University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

—Pope.

—Mrs. Osgood.

—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, wool-mixed
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 manœuver,
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 bridle-rein.

“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.