University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

—J. T. Watson.

—Byron.

—Mrs. Norton.

—Old Play.

It is one of the blessings of Divine
Providence that the mind can
be healed as well as the body—otherwise
what wretched creatures
should we be indeed!—for who,
among the most heaven favored of
us all, hath not lost a friend—a
near and dear relative—and felt his
soul oppressed by a weight of woe,
that then seemed destined never to
be removed; but which time has
gradually lightened, until the heart
has leaped as free and joyous as
in the noon-tide of its prosperity.
It is hard to part from those we
love—even when we expect to behold
them again in life—for the
separation leaves an aching void,
that nothing for the time can fill—
and of course it must be proportionately
hard to part from those
we love, knowing that we shall behold
them no more, until we ourselves
shall have put off the mortal
and put on immortality. But,
notwithstanding this, we should
ever strive to avoid being too much
cast down; should buoy ourselves
up with the reflection, that all are
born to die; and that they who
have passed the fatal barrier have
already done with a world of trouble,
and entered upon a new, and,
we trust, more happy existence—
where we, when we have played
our parts on the stage of life, shall
join them to separate no more forever.
Let us philosophize that
death is but a sleep, and eternity
a delightful dream, and that the
sooner our spirits leave this troublesome
tenement, fitly prepared
for the change, the sooner we shall
be in Heaven.

Some minds are so constituted,
that the least trouble seems sufficient
to overthrow them, and great
troubles drive them nearly distracted;
and yet after a little, they gradually
become tranquil, sorrow passes
away, and they appear as gay
and light-hearted as before: while,
on the other hand, we find others,
who appear calm amid the lesser
ills, and amid the greater make little
or no complaint, and yet are secretly
borne down to the grave by
the afflictions they scarce seem to
lament. Something of both these
natures could be found in Kate and
her mother. As time wore on, the
former gradually became more and
more herself; while the latter appeared
to pine away in secret, as
though some inward disease were
preying upon her vitals. From the
moment she received the news of
her husband's death, Mrs. Clarendon
was never known to smile; and
though at first she made great lamentation

over him, yet this soon
settled into a quiet, silent melancholy,
that foreboded, ere long, either
death or insanity.

Three months rolled away, and
the mother of Kate was found to
be in a decline of health. A cold
that she had caught some two
months before, had settled on her
lungs, which, together with grief
for the loss of her husband, was
now making those rapid strides
with her constitution, that always
awaken fears of the most painful
nature. She coughed a good deal—
her voice became changed—more
hoarse and hollow—and there was,
at times, a wax-like transparency
about her skin, and a hectic flush
on her cheek, that told, with unmistakable
certainty, of the silent work
of death going on within.

Kate noticed the progress of the
fell destroyer with less alarm than
might have been supposed. Doubtless
she did not realize how much
had already been done, and looked
forward to years of companionship
with her mother. But not so Mrs.
Clarendon herself. Unlike many
who have that flattering disease,
consumption, fastened upon them,
she saw and felt her danger; and,
like the wise ones of old, deemed
it expedient to have her lamps
trimmed and burning, ready for the
coming of the bridegroom. Accordingly,
one bright summer's day toward
the latter part of August, she
bade Kate seat herself by her side,
that they might converse on a subject
of no little moment to both.

“It has now,” observed Mrs.
Clarendon, laying her thin, transparent
hand on the white and
plump one of Kate, thereby displaying
a painful contrast between
sickness and health: “It has now,
daughter, been three months, since
that terrible night when your father
was brought home a corpse, and
your acquaintance began with Ernest
Clifton; and as I know I am
not long destined to remain and
watch over you, I wish you to tell
me, truly, how you stand affected
toward each other.”

“Ah! mother,” exclaimed Kate,
turning her eyes tenderly and earnestly
upon the other, “what
mean you, by using such gloomy
words?”

“Look here,” replied Mrs. Clarendon,
touching her face with her
finger, “do you not behold here the
effects of inward disease and certain
decay?”

“But death may not come for
years, yet, mother,” rejoined Kate,
anxiously.

Mrs. Clarendon shook her head
sadly.

“You mistake, daughter,” she
said. “Put weeks in place of years,
and perhaps you will have hit it.
No, Kate, my darling, I know, by
an inward monitor—by this dry,
hollow cough—that I am not long
for this world; and I am anxious to
know what will become of you,
when you find yourself alone, with
no father nor mother to turn to for
protection and advice.”

“Mother, dear mother, do'nt talk
so” cried Kate, bursting into tears,
and burying her head upon the lap
of her parent. “Oh! mother, you
will, you must live years yet. I
cannot, cannot part with you so
soon.”

