful step, moved away, and disappeared from the apartment. Each of the group looked at each other in surprise and with a crest-fallen countenance; for not one, by his or her innocent jest and laugh, had dreamed of giving offense.
Moody, who a little apart had watched the whole proceedings, at once took an abrupt leave, and hastened after Kate; and presently both were mounted, and riding over the plain toward the house of the latter.
The atmosphere was very clear, and the bright moon, which had risen an hour before their departure, shed a soft luster over all, and bathed the deep forest of the plain in a flood of mellow light—which, as it came crinkling through the slightly rustling leaflets overhead, and fell upon the soft earth like quivering beads of quicksilver, made the scene superbly enchanting. For some distance nothing was said; and the hollow trampling of the horses' feet, the snapping of some dry twig, the sighing of the forest, and the chirp and hum of the thousand night-watchers, were the only sounds that broke the otherwise death-like stillness. At length Moody, desirous of starting a conversation, said:
"Somehow, Miss Clarendon, you seem low-spirited to-night, and have left the party earlier than is your wont. Has anything of importance transpired to mar your happiness?"
"I cannot say there has," replied Kate, briefly.
"Then why not be gay, as usual?"
"People do not feel at all times alike, and I suppose I have a right to be serious occasionally."
"O, certainly, Miss Clarendon; no one has a better right. I merely spoke, because I take a deep interest in your happiness."
"Indeed, sir! O, I was not aware of that," answered Kate, in a tone of provoking coolness.
Moody bit his lips, and moved nervously on his saddle, for he felt severely the sting of her words. "I am sorry," he said, at length, that you have not ere this discovered the motive I had in addressing you; and that, of all others, it should surprise you that I sought your happiness."
Kate made no reply; and after waiting for one a few moments, Moody resumed:
"You must have perceived, Miss Clarendon, or at least you should have been aware, that my attentions to you thus long, have not been attentions of mere gallantry, but have sprung from deeper and I trust more sacred feelings."
"To tell you the truth," replied Kate, in the same indifferent tone she had hitherto used, "I have never troubled myself enough about the matter to perceive anything the kind."
"What am I to understand from this?"
"Whatever you choose."
Again Moody bit his lips, and remained for a short time silent; during which he passed an openspot in the forest, where the moon shone full upon his face, and exhibited features now grown dark and fearful with a thousand angry thoughts, over which played a bitter, sinister smile.
"If I conjecture rightly," he said at length, "my company must be most disagreeable to you."
"You might be more in error," was the consoling reply.
"Then wherefore have you silently encouraged me so long? why have you not made this manifest before?"
"Perhaps there has been no occasion for my doing so."
"I see how it is: you have coquetted me, and led me to make a fool of myself."
"You are quick-sighted."
"Not uncommonly so, or I should have seen through your base artifice ere this."
"Sir!" said Kate, angrily, "your language is unbecoming a gentleman; and if you cannot carry a more civil tongue in your head, I pray you leave me, and I will find my way home by myself."
"Not so fast, my lady, for I design doing no such thing; and moreover, my language, which you are pleased to think uncivil, is only in keeping with your own."
"You wish to quarrel with me, sir!"
"Not at all; I wish to treat you as a lady, if you will allow me to do so."
"Then why not cease your conversation, and continue silent?"
"Because I do not choose to do so."
"Indeed!"
"Ay, Miss Clarendon, indeed!"
"Then," rejoined Kate, pettishly, "I will allow you the estimable privilege of conversing with yourself, while I remain a listener only."
"Nay, but you must talk also," returned Rashton, riding up close to her side, and laying his hand upon her bridle-rein.
"How, sir! what means this?" cried Kate, indignantly, not without some alarm, however.
"I said you must talk, also," replied Moody, coolly.
"Ha! you would force me to talk, eh?"
"I simply said you must," answered the young man, with a strong emphasis on the last word.
"What would you have?" asked Kate, her heart now fluttering with a strange, undefinable fear.
"I would hold a conversation on what has now become, to me at least, a grave subject."
"And that is—"
"Love."
"I am not in the humor to talk now, on what I do not understand."
"For the matter of that, it is easily comprehended."
"Well, sir, what would you say?"
"That I love you."
"Umph! your actions show it."
"Ay, I agree with you, they do show it, in everything I do. Think you, if I did not love you, Miss Clarendon, I would have sought your company, to the exclusion of all other?"
"May be so—like things are often done."
"Not by one of my nature and temperament."
"As to that, I cannot say; but before the matter goes any further, allow me to observe, that if you love me, I am sorry for it; as there is no reciprocity of feeling, and consequently can be no encouragement on my part given."
"Is this really so?" rejoined Moody, with something like a sigh.
"Really so, I assure you."
"It pains me to hear it, for I had hoped it were otherwise. But tell me candidly—do you love another?"
"That I suppose I have a right to keep secret."
"And that, on the same principle, I feel I have a right to know."
