University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

—Mrs. C. H. W. Esling.

—Shakspeare

—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?”

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.