“For your sake, child, I would to
God I could!—but He who sees the
sparrow fall, has ordered otherwise.”

“Oh! do not talk so, mother!
You are ill now I know—but you
may yet be well again.”

“Child,” continued Mrs. Clarendon,
bending over her daughter affectionately,
her now somewhat

sunken eyes moist with tears:
“Child, do not delude yourself with
any false hope. The grass that
comes upward beneath the fairy-like
tread of the foot of Spring, may rise,
perchance, from the soil resting on
the body of your mother; and that,
too, ere another year has joined the
great unapproachable Past. But tell
me when last you saw Ernest Clifton,
and how matters stand between
you! I ask with no idle curiosity;
I ask only as a mother; so
tell me truly.”

“It is a week, dearest mother,
since we last met,” answered Kate,
looking up through her tears, a
slight flush giving her comely features
a beautiful glow; “but as to
the matters you allude to, I scarcely
know how to answer.”

“Has he ever offered you his
hand?”

“Not exactly,” answered Kate,
hesitatingly; “though perhaps he
would have done so, had I always
remained silent at the proper time.”

“And why did you not, my daughter?
Do you not love him?”

“I hardly know what love is,”
answered Kate, dropping her eyes
to the ground; “but I certainly admire
him more than any other I
have ever seen.”

“Do you admire him sufficiently,
to desire him for a life-companion?”
asked Mrs. Clarendon.

“I think I could be happy with
him, mother.”

“Then, daughter, understand me!
From what I have seen, I think him
a brave, noble, and generous young
man, and worthy of you; and it is
my desire to see you united before
I die.”

“Ah! mother, you are talking of
death again,” said Kate, her tears
starting afresh.

“We know not, daughter, when
we may be called away; and
should my death be sudden, it would
be a bitter pang to know I was
leaving you behind without a protector,
in this cold, calculating
world. But of course I leave the
matter with yourself, to do as you
think proper. Marriage is a solemn
undertaking, and should not be
lightly entered into. Unless you
can place your full, undivided affections
upon one individual, do not
marry at all; for there are, necessarily,
trials in married life, that
none but such as truly love can surmount
with any thing like harmony
of feeling. I say nothing would
delight me more than to see you
happily wedded; yet, understand,
I do not wish to influence you
against your choice, and your own
sober reason; for, as I said before,
marriage is a most solemn undertaking.
And now that we are on
the subject, pray tell me how it
stands with your former suitors?”

“Why, Danvers and Danbury, I
believe, have suited themselves
elsewhere; and as for that villain,
Moody—”

“Name him not, Kate—name
him not!” exclaimed Mrs. Clarendon,
covering her eyes, and shuddering
at the images of horror
which his name called up. “May
he meet his deserts, is all I ask.
Yet one question: Has he been
found?”

“He has not, although Governor
St. Clair has offered the reward of
a hundred dollars for his apprehension.
It is supposed, by some, that
he has joined the Indians.”

“Then we may fear the worst,”
rejoined the mother of our heroine,
sadly.

“Why so, mother?”

“Have you forgotten the awful
threat contained on that paper,
Kate—`Wo to them that bear the
name of the dead?' ”

“O, that might have been done
to intimidate us, you know, mother.
Do not let it trouble you. I feel
not the least apprehension; for
Ern—a—Mr. Clifton assured me,
that scouts were continually out in
all directions, so that at present it
would be impossible for a body of
Indians to reach either this place
or Cincinnati, before alarm of their
approach would be given.”

“Yet do not rely too much upon
your safety, Kate,” pursued Mrs.
Clarendon; “for I have been informed,
that the force at Fort Washington
is not large, so that from
there not many soldiers could be
spared for scouting purposes. Now
I think of it seriously, perhaps we
had better give up our premises
here and take up our quarters nearer
some block-house!”

“But why so, mother? Has
any thing new and startling transpired
to alarin you?”

“Why, I had a very singular
dream last night, which, I confess,
troubles me not a little on your account.
I thought I was standing
in a beantiful arbor, surrounded by
flowers of all colors and varieties—
from the modest pink and violet, to
the large and luxuriant rose—and
that you and many others were
seated around, arrayed in white.
I thought it was some solemn occasion
of rejoicing—something like
a wedding, and yet not a wedding
either. In the center of the group
stood an old, grey-headed man, that
methought was our pastor; and
yet, the resemblance to him was
not perfect, but confused. Methought
he raised his trembling
hands above his venerable head, to
pronounce a benediction, when
suddenly, and while every eye was
upon him, a dark cloud enveloped
us, and forth with resounded shrieks
and groans, the most awful I ever
heard. Suddenly I felt my self growing
dizzy—indistinct objects whirled
past me—and I felt myself to
be falling—down—down—down—
into a horrible lake of blood—when
your father, pale as marble, sprang
forward, clasped me in his arms,
and, hurrying me away to some
quiet spot, whispered in my ear,
`We have met to part no more.'
With a cry of joy, tinged with the
horror of the scene I had just witnessed,
I awoke, and found myself
lying on the floor. What augur
you from the dream, my daughter?”