"I am not aware, sir, what constitutes your right to any such knowledge," answered Kate, drily.
"That matters not; but again to the question: Do you, or do you not love another?"
"I decline answering, sir," replied Kate, haughtily; "but whether I do or not, understand one thing, I do not, and never can love you."
Again Moody bit his lips, until the blood almost sprang through; and could Kate have seen the dark, devilish expression on his features then, she would have trembled with very fear. At length he spoke, but in a voice so altered and husky, that she started, thinking it was another who addressed her.
"Weigh well your words, girl," he said, "and beware of their import, for I am one that cannot be trifled with. If you have trifled with me thus far—if you have led me on to hope, without a cause, save to make an idle jest—then the consequences rest with yourself."
"I do not understand you," said Kate, in some trepidation.
"I am fully aware of that— neither do you know me. I am not a foot-ball, maiden, to take quietly the kicks of the world, merely for the amusement of others. I am— but I will not say what; you may some day learn to your sorrow."
"This is strange speech, sir!"
"Perhaps it is to you—to me it is simply natural."
"But at what do you aim, Mr. Moody? Am I to understand that you threaten me?"
"You have said that you do not, and never can, love me."
"I repeat it."
"Then wherefore did you lead me to suppose otherwise?—wherefore did you encourage my addresses?"
"I deny that I did. You called upon me at different times—others did the same—and I treated you as I did them, civilly, and nothing more. You never asked me for my company, my hand, nor my love; and if you chose to call, it was not my place to tell you to desist, so long as you behaved yourself as a gentleman. I have yet to be informed, sir, that the calls of a gentleman upon a lady, are tacit acknowledgements, on her part, that she desires him above all others, and that, as a matter of course, she must love him, and yield him a right to inquire into all her thoughts and actions. You should be aware, sir, that it is the duty of a lady, to treat with respect those who call upon her, provided they move in society her equals and behave themselves properly, whether she secretly admires them or not."
"And to this duty, then, as you call it, I suppose I am indebted for all the favors I have received at your hands?"
"To nothing else, I assure you."
"Had I known this in time, before my mind was fully set upon you—before I had received what I considered secret encouragement from yourself, that my passion was returned—it might perhaps have saved us both a world of trouble. But it is too late now; and, as I said before, the consequences must rest with yourself. To be plain, Kate Clarendon, I love you—love you with a wild, burning, consuming passion, that, unless I can attain my object, will destroy me."
"But I do not love you, and that should be sufficient to destroy that passion."
"It is not, though. You may be as cold as marble, and yet my passion for you will be unabated; in sooth, if anything, methinks its fire would burn more fiercely, or be smothered for a time, only to burst out in a terrible, devouring, destructive flame. No, Kate, the die is cast; there is no alternative— you must be mine!"
"Never!" cried Kate, energetically.
"Nay, be not too sure of that. I have staked my all upon it, and it is life or death. You little know the nature of him now by your side, girl. Sooner than you should escape me, and be another's, I would bury a knife in your heart, draw it forth, and with the blood still warm upon the blade, plunge it into my own, and thus perish with you."
"Oh God!" cried Kate, covering her face with her hands; "you chill my blood with horror."
"I cannot help it. I must let you know the consequences of a refusal. Be mine, or die!"
"Let us talk no more of this, now," said Kate, shuddering.
"Ay, but now is the time; an opportunity for such conversation may not soon present itself again, and the moments must be improved as they pass."
While conversing thus, the two had been riding steadily forward, and, just at this moment, a glimpse of Kate's residence could be seen through the trees. Never, to her eyes, had it looked so enchanting as now; so eager was she to escape from her companion, whose strange, wild language was well calculated to alarm her. A moving light, flashing through a window of the cottage, assured Kate that some one was astir; and instantly she felt her spirits rise, and her courage revive.
"See!" she cried, in something resembling her usually light, silvery tone; "we are almost back to the race-ground. Yonder light must be carried by Icha. Poor soul! he always waits up for his little pet, as he calls me."
"The more reason, then, that we should not be in a hurry," returned Moody, taking hold of Kate's rein, and stopping both horses.
"How, sir! what means this?" cried Kate, angrily, and in some alarm.
"It means, girl, that I am determined to improve the present opportunity, to bind you by solemn oath, to myself."
"Are you mad, sir, to talk thus? Do you think that I am the person to tamely submit to your insults in this manner? Unhand that rein, sir, or I will raise an alarm that will bring to me such aid as will chastise you for your presumption."
"Nay, speak not so haughtily; you are not yet out of my power," returned Moody, in a low, determined tone. "If you wish to behold your friends again, with honor, swear you will be mine, and your road is free—otherwise (and he grasped her rein more tightly), you shall know what a bold man may dare."
"Swear to be yours, I never will," answered Kate, "let the result be what it may."
"By heavens! then," said Moody, "you see not the inside of yon cottage again."
