University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

—Anon.

—Moore.

—****

—Milton.

It was a bewitching night. The
moon rode high in the heavens, and
poured her soft, silvery flood over
the luxuriant and apparently sleeping
earth. No breeze rustled a
leaflet—no sounds were heard, save
those soft, dreamy ones which are
made by the night-watehers. Not
a cloud marred the broad, blue
canopy overhead, through which
could here and there be seen the
rich, golden light, shot from some
bright star, itself away in the incomprehensible
and boundless
realms of space. The mighty forest
seemed sleeping, and one could
almost fancy nodding, too, in its
sleep. It was a night for love.
Just sufficiently calm and holy to
a waken all those fine poetic chords
of nature, whose gentle, musical
tones are drowned and lost amid
the harsher sounds of every day,
active life. A night for communing
with some bright being, who
has gone from this vale of tears to
a happier and holier sphere—or
with one who still lingers here,
pluming her wings for an immortal
and eternal flight. A night, indeed,
for lovers and love.

On the banks of the Little Miami,
stood an old sycamore, whose
white and aged arms, thrown
abroad over the murmuring stream,
seemed no bad type of a prophet
about to utter oracles for coming
ages to define, or pronounce a benediction
over the gurgling waters
that rolled beneath.

In keeping with the hour and the
scene, there glided beneath this old
sycamore, in the checkered light
which the moon made by stealing
among the leaflets, two figures—a
youth and a maiden. At the base
of the old tree they paused, and
seated themselves on a crooked
trunk of a smaller one, which, projecting
over the waters, shot upward
a growing rival to its patriarchal
neighbor. They seated
themselves upon the trunk of
this tree in silence, and looked
downward for a few moments, and
listened to the song of the streamlet,
as it mingled harmoniously
with the quiet hum of forest life.
Beautiful and sacred thoughts were
in the breasts of both; for they
thought of each other and of love;
and who will deny that true love is
a sacred theme, and has more of
Heaven in it than earth!

“This,” said the young man, in
a low, musical voice, that accorded

well with every thing around:
“This is a night, and a scene that I
love.”

“And I,” was the response of the
gentle maiden by his side, in a tone
that lost itself in harmony with the
murmuring river at her feet.
“What,” she continued, “is more
enchanting than Nature, when displayed
in her mildest and loveliest
form, to the soul that views it in a
corresponding mood of quietude?”

“Ay! and to behold its beauties,”
answered her companion, “the soul
must be in harmony with it; and
what will so soon harmonize the
soul to a scene like this, as love?”

The maiden drooped her head,
and tapped the earth lightly with
her delicate little foot, but did not
answer. A moment the young man
paused, and then gently stealing
the hand of the maiden, and pressing
it in his own, he went on.

“What feeling is there, dear
Kate, more subdued and holy than
the yearning of a soul toward a
kindred spirit? and the intoxicating
response—the harmonious blending
together of both? Harmony is
the main spring of creation, on
which depends alike the existence
of a world, and the happiness of a
human being. He whose soul is
not in unison with nature and the
things around him, must of necessity
be unhappy. I did not come
hither, however, to philosophize,
but to speak of matters which lie
nearer my heart. Months, dearest
Kate, have intervened, since that
never-to-be-forgotten night, when
we met for the first time, under circumstances
the most painful to
both; and often since then have
we been together, walked together,
and conversed together on various
subjects—may I inquire if these
meetings have in any wise been
disagreeable to you?”

“On the contrary,” answered
Kate, “I will be frank to own, they
have proved the happiest periods
of my life.”

“On this point, then, our feelings
harmenize; for the only real pleasure
I have myself enjoyed, has been
in your sweet company. But to
change the subject, somewhat—let
me inquire regarding your mother?”

“She does not seem so well tonight,”
answered Kate, sadly.

“So I fancied, from what I saw,”
rejoined Clifton. “Have you tho't
seriously upon her illness, Kate?”

“I do not know as I understand
you.”

“I do not wish to alarm you,
Kate, but only to prepare your
mind for a grave subject. Perhaps
you are ignorant of her complaint?”

“Ha! then you think it dangerous,
Ernest?” exclaimed the fair
girl, grasping his arm, with a nervous
motion, and endeavoring to
catch the expression of his features
in the darkness.

“You must prepare yourself to
part with her ere long,” said Ernest,
solemnly.

“Oh, Heaven! you alarm me,
Ernest!—and yet you but repeat
what she told me herself to-day.
Oh, God! if she be taken from me,
I shall be alone, indeed, without a
protector, perhaps a friend!”

“Nay, Kate, dearest,” rejoined
Ernest, encircling her waist with
his arm; “it is of that I wish to
speak. There are none, I know,
that can supply the place of a
mother; and could my earnest
prayers avail aught, you should
never feel the want of one; but it
would be little less than criminal,
methinks, to disguise from you the
fact, that, as regards your mother,
the fatal work of death has already
begun.”