“Why, I do not think it best to
give ourselves any uneasiness
about it; people often dream as
strangely, without any serious results.”

“But somehow,” pursued Mrs.
Clarendon, “I cannot shake off
the impression, that this portends
evil to somebody—perhaps
myself.”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Kate,
fervently, throwing her arms around
her mother's neck, and pressing a
kiss upon her fading lips. “God
forbid that any thing should happen
you, dearest mother! But let us
hope our afflictions are over—at
least for the present.”

“It is always proper to hope,
child; and God in his goodness
has so ordained it, that there are
but few situations, in all the changes
of human life, where hope becomes
extinct. By the way, have you
seen any thing of Luther of
late?”

“No, I have not seen him since
the night of father's death, though
I have heard of his being in the vicinity.
He passed through the village
a few days since, and I believe
uttered some of his prophesies;
one of which was to the effect, that
Columbia would never be a city;

and another, that treasures had
been concealed on the banks of the
Little Miami. Some have put faith
in his words, and been and dug for
gold; but I believe nothing unusual
has been the result.”

“Strange being he!” observed
Mrs. Clarendon, musingly. “Can
it be possible that he is gifted with
what is called second sight?”

“I know not, mother, what are
his gifts in that respect; but I do
know, that he foretold some things
which have come true; and that
over me exercised a strange kind
of power, beyond my comprehension.
Never did I put faith in him
till then. But, Heaven preserve
him! for he saved my life from a
villian.”

“And will again,” said a deep
voice.”

Kate and her mother turned
quickly round, and, to their astonishment,
beheld the tall, rough form
of Luther, standing in the doorway,
calmly leaning upon his long stick
of witch-hazel.

“Art thou mortal?” asked Mrs.
Clarendon, vainly endeavoring to
shake off a superstitions feeling
that came creeping over her, with
a chilly sensation. “Art thou mortal,
Luther?”

“I am what I am,” replied the
Necromancer, solemnly. “This
much know: I was born of woman,
and am bound to die. God
save all here! for already the second
trump of woe is being blown—
the second vial of wrath being emptied.
Maiden, listen!

“He whom you love will soon be
with you.”

“Whom I love,” repeated Kate,
a deep flush mantling her face
and neck. “And whom do I
love?”

“Whom the fates decreed you
should—Ernest Clifton.”

“Nay, I know not that I love
him,” responded Kate, turning
away her head.

“Tell that to the winds—peradventure
they will believe you; but
think not to deceive me, nor thyself,
fair maiden. Thou knowest, Kate
Clarendon, that Ernest Clifton holds
thy heart—else why that averted
head and tell-tale blood. And,
maiden, fear not that he is unworthy
thee. The diamond, fresh raised
from the bedded mine, is not
more pure than the blood leaping
with the impetuosity of youth
through his veins. Sometime I will
tell thee more. Adieu! and remember—trysting
time is near.”

“Stay, Luther, and partake of
some refreshment,” said Mrs. Clarendon,
as the Necromancer turned
to depart.

“Would to God,” returned Luther,
solemnly, “I could bid thee stay!
But I go now, and you go soon;
and yet you will not follow me, for
we journey different ways. Your
path lies there;” and Luther pointed
upward. “You ask me to take
refreshment. This is kind of you,
and I thank you; but I have it
here;” and he pointed over his
shoulder, with his thumb, to the
knapsack on his back. “Thank
God! it costs little to keep me; for
I live plain, as becometh one of my
calling. Jerk, roots and berries are
my food; and my drink, the silver
waters spouting from the cool, forest-shaded
earth. And now, adieu!
Pray often, and fast often—for
if the stars do not lie, you will
both soon feel the need of Divine
aid.”

As Luther said this, he turned
and disappeared. The eyes of Kate

and her mother met, with expressions
of superstitious bewilderment.

“It can do us no harm to pray,
at all events,” said Mrs. Clarendon;
and suiting the action to the
word, she knelt upon the ground—
Kate knelt beside her—and the
hearts of both were poured out in
supplications to the God of that
Tribunal before which all nations
must be judged.