University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
A MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW.

IT was a calm, lovely night, the one following my
arrival in Houston, and the round, full moon, just risen in
the East, was pouring a flood of mellow light over a
beautiful landscape. One or two bright stars were visible,
as though keeping watch while their companions slept. A
certain dreamy stillness seemed to pervade Heaven and
earth—a kind of holy calm—as if great Nature were
taking her repose. Occasionally the song of some night
warbler came floating on the balmy air, and, dying away
in sweet cadence, left all again still. It was a scene and
an hour for meditation and for love.

I stood within an orange grove, through whose spreading
branches the bright moonlight streamed, and crinkled
on the teeming earth, and seemed to nestle among the
sleeping flowers. It was on the slope of a hill which
looked off upon a wide stretch of prairie, over which the
queen of night spread her rays like a great veil of silver.
Beside me stood one that made the pulse of life beat
faster, the warm blood course quicker, and the heart labor
under powerful emotions.

I am one of those who believe there is a suitable time
for every thing—that Nature, in her multifold variety, has
seasons peculiarly adapted to all the different passions and
emotions which may exist in the human breast. The
early morning, for instance—the awakening of day, with a
burnished, unclouded sky, up which rolls the bright sun in

glorious splendor, amid the sweet songs of all animated
nature—ever seems to me a time for rejoicing, when the
thoughts should fly upward to the Creator in a heartfelt
thanksgiving. Then come the hours of business, or of
pleasure, with a season of rest, when the mind relaxes and
loses its cares and its troubles, perchance in a brief
oblivion of sleep. There is something solemn, sad and
sweet in the dying day, when the fiery sun is quenched in
a golden sea, and the hum of busy life falls gradually off
to tranquillity, and the soft shades of coming night steal
imperceptibly on, one after another, reminding us of the
going out of life and the shutting in of death. The roar
of the storm, with its rushing winds, flashing lightnings,
and crashing thunders, stirs up the mind to sublimity;
and if the spirit be not tranquil, it readily finds a wild
harmony in the raging elements. But a soft, clear,
serene, moonlight night—when the silver veil of Luna falls
gently upon the dewy earth, and gives to the scene the
matchless charm of picturesque light and shade, and the
stillness is only broken by the melodious songs of the
night-singers—then, of all times, the soul seems best fitted
for the holy commune of love.

So at least I thought and felt, as alone I stood with
Clara Moreland, amid the shade of an orange grove, in
the rear of her father's mansion, on the night following
my arrival in Houston. Walter, Clara, Mary, and myself,
had together left the dwelling; and after wandering for
an hour or more through the garden, among the sleeping
flowers, Clara and I, as if by mutual arrangement, had
become separated from our companions, and had continued
on beyond the pale of the garden, each as it seemed
so much buried in thought as scarcely to give heed to our
steps. From some cause—and I flattered myself I could
divine the cause—Clara had been silent all the evening;

and often I caught her sighing, as if sad at heart. As
with her arm through mine we strolled to the point
mentioned, my heart beat fast with strange, powerful
emotions.

I have more than once said that I was in love—but
whether I had awakened such a feeling in the breast
of my companion, I could only judge from indications that
might after all proceed from other causes. I was anxious
to know; for the words of Mary, whether in earnest
or jest, had started doubts and fears; and what better
opportunity than the present to ascertain, I thought, as we
strolled on in silence. True, to introduce such a subject
now, with so brief an acquaintance, seemed ill-timed and
premature; but if I missed the present opportunity, it
might be long ere another as favorable should occur; and
under present circumstances I did not care to remain in
suspense. I therefore made up my mind to venture in
words what lay nearest my heart; but the next moment I
fairly trembled at the idea of making a beginning.

It is easy for our sex to flatter the other—to pay
frivolous compliments on the grace of person, the beauty
of countenance—to say we admire and are delighted,
when our own hearts are untouched, and we little
care in what manner our words are received; but it
is a very different thing, when emotions, that language
cannot portray, are struggling within us, aroused by the
presence of an object for whom we feel we could lay down
our life and deem it a pleasant sacrifice. Let no woman—
and I say it with due consideration—put too much faith in
the words of the man who tells her in fluent and courtly
phrase he adores her; for the true adoration of the heart
may make itself known by looks, and signs, and actions,
but the tongue is seldom the first messenger. I have
heard those who could and did boast of having made love

to twenty damsels, in flowery speech and graceful attitude,
acknowledge to having stood abashed, silent, and awkfward
in the presence of one for whom they really felt
what they had only professed to feel heretofore.

Thus silently pondering on the way in which I should
begin to give voice to the feelings that so deeply agitated
my breast, we reached the point I have mentioned amid
the orange-grove, when Clara, who seemed suddenly to
comprehend where she was, said, in a hurried, excited
tone:

“Why, whither are we going? let us return.”