“Great God!” cried Kate, wildly,
placing her hands to her temples;
“you do not mean this! Oh!
say you are jesting!—say you did
it to frighten me!—say anything!—
but, for God's sake! do not tell me
my dear mother is dying!”

“In this world,” replied the
young officer, in a tone slightly
tremulous, “we must look for nothing
hut crosses, disappointments,
and partings from those we love.
That your mother is dying, in the
literal sense of the term, I would
not imply; she may hold out for
weeks, and even months; but,
painful as is the task, I cannot conscientiously
conceal from you the
truth, that she is in deep consumption,
and that there is no hope of
seeing her restored to health.”

Kate bowed her head upon her
hands, sobbed aloud, and groaned
like one in pain.

“Yet, dearest girl, take it not so
hard! Remember, we are in a
world where death is ever parting
friends; and that, sooner or later,
we must all separate, according to
the will of Him who shapes our destinies.
You said, but now, that if
your mother were called away,
you would be without a protector,
perchance a friend. It grieved me,
dear girl, to hear you say thus. No,
Kate Clarendon, while Ernest Clifton
lives, you shall never want a
friend; and—and (his voice trembled
and sank to a whisper)—it
rests with you to say, whether the
friend and protector shall be one.”

Kate still sat with her head bowed
down, trembling and silent; and
pausing for a moment, Clifton
again proceeded in a low, earnest
voice.

“It has been but three months,
since accident first threw us together,
dear Kate; and yet to me our
acquaintance seems that of years.
From what I have seen of you, I
am perfectly confident you hold the
power to make me happy or miserable;
in other words, dearest Kate,
I must own I love you, and did from
the moment I saw displayed those
heroic qualities at the death of your
father.”

“Let us not talk of this now,”
said Kate, hurriedly.

“And why not now?” rejoined
the other, with some uneasiness;
“there may never be a better time
and place, and we know not what
may happen.”

“But somehow,” sighed Kate, “I
feel strangely—as if danger were
lurking nigh.”

“I see how it is,” returned Clifton,
in a tone of sadness; “you do
not love me, and seek to avoid, as
you have done on all previous occasions,
any mention of a subject
which I must own lies nearest my
heart. Be it so, then; you will
doubtless find another more worthy,
and more to your liking.”

“Nay,” said Kate, startled at the
turn matters had taken: “Nay,
Ernest, I meant not that.”

“And now I think of it, I know
no reason why you should love me,”
continued Clifton, pursuing his own
train of reflections. “I am only a
poor officer in the army, whose duty
is where danger lies, and know
not at what moment I may be ealled
away to another station or another
world. 'Tis better, now I
think seriously on the subject, that
you do not love me, Kate; I might
only be an instrument in the hands
of Providence, for making your sorrows
heavier.”

Kate turned her eyes toward her
companion for a moment—with a
look, which, could Ernest have seen,
his heart would have smote him—
and then burst into tears.

“Ah! why do you weep dear

Kate?” asked the other, tenderly.
“Have I mistaken your meaning?”

Kate answered not; but her
head gradually sunk against his
breast, and her tears burst forth
afresh.

“Ah! Kate,” cried the other, rapturously,
throwing both arms
around and straining her to his
heart, “what a fool have I been to
mistake you! You love me, Kate—
you love me?”

Kate replied not, save by pressing
closer to his breast.

“And you will be mine, dearest?”

A pressure of the hand was the
only answer.

“Heaven bless you, mine own
dear angel!” exclaimed Clifton,
stealing his first kiss from the trembling
lips of the lovely being reclining
in his arms.

Two hours rolled away, and still
the lovers were seated beneath that
same old sycamore, and lost to the
outer world in a sweet communion
with each other.

“And when shall it be?” asked
Clifton, at length, in reference to
something which had gone before.

“That I shall leave to you,” replied
Kate.

“Then the sooner the better,” rejoined
the other. “Yet, stay! I
have forgotten one question: Your
mother, Kate—will she give her
consent?—for I will do nothing
against her will.”

“It is already given,” replied
Kate. “It is her own desire, dear
Ernest, to see us united before she
dies.”

“Heaven bless her! When said
she this?”

“To day. She called me to her,
questioned me of you, spoke of you
in the highest terms of praise, and
said, if it accorded with the feelings
of both, nothing would please her
better than to see us duly united.”

“I shall go wild with joy. A
week from to-night, then, Kate—
will that suit you?”

“I said I should leave it to
you,” returned Kate, averting her
face.

“Then the bond is settled, and
so let us seal it,” rejoined Clifton,
gaily; and the next moment the
lips of the lovers met in a long and
rapturous kiss of love.

“There is one thing more,” said
Ernest again, after a pause of a
few moments. “I have told you
nothing of my history, Kate. Perhaps,
when you come to hear that,
you will change your mind in regard
to this matter?”

“Then keep it ever a secret, Ernest,”
answered Kate, frankly. “If
I wed you, it will be for your noble
self alone. So that your own conduct
has been upright through life,
I care for nothing more.”