As he spoke, he struck both horses with his riding-whip, and, as the fiery beasts reared under the smart, and attempted to rush forward, he suddenly wheeled their heads in a direction opposite the cottage, and would have dashed into the mazes of the great forest, had not Kate suddenly uttered a prolonged and piercing shriek, and, with the agility of an accomplished equestrienne, disengaged herself from the saddle, slid to the ground, and darted away toward the cottage. Perceiving that she had escaped him, Moody reined in his horse, leaped to the ground himself, and instantly gave chase. Kate now uttered shriek upon shriek, and sped forward with all her might; but her dress soon became entangled with the shrubbery, and in another moment an arm of Moody was thrown around her, and a hand placed upon her mouth.
"Fiends seize me!" he cried, "if yon escape me now, though all hell were in pursuit!" and lifting her as though she were an infant, he instantly sprang back to his horse, and attempted to remount; but the struggles of Kate, and the uneasiness of his beast, prevented him. By this time, lights were seen flashing near the cottage, and distant voices were heard, lending hope to the one and despair to the other.
"Too late, I see," growled Moody; "then there is no alternative;" and instantly a long, bright blade flashed in the moonlight, above the head of our heroine.
Kate saw and shrank away from it, with an agonizing shriek; but this could not save her; she still saw it gleaming—already was it on its descent—and she shut her eyes in horror, and tho't her fate was sealed. Already was it near her heart—a second more, and her spirit would be flown—when suddenly it was checked by some obstruction, and the next moment Kate found herself released, and the villain who had sought her life stretched upon the ground.
She looked up, and, in the dim light which the moon made among the trees, saw the tall, shadowy form of the Necromancer standing over her.
"Girl," said the strange being, "thy destiny is not thus to die. Arise!"
"God bless you, sir!" cried Kate, springing to her feet, and grasping his rough hand with a warm pressure, while tears of joy started to her eyes. "God bless you, Luther."
"I did not save thee, girl; it was a Higher Power," said the other, solemnly; and he raised his bare arm majestically in the moonlight, and his fore-finger pointed upward.
At this moment Moody gave a groan, and rose into a sitting posture.
"Villain!" cried Luther, seizing him by the collar, and jerking him to his feet: "Villain! did I not know that thou wert sent here as a messenger of evil, to fulfill the decrees of fate, I would crush thee as a worthless worm!"
"Ha!" exclaimed Moody, starting back, and gazing upon the other, for a moment, while his whole frame shook with fear: "Blind Luther! you here? I thought you far away."
"I told thee," rejoined the Necromancer, almost fiercely, "it was my unenviable destiny to be near thy evil deeds—to follow thee, as the carrion-eater the wounded wolf."
"This way," said a voice, which Kate instantly recognized to be her father's; and with a cry of joy, she sprang toward him, and the next moment was clasped in his arms, while Ichabod, his companion, exclaimed in alarm:
"Why, darling pet, what's happened?"
"Ay, what means this? and who are those I hear yonder?" inquired her father, anxiously.
"Kate instantly proceeded to detail what had occurred, in as few words as possible; but ere she had concluded, her father sprang forward, exclaiming:
"Where is the villain?"
Moody would have fled, but for the iron grasp which Luther laid upon his shoulder, and the imperative command:
"Stay! and behold your victim."
As Clarendon caught sight of Moody, he strode up to him like a madman, and, seizing him by the collar, smote him on his face several times, with the palm of his hand.
"Now go, disgraced and worthless dog!" he said, releasing him, "and tell your friends, if you have any, that you are as far beneath them, as Hell is beneath Heaven!"
For something like a minute, Moody stood over-powered with rage; his dark eyes darting forth fiery gleams, like those of an enraged wild beast; his hands clenched, his teeth grinding together, and white foam issuing from his lips. Then he started, with a howl of fury, and felt for his knife, which, fortunately, was not about him. Finding he was foiled in every way, he turned upon his heel, and shouting hoarsely, "I will be revenged!" darted out of sight.
"He prophesies and speaks the truth!" said the Necromancer, solemnly.
"Strange man, I thank you with my whole soul!" said Clarendon, advancing to Luther and grasping his hand. "You have saved the idol of my heart—my more than life."
"Would I could the latter, as the former," replied the Necromancer, mysteriously.
"What mean you?"
"Full of life and hope thou must, Early seek thy native dust,"
was the no less mysterious answer of Luther."I pray you be more lucid in your explanation, if, as I doubt not, your words hold a meaning," said Clarendon.
"O yes, do, now," said Ichabod, coaxingly, approaching the fortuneteller; "do, now, tell us what you mean, good Mr. Luther, and I'll see that you get good fare, as long as you've a mind to stay with us, if it's to next January."
Luther drew up his form erect, and waving his hand with dignity, replied:
"What light is that yonder?" added Luther, pointing toward the dwelling of Clarendon, as he concluded his mysterious rhymes.