“Stay, Clara—Miss Moreland—one moment—I have
something to say to you,” I returned, in a low, eager,
agitated tone; and I took her hand, which I felt tremble
in mine, as she made a slight attempt to withdraw it.

“Why, where is Walter and Mary?” she cried, looking
around her, and turning as if to retrace her steps.

“They are not far off, I think—but what I have to say
is for your ear alone,” I replied, still retaining her hand.

She drooped her head in silence, and I could feel her
soft hand quiver, as a tremor ran through her frame—but
she made no further attempt to withdraw it. Now had
arrived that time and opportunity I had long wished for;
but my tongue refused speech, and my very thoughts
seemed jumbled into chaos. How was I to begin? what
was I to say first? Something must be said, and that
quickly, for Clara was waiting in tremulous expectation.

“Miss Moreland,” I began—“or rather Clara—if you
will permit me so to call you—I—” Here I stopped, and
cleared my throat, and coughed a little, while my blood
rushed through my throbbing veins at furnace heat: “I
have much wished for a circumstance—I mean a privilege
—I should say—ahem—an opportunity—to—to—” Here
I felt myself breaking down, the perspiration started from

every pore, and in an awful agony, like a drowning man
clutching at a rope, I clutched at words, and gasped:
“In short, you must have perceived—”

“Oh, let us return, Mr. Walton!” interrupted Clara,
hurriedly, in great agitation—“I fear we shall be
missed.”

“Nay, dear Clara, hear me out!” I cried, still keeping
her hand, which she now made several attempts to withdraw.
“Nay, I must be heard,” I continued, more
resolutely. “I will detain you but a minute; and certainly
you will not refuse me so brief a point of time!”

“Go on!” she murmured, faintly.

“You must have perceived, Miss Clara, from my
conduct, since our first meeting,” I resumed, “that you
have awakened in my breast feelings which may never
slumber again; and unless I greatly err, you do not
altogether regard me with indifference. Nay, turn not
away, and do not withdraw your hand; but speak, and
tell me—is it not so? Perhaps you think me bold,
premature, in thus venturing to address you, whom I have
known but a brief time; and if you so censure me, I
cannot deny you have justice on your side; but love, lady,
will sometimes break through all formalities—leap over all
bounds of decorum—and this I must plead in extenuation
of my offence, if offence it be.

“Yes, Clara,” I went on, in a low, eager, passionate
strain—my thoughts, lately so stifled, now rushing forward
for utterance, like the waters of a dammed up stream when
its obstructions first give way: “Yes, Clara, be not angry
at the bold, presumptuous declaration, that I love you—
that I loved almost ere I saw you—and that since the
moment our eyes met, you have scarcely been absent from
my thoughts. You are the first to whom these lips ever
made such an avowal—nor should they now venture to tell

you so, but that I feel it necessary to know on what
ground I stand. I do not ask you to pledge me affection
in return—for as yet you know nothing of me, beyond
what I have told you; but I am anxious to learn if your
heart is otherwise engaged; and if not, I would have your
sweet voice tell me that I have not offended, and that I
may live in hope, even though you promise nothing
beyond.

“But I cannot think you regard me with indifference;
for I have narrowly watched and studied your fair features
at different times; and though little experienced in matters
of the heart, I flatter myself I have seen there signs
which bespeak emotions akin to my own. And yet, from
words your sister let fall, my breast has been chilled by
doubts and fears.

“I have said, dear Clara, that I love you; I have said
that you have scarcely been absent from my thoughts; and
I now add, that when my body has been racked with pain,
with no friend and companion near to lighten my solitude
with a single word of consolation, I have made the otherwise
heavy and tedious hours glide pleasantly by in thinking
of you: how deep then, how pure, how powerful are
the emotions which your own sweet self calls into being!
and if I thus love one who can never be mine, Heaven
only knows what may be the final consequences. To see
you, to tell you this, was my motive in coming hither:
and I now ask you to answer me, candidly and sincerely,
if I am guilty of offence? or if you can respond to the
sentiments of my heart?”

I paused, and Clara trembled violently: for some moments
she did not reply: but at length she seemed to
master her feelings, and in a low tone, said:

“It would have been better for both of us, Mr. Walton,

had we never met. Urge me to say no more! Let us
return.”

“Nay, Miss Moreland,” I replied, with a sense of bewilderment
and a sinking of the heart that I cannot describe—“let
me entreat you, ere you go, to explain your
words!”

“Not now! not now!” she rejoined, hurriedly: “I am
unequal to the task.”

“It is but little,” I urged, “to say why it had been
better for us had we never met. I do not wish to pry into
your secrets; but if another holds first place in your
esteem—or if your heart holds not sentiments corresponding
to mine—you may surely tell me so; and however
much I may grieve, I promise you not to get offended.
There are many of our faculties that we may cultivate;
and, in a great degree, shape to our will; but love is a
pure offspring of the heart, which we cannot bring into
existence, however much we may subdue and control it
afterward: this I know; and therefore if you tell me
there can never be a tie between us closer than that of
friendship, I shall take no offence, nor ever trouble you
with vain repinings at my fate.”