“Noble, generous girl!” cried the
other, in a transport of joy, “now
I love thee more than ever, for thy
unwavering confidence in me. May
Heaven watch over us both, and allow
me to strew thy path with
flowers even to the verge of the
grave!”

“Hist!” said Kate, laying her
hand upon the arm of her companion.
“Did you not hear a noise?”

“What was it like?”

“The cracking of some dry twig
or bush.”

Both now listened attentively
for some moments; but all was silent,
save the rippling of the stream,
the chirping of the insects, and the
low sighing of the forest, as a light
breeze swept through it.

“I think you must have been
mistaken, dear Kate,” said Ernest,
“for all seems still.”

“Then fancy has made me timid,”
returned Kate, pressing closer
to the other; “and so I think we had

better return. Ha! what was
that?”

“I hear nothing but the hooting
of an owl.”

“What a gloomy sound! Strange
it is, dear Ernest, but I feel so nervous—so
much as I did on that terrible
night when father died. My
God! I hope I am not to pass such
a night again. Come, come, let us
return, quick as possible! for I cannot
divest myself of the idea that
we are surrounded by danger.”

“O, it is nothing; you are needlessly
alarmed, dear Kate, I am
sure,” replied Ernest, consolingly.
“But we will return, at all events,
for I fear it is getting late.”

“Late!” echoed Kate, as they
commenced retracing their steps to
the cottage. “Why how long have
we been away I pray you?”

“Guess.”

“Half an hour, perhaps.”

“You are more complimentary
than correct,” returned Clifton, with
a light laugh, as, by the glimmer of
the moon through the trees, he
was enabled to make the time from
his watch. “Add two hours to the
half and you will hit it exactly.”

Kate was about to utter an exclamation
of surprise, and insist
that her lover was mistaken, when
the stirring of a bush just ahead of
her, caused her to start back with
a suppressed cry of fear. Clifton
saw the bush move also, and throwing
his left arm around the waist
of his fair companion, with his
right he drew his sword, and put
himself in an attitude of defense.
For a few moments he stood, awaiting
the appearance of his foe, if
such the unknown should prove,
while Kate clung to him with a
maidenly fear, that made his arm
feel strong, and raised within him
a desire to meet danger for her
sake.

“All is quiet there again,” he said,
at length, in a low tone. “Could our
eyes have possibly deceived us?
I will go and probe the bush with
my good sword and ascertain.”

“No, no, no!” rejoined Kate,
clasping him more tightly; “you
shall not stir a step toward it, Ernest!
Here—this way—quick—let
us hurry back!” and taking an opposite
direction to the bush, Kate
almost dragged Ernest after her.

For a few paces Clifton hung
back, as if reluctant to leave the
mysterious bush: then, as if actuated
by another thought, he suddenly
threw an arm around the maiden's
waist, and, partly raising her
from the ground, hurried her forward
at a fast run, and in a few
minutes reached the cottage in safety.
Bidding her go in and bolt the
door, Ernest was about to turn
back, when Kate prevented him, by
declaring that if he did she would
follow. After much entreaty, he
abandoned the idea, and accepted
her invitation to spend the night
under her mother's roof.

For a few minutes after Ernest
and Kate had departed, everything
remained quiet; then the bush,
whose movement had so startled
the latter, became slightly agitated
again, and at the same moment a
head was thrust through, and turned
from side to side, as if to ascertain
that the coast was clear. Then
a figure emerged from the thicket,
and, as it came into the broad light
of the moon, displayed the tall, but
slender form of a white man, metamorphosed
into an Indian. Portions
of his body were bare, after the Indian
fashion. He wore moccasins
on his feet, had paint on his face,
and his head was shaved, all but a
single tuft of hair on the crown,
which was ornamanted with feathers.
A belt around his waist contained

a brace of pistols, a scalping-knife
and tomahawk, and in his
right hand he carried a rifle.

“'Tis well for you,” he muttered,
in English, through his close shut
teeth, shaking his fist in the direction
whence he saw the lovers
disappear: “'Tis well for you, you
did not probe the bush, as you
were about to do, young man—or
you might have found a few inches
of cold steel probing you. A week
from to night, eh! is to consummate
your desire? Ha, ha, ha! I am
glad you mentioned it; for now I
shall be there, though an uninvited
guest; and I will invite a few of
my dusky brethren to be there also.
Peradventure if I cannot give the
bride away, I can take her to myself.—Once
in my power—once
mine (and his features assumed a
hellish look of satisfaction, and his
black eyes fairly shone in the darkness)—and
if yon proud youth will
accept her then—why—ha, ha! let
him have her—a ruined, cast off toy.
Then, and not till then, will Rashton
Moody think his insult canceled by
a sweet revenge.”

As he said this, the figure turned,
plunged into the thicket and disappeared—an
evil spirit, bent on a
devilish mission.