Each looked in the direction indicated, but saw nothing; and turning round, Clarendon was about to ask the Necromancer what he meant, when, to his astonishment, he found the latter had disappeared. He called his name several times, in a loud voice, but no answer was returned. Ichabod, determined that the Necromancer should not escape without his full quota of thanks, at once darted into the surrounding bushes, and sought him in every direction, but in vain.
"I am half inclined to be superstitious myself," said Clarendon. "But come, darling Kate, let us return on foot by ourselves, while Ichabod looks after Marston;" and taking the hand of his daughter in his own, both set off toward the cottage, pondering upon the villainous conduct of Moody, and the strange appearance, disappearance, and language of the Necromancer.
—T. D. English.
Is there a crime
Beneath the roof of Heaven, that stains the soul
Of men with more infernal hue, than damn'd
Assassination?
—Cibber.
Dead! dead! ay, dead!—forever dead to those That loved him!
At an early hour on the morning succeeding the night of events just detailed, Ichabod Longtree, who being in his way something of a gossip, was stirring betimes, that he might be first with his wonderful news among the villagers. With a mysterious air, and sundry additions and embellishments, where he thought them necessary, he told his tale to a gaping crowd, who, with feelings of indignation too deep for words, at once proceeeded to the residence of Moody, with the intention of punishing him according to his deserts. Had they found him, under the excitement they were then laboring, it is more than propable the affair would have had a tragical termination; but he was gone, and no one knew whither, so that pursuit was out of the question. The whole affair created a great sensation, and was a common topic for several days. As a story looses nothing by being repeated, particularly when it borders on the marvelous, so the tale in question, as it went from one to another, became distorted to a wonderful degree— until at last an old lady, in telling it for the twentieth time, ac tually vouched for the truth of the assertion, that Moody had placed the knife against the heart of Kate, and was pressing with all his strength upon the handle, without making the least impression, when a dark cloud suddenly enveloped him, and Luther appeared in a flame of fire, and seized and bore him off, amid terrible thunderings, and the most awful shrieks of woe that mortal ear ever heard.
As for Kate herself, her gay spirits seemed suddenly to have left her. She grew reserved and silent, and withal, not a little melancholy. In vain her friends—who after the events we have detailed, flocked to see her in numbers—tried to enliven her by their conversation, and frequent sallies of wit. She said little to any, and if she smiled at all, it was one of those wan smiles, which, contrasting as it did so forcibly with her former ringing laugh, was really painful to observe. From a laughing, frolicsome, light-hearted girl, she seemed changed to a serious, thoughtful woman; and all so suddenly, as to make it rather marvelous. It was evident that something preyed upon her mind, and depressed her spirits, and many were the conjectures concerning it. Some hinted that she loved Moody, and that his base actions had destroyed her confidence in him; and though she had torn him forever from her heart, yet there had been left an aching void, from which time alone could relieve her. Others said it was owing to the fright she had received, and that in a few days she would be herself again. But these were conjectures only, for Kate kept her secret close locked in her own breast; and when questioned on the matter, she ever managed to answer in such a way that none were made the wiser for it.
Thus matters ran along for several weeks, and flowery spring was just taking leave of the year, to give bright summer her accustomed place and reign over the advancing golden harvest. Since that eventful night, Rashton Moody had never been seen nor heard of by any of the villagers; and the circumstances connected with his disappearance, having been discussed time and again, were now becoming worn out topics, of but little interest to any. Luther, too, had not since made his appearance, and it was doubted by some that he ever would. Danvers and Danbury had both called upon Kate, separately, some two or three times; but finding their reception very cold, had at last given up their visits, in despair of ever being able to win her affections.
It was about this time, say some six weeks from the night of the ball, that Kate Clarendon and her mother were seated a little apart, in their own dwelling, engaged upon some coarse sewing. The night—for it was an early hour in the evening— was very dark, and now and then a flash of lightning, followed by the rumbling sound of distant thunder, together with a cool damp breeze, which blew steadily from the west, announced that a shower was fast approaching. For some time mother and daughter kept silence—both intently occupied with the work in their hands—when a vivid flash of lightning, that seemed to crinkle and play upon their needles, made them involuntarily start together and utter exclamations of surprise.
"How near, and how loud!" cried Mrs. Clarendon, alluding to the lighting, and the thunder which followed with a crashing report immediately after. "I was not aware that the shower was so near us."
"O, I wish father would come," said Kate; "I always feel so gloomy in a thunder-storm, and so frightened, too."
"You have no cause for being frightened now, Kate," replied Mrs. Clarendon, "more than at any other time. We are all in the hands of God, at all times, and are just as safe, if he so wills it, when the elements are in dire commotion, as when every thing is clear and tranquil."
"I know it, mother; but at the same time, I cannot avoid feeling more timid, when I behold dark clouds lowering around me, darting forth their angry lightnings, and hear the mighty thunders that seem to shake the earth beneath them, than when all is bright and clear."
"It is natural, my child, that we should feel our danger more sensibly, when we can see it; but, nevertheless, it is no nearer us at such times than at others."
"But I wish father would come!" rejoined Kate, rising, and advancing to the door. "How dark!" she continued, as she gazed forth; "and see yon cloud! how angry it looks! and how full it is of electricity! Hark! mother, do you not hear a roaring sound?"
"I do," answered Mrs. Clarendon, approaching the door herself and listening. "It is the wind and rain coming through the forest.
"How mournfully it wails," sighed Kate, shuddering. "Oh, my blood feels chilly in my veins. It seems as if somebody were dying, and this were the funeral dirge. Ha! the lightning again!—how fearful!" exclaimed she, starting back, as at the moment a bright flash almost blinded her, and a crash of thunder, following close, made the cabin tremble to its center.
"Better stand away from the door, Kate," said the dame, anxiously, retreating herself.
"I thought," replied Kate, "you just now implied that all times and places were alike as to danger?"
"I said we should not fear, child, at one time more than another; that we were all in the hands of a just God, who watches over us; but I did not say it would be right to needlessly expose ourselves; and it is dangerous standing in a door, during a severe thunder-storm, from the tendency of the lightning to follow a current of air. But see— yonder!" added Mrs. Clarendon, pointing toward the forest; "methought I just now saw the figure of a man; perhaps we had better shut and bolt the door."
"O, it is Icha ' exclaimed Kate, joyfully, as at the moment another flash revealed to her the tall, ungainly form of the gardener, hurrying forward with immensely long strides. "Poor Icha is afraid of a drenching, judging by his movements; but is it not singular that I did not see father with him!"
"He must be near, though, I think," returned the mother of Kate, rather uneasily, moving toward the door again herself.
A few large drops of rain now began to patter on the leaves of the trees, and on the roof of the cabin, while a loud roaring, like that of a near water-fall, announced the body of the shower to be near at hand. The next moment Ichabod Longtree came bounding into the room, nearly out of breath, bearing a rifle on his shoulder.
"Well, Icha," exclaimed Kate, hurriedly, "where is father?"
"Why, isn't he here?" asked Ichabod, in reply, looking round the apartment, as if he expected to behold the object of inquiry.
"Did he not go with you?" inquired Mrs. Clarendon, quickly, slightly turning pale.
"Why, yes," replied the gardener, "we went together, and kept together till near dark, when he said as how he'd take a deer I'd just then shot, and start for home. I 'spected to find him here when I come."
"Strange," said Mrs. Clarendon, "that he has not made his appearance. How long since you parted with him?"
"It's more'n two hours."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the dame, in alarm; "so long ago, and he not here yet! How far off was he then?"
"Not more'n half a mile—jest on t'other side of the Miami."
"I fear something has happened him," said Kate.
"Maybe he gin chase arter another deer, like I did," replied Ichabod, consolingly." "'Tisn't best to be alarmed, I reckon."
"He would not be likely to do that, I think, so near night," observed Mrs. Clarendon, in some trepidation. "I fear, with Kate, that something has happened of a serious nature. Perhaps he has been killed, or captured by the savages; for I understand one or two have lately been seen prowling about the vicinity."
"God forbid!" cried Kate, covering her face with her hands; and at the moment the words of the Necromancer seemed ringing in her ears.
"But where have you been, Ichabod, since you separated from him?" inquired Mrs. Clarendon.
"Why, ye see, we both on us started out for to hunt some deer," answered the gardener, "and a long, dry chase we had on't; for some how the pesky critters seemed to know we were arter 'em, and so kept out o' the way. I reckon we went much as five miles up the Miami, and didn't see one—though we seed some fresh tracks occasionally— and so we concluded we'd give in and come home. When we got most home, say half a mile off, we somehow stumbled on to one that hadn't kept quite so good look-out as the rest, and him I shot straightway. This started up another, that looked liked he might be shot, if a body could get near enough; and so I told Mr. Clarendon, that if he'd see that home, I'd try my legs and ammunition for another. He said he would, and off I sot, and a confounded long chase I had, and didn't catch it at last—the scamp of a critter that it was! and when I got started coming home, I found it gitting right dark. I 'spected he'd be here, and have some on't cooked when I got here sartin."
By this time the rain was pouring down in torrents, the wind blew a hurricane, the lightning flashed almost incessantly, and the thunder came peal upon peal, with terrific and deafening sound.
"Merciful Heaven! he could not live in such a storm as this!" exclaimed Kate. "Hark! that crash! it was like a falling tree."
"Possibly his burthen may have delayed him, and finding the shower upon him, he has taken shelter in the hollow of some old sycamore," suggested Mrs. Clarendon.
"But you forget, mother," rejoined Kate, "that two long hours have elapsed since Icha left him; and surely he would have reached home before this, unless something had happened of a serious nature."
"Soon's this storm's over, I'll start off in sarch," said Ichabod.
"Where is Bowler?" asked Kate, quickly.
"He went with him," replied the gardener.
"Ha! a happy thought strikes me!" exclaimed Kate, with animation. "The noble brute will obey me above all others; and if he hears my voice, he will come hither immediately."
Saying this, she stepped to the door and opened it; but the storm was raging so fiercely, that it was found impossible to make the proposed trial. For half an hour the wind and rain continued unabated, when the former gradually began to die away, and the latter to slacken, while the lightning less vivid, and the thunder more distant, told that the main force of the shower had passed. It was now that Kate made the trial, by elevating her voice, and uttering a clear, musical call, that could be heard echoing far away through the forest. All listened, but heard no answer. Again she called, but still deep silence followed. The third and last trial was made, when, to the gratification of each, the well known yelp of Bowler was heard far away.
"He comes! he comes!" cried Kate and her mother joyfully, in the same breath.
Another call, and another yelp succeeded—but much nearer, showing that the brute was making rapid progress toward them. Presently a rattling was heard among the bushes near by, and the next moment the noble animal came bounding forward, shaking the wet from his shaggy hair, and uttering a mournful howl.
"Where is your master, Bowler?" asked Kate, stooping down to pat his head.
The dog looked up in her face, as if conscious of what she said, and then gave vent to a low, mournful whine, that ended at last in a loud, dismal howl, which made the hearts of each tremble with a strange, undefinable fear; then springing away, he took the backward track and disappeared, in spite of the calls of Kate to the contrary.
"Oh, God! I fear the worst," she exclaimed, bursting into tears.
"Don't cry, my little pet—don't!" began Ichabod, consolingly. "It al'ays makes me feel age rish to hear you. I'll go straightway and hunt up your father, for he can't be far off."
"And I will accompany you," cried Kate, seizing her hood and placing it on her head. "Come, quick, get the lantern, Icha, and let us be moving!"
"Don't go, Kate," said her mother, uneasily; for it is certainly imprudent to venture forth in such a night, and after so severe a storm. Don't go, for it can do no good, and will only delay Ichabod."
"O yes, Katy, pet, don't go now!" added Ichabod, coaxingly, "and as your mother says, 'tisn't prudent."
Kate, however, was used to hav ing her own way, whenever she insisted on it; and as, in the present instance, she had resolved on going, so all that was said to the contrary was said in vain.
"Come, Icha, quick now, and get ready!" was her only reply; and in a few minutes she was gliding through the wood, close upon the heels of her serving man, who bore in one hand a rifle, and in the other a lighted lantern.
The course of our friends from the cottage was nearly due east; and after continuing for some time without speaking, through thick tangles of brush, that saturated them as they passed, and over large fallen trees, that had been uprooted, or broken and cast down by the storm—they reached the Miami, whose now dark, swollen and turbulent waters came rushing past with a cheerless, gloomy sound, which struck upon the ear like the hollow rattling of earth upon a coffin. Luckily a small canoe, kept here for fording the stream when the water was high, was found hid among the bushes on the western bank. Placing this upon the stream, Ichabod, after vainly trying to persuade Kate to remain or return, as sisted her into it, and shoved across— not, however, without some risk, as the current, being strong, rapidly bore them down several yards, before they were able to effect a landing. Reaching the other bank at length in safety, Kate gave another call to Bowler, which, to her gratification, was almost immediately answered. A minute after, the dog came bounding up to her, whining piteously, and then immediately darted away, and up the hill, which here rose somewhat steep above her.
"Oh, God!" exclaimed Kate, clasping her hands in an agony of mind almost unbearable, "I know the worst has happened! God give me strength to go through with it!"
"Let us forward," returned her companion, in a voice slightly faltering; and taking Kate by the hand, he began to ascend the hill at a fast gait.
They had proceeded about a hundred yards further, when they heard a deep groan, which made the blood of both run coldly through their veins; and Kate placing her hands upon her heart, to still its wild throbbings, felt a sickening dizziness come over her, that almost took away the power of motion.
"I can go no further," she gasped, faintly; "I can scarcely stand."
"Courage, darling," whispered Ichabod.
"Help!" cried a voice just above them; "for the love of mercy, if you are friends, hurry forward!"
"Who be you, and what's the matter?" exclaimed Ichabod, springing up the steep, and dragging Kate after him, more dead than alive.
"Who I am, matters not, save that I am friendly to the right," answered the strange voice; and the next moment, the light carried by Ichabod flashed upon the comely form and face of a young man of twenty-three, who was standing alone, rifle in hand, upon a huge rock, not ten feet above their heads, his handsome figure clearly set off against the dark background beyond. "There has been foul play here," he added, solemnly.
"Where? where?" cried Ichabod.
"Just above me," answered the stranger, springing into a thicket of bushes close behind him.
Ichabod quickly gained the thicket, entered it with Kate, and the next moment he stood beside a tall, old oak, and saw the stranger upon his knees, bending over some dark object on the ground, and the dog running to and fro, and whining mournfully. Approaching with the light, Ichabod placed it in a position to reveal a horrid spectacle. As he did so, Kate uttered a loud shriek, and sank down insensible.
"A woman!" exclaimed the stranger, springing to his feet, with a look of surprise; for Kate had kept so much in the shade, that, until now, he had not been aware of the presence of one of the opposite sex. "God of Heaven! what a shock for a woman!" he added, stooping down and raising her in his arms—for under the excitement of the moment, Ichabod thought of nothing, saw nothing, but the object before him.
A sight for a woman indeed! and more, a sight for an affectionate daughter! Upon the ground, his back partly supported by the tree before mentioned, lay the father of Kate, his features pale and ghastly, save where they were rendered more frightful by being spotted with blood. In his breast was a deep wound, and another in his abdomen, from both of which the red current of life was flowing freely, and his vestments were already stained to a frightful extent. Either wound was mortal, and yet Clarendon still survived; though a few gasps, a groan now and then, and a rattling, choking sound in his throat, betokened the rapid approach of death.
"May perdition seize the fiend that's done this!" cried Ichabod, bending over the prostrate form of Clarendon, and bursting into tears. "Speak to me, Mr. Clarendon, my good old friend—speak to me, and tell me who did it!"
A groan was the only answer.
"It might ha' been you, sir," for all I know, cried Ichabod, abruptly, starting up and turning to the stranger, who was now engaged in restoring Kate to consciousness.
"Had I done it, think you I would be here now?" returned the other, sharply, an angry flush mantling his fine, noble countenance.
"How comes ye here at all, then?" asked Ichabod, not well pleased with the other's answer.
"That I will explain to your satisfaction some other time," was the reply. "Look you, now, and see if it be possible to save the wounded man!"
There was a certain lofty superiority in the tone and manner of the speaker, a something which spoke one accustomed to command and be obeyed, that completely over-awed Ichabod, and dispelled his doubts regarding him; and he turned at once to Clarendon, to see if it were possible to save him. As he bent down to examine his wounds and staunch the blood, his eye fell upon a piece of white paper, pinned upon his body, on which was writing in a legible hand; at the same moment the wounded man gave a groan, a gasp, and all was over. Tearing the paper from his body, Ichabod, unable to read, handed it to the stranger, saying:
"Here's something, that maybe you can tell what it means."
"By heavens! it is a clue to the mystery!" exclaimed the other, as his eye fell upon the letters; and he read:
"`So shall perish all my enemies! Wo to them that bear the name of the dead!
Rashton Moody.' ""The damnable villain!" ejaculated Ichabod, catching up his rifle, which was leaning against the oak. "I'm his sowrn foe, straightway, to death; and if we ever do meet, which Heaven grant, by all my hopes of justice, I'll kill him if I can!"
"Rightly spoken, sir, for a bold man. Henceforth I am your friend. Give me your hand!" and the next moment the hand of Ichabod was clasped in that of the stranger.
During this time, the stranger hadbeen supporting Kate with his left arm, and chafing her temples with his right hand; and he now had the satisfaction of seeing her gradually revive. At length she opened her eyes, gazed around her with a bewildered air, and exclaimed:
"Where am I? and who are you, sir?"
"You are safe, fair lady," answered the stranger, in a mild, soothing tone, very different from the one in which he had addressed Ichabod. "You are safe, maiden, and in the hands of one who would suffer death sooner than see harm befall you."
"I do believe he says true, darling," observed the gardener.
"Ha! Icha!" cried Kate, wildly, her conciousness fairly regained; "I remember now—my father— where—what—oh, God!" and she buried her face in her hands, and her form shook convulsively.
"Be calm, fair maiden," said the stranger, tenderly; "be tranquil I pray you."
Kate made a sudden bound, sprang from his arms, and, ere she could be prevented, threw herself upon the corpse of her father.
"Oh, father," she exclaimed, in tones of anguish, "father—speak to your Kate!—speak to me!— What! no answer!—he never refused to answer me before. Great God! I have it now!—he is dead! Yes, dead! dead! dead!" she shrieked, wildly. Then she burst into tears and lamentations, while Ichabod stood and gazed upon her like one stultified, and the stranger, placing his hands to his eyes, brushed away a tear.
"I have seen some hard scenes," he said, "but none that moved me like this. She must be removed," he added, touching Ichabod on the shoulder. "Gently, my worthy friend, let us remove her."
Ichabod drew a long sigh, that seemed like a gasp, and signified his assent to the stranger's proposition by simply nodding his head.
"Come, Kate, my darling pet," he said, stooping down to her, "let's return, and I'll see to having your father taken care on."
"Yes, lady, do!" urged the stranger; "and I pledge you my honor, as a gentleman, that whatever can be done, shall be done, to your satisfaction, in all that pertains to this unfortunate affair."
"You are very kind, sir," answered Kate, rising slowly to her feet, and, by a master effort, commanding her feelings so as to speak somewhat calmly; "and I feel confident, from your look and voice, that you can be trusted fully. You will pardon me, I trust, for my wild manner. The loss of a father, and one so affectionate (here the voice of Kate died away to a whisper, and she placed her hand to her throat as if to prevent strangulation), and—and—by foul means too—is no light affair."
"It is terrible!" rejoined the stranger, with emotion; "and God, who sees the hearts of all, knows that I sympathize with you and yours most deeply; and could I, by any sacrifice, ease you, fair lady, of a single pang, that sacrifice should be freely made."
"Tell—me—truly;—he—he—is dead—is he—he not?" gasped Kate.
The stranger bent over, felt of the corpse in several places, and answered sadly:
"I fear he is."
For a moment Kate stood with her hands to her eyes, while her whole form shook fearfully; then withdrawing them, she said:
"I will endeavor to be more calm. If you will bear the body of my father to the cottage, I will go before with the light."
A look of surprise and admiration lighted up the countenance of the stranger, and he said, as if to himself:
"She who can so command herself on an occasion like this—show so much nerve—can be no ordinary being. Lady," he added to Kate, respectfully, "your request shall be obeyed. Come, my friend," he continued, touching Ichabod, who was now standing with his hands locked behind him, his chin dropped upon his bosom, his eyes fastened upon the dead, and apparently heeding nothing that had been spoken since his own remarks to Kate: "Come, my friend, let us tarry here no longer. I will assist you in carrying the corpse down to the dwelling of this fair lady."
In a few minutes a rough kind of litter was prepared, on which having
laid the mortal remains of George Clarendon, Ichabod and the stranger,
preceded by Kate, bore it slowly forward down the descent. Reaching the
Miami, the party entered the canoe, and paddled across in safety. As they
were about raising the litter to proceed again, the dog, which had kept
them company, uttered a low growl, and, at the same moment, a deep voice
was heard chanting:
"Where the parent stem is broken,
'Neath the tree that's old and oaken—
When the night-wind cool is blowing,
O'er the life-blood warmly flowing—
By unchanging Fate's decree,
And Almighty Destiny,
One shall stand thou sawest never,
Yet shalt see and love forever."
"Who speaks thus?" inquired the stranger, drawing a pistol, and preparing to rush into the thicket.
"One who knows both thee and the future," answered Blind Luther the Necromancer, stepping forth from his covert.
"I know not you," returned the other, haughtily, "nor why you appear here at such a time, chanting such mystic words. A foul murder has just been done, and I feel myself called upon to arrest all suspicious persons found in the vicinity. Pardon me, sir, if I now arrest you, in the name of the general commonwealth of these United States." As he spoke, the stranger threw off an oil-skin coat, and displayed the uniform of a military officer. Then drawing a sword from his side, he laid the blade upon the shoulder of Luther, and added: "You are my prisoner."
So sudden and singular was this last proceeding, that Kate and Ichabod remained for a moment silent, when the former found her voice and exclaimed:
"Harm him not, sir, I pray you! We know him, and that he is as innocent as ourselves. Luther," she added to him, "I fear thou art a bird of evil omen. Behold!" and she pointed to the dead.
"I am a messenger of truth," replied Luther; "and yet I deeply sympathize with you, and regret the decrees of fate. I saved your life, and might his, had it been so ordained." Then turning to the young officer, who, meantime, had sheathed his sword, he continued, in a tone of superiority: "Boy, you might as well arrest the wind! Think you I would go with you against my will? No, Ernest Clifton, you have mistaken him who addresses you."
"Ha!" ejaculated the officer "you know me then?"
"You! ay—and your parents before you."
"My parents? heavens! Who are you, pray?"
"Ask your friends."
Clifton turned inquiringly to Kate.
"We know him as Blind Luther, the Necromancer," she answered.
"I know no such person," rejoined Ernest.
"Do you know yourself?" asked Luther.
A flush mantled the cheeks of the young officer as he replied:
"You ask a strange question, sir."
"Which I will answer for you in the negative," said Luther. "You know neither yourself nor your parents."
"Do you wish to insult me?" cried the other, reddening and somewhat confused.
"I wish to insult no man. But enough! you shall know more in time." Then turning to Kate, he continued: "As I told thee before, fair damsel,
"When sorrows dark do weigh thee down, Thou shalt behold this mystic crown;
[Here he touched the band around his head.]
"Again I told thee," continued the Necromancer,
"When the new moon shall be near, One whose blood now warmly flows, Shall in death find stern repose—
[Here he pointed to the corpse.]
When the earth drinks blood and rain, Some shall see this form again—
[Her