To my great surprise, instead of answering me, Clara
burst into tears. I was startled—for the cause of this
strange emotion was beyond my conjecture.

“Good heavens! Clara,” I cried, “what means this?
why do you weep? I cannot believe I have said any
thing to wound your feelings; but if so—”

“No!” no!” she interrupted, hurriedly, “but—”

She paused and shuddered.

“Go on!” I urged.

“No! no! I cannot—let us return.”

“Well, then, be it as you wish,” I rejoined, rather
coldly; and I made a movement to go.

“But you are offended now?” she said, quickly, turning
her face up toward mine; and I could see by the moonlight,
which fell upon it through the trees, that it was very
pale, and sad, and anxious. I was touched to the heart;
but I answered in the same cold manner:

“And if I am, I suppose it is a matter of little moment
to Miss Moreland.”

“Nay, not so,” she replied, eagerly: “I would not
have you offended with me.”

“Can aught concerning me interest you then?”

“Yes! yes! every thing! That is, I mean,” she
stammered, turning her face away—“I should not like to
give you offence,—I would like to have every one
friendly.”

“Clara,” I rejoined, earnestly, “there is an under
current to your strange manner which I cannot fathom.
Either something serious troubles you, or you are playing
a part with me.”

“I trust you do not think the latter?” she said, quickly.
“Heaven knows my actions too much betray my feelings!”

“Then if so, you do not regard me with indifference,”
I eagerly rejoined. “You are silent. May I take this
as a favorable augury? May I hope—”

“No! no!” she again interrupted: “hope nothing—
hope nothing;” and again she shuddered.

“Be it so,” I returned—“I must even take you at
your word. But pardon me one more question! Is your
heart engaged to another?”

Clara seemed to struggle with herself for a few moments;
and then, in a low tone, scarcely audible, replied:

“The heart should go with the hand.”

“Ha! I think I understand you: then your hand is
pledged?”

“It is,” was faintly replied.

For a short time I stood speechless, motionless; and
then rousing myself, I rejoined:

“Clara, (permit me still to call you thus, at least while
we are alone together,) you say the heart should go with
the hand; I reiterate, yes, by all means; but will it in
your case? Ha! why turn you silently away? You
dare not answer! Ah! you know it will not. Oh! then
let me, as a friend, as a brother, warn you to beware how
you let worldly considerations influence you to perjure
yourself before God's holy altar!”

“Sir! this is strong language,” returned Clara, drawing
herself up rather proudly.

“But it is justified by the cause which draws it forth,”
I answered.

“How know you that, sir? And were it even so,
methinks it ill becomes one so recently a stranger, to
assume the office of mentor to a lady who has a father,
mother, and brother at hand to look to her welfare.”

“I crave your pardon, Miss Moreland!” I rejoined,
coldly. “My zeal in your behalf overcame my discretion.
I only sought to warn, in a friendly manner, one
whom I thought would receive it in the same spirit of
kindness in which it was meant. I perceive my mistake
now, and shall take care how I offend again. When
agreeable to you, we will retrace our steps to your father's
dwelling.”

Clara made no reply; but drooped her head, as if
giving heed to her steps, and we picked our way back to
the garden in silence. As we approached the dwelling,
we heard gay voices; and the next moment could distinguish
that of Mary's, saying, with a ringing laugh:

“Making love, for a hundred!”

There was a low reply; and then we heard Walter
exclaim:

“This way, Will—we'll soon find them.”

I fancied I could see Clara shudder, as she quickened
her pace; and a minute after we met Walter and another
gentleman coming down the garden walk in search of us.

“Ha! here are the wanderers now?” cried Walter,
gaily. “We were afraid you had got lost,” he continued,
“and were on our way to hunt you up. Mr. Warneliff,
Mr. Walton,” he added, introducing his friend.

We bowed; but each in a cold, stiff, formal manner, that
did not express any too much delight in present acquaintance,
nor presage any very warm friendship to follow. The
truth was, one of those striking antipathies, for which one
can give no satisfactory reason, had suddenly sprung up between
us. I did not like my new acquaintance, and I felt
that he regarded me with aversion. Why this was, it would
have been difficult, I think, for either of us to have said at
the time. His name was new to my ear—even if mine were
not to his—and certainly we had never met before. Perhaps
he had heard of me—heard Clara speak of me—and regarded
me with a jealous eye; and true it is, though I knew not
why, I looked upon him as the acknowledged suitor of Clara,
to whom her hand was pledged. Rivals are never friends;
and my heart whispered me we were rivals, and he the
successful one. As we bowed, our eyes met, for the moonlight
here fell full and clear upon each face. A keen,
piercing glance shot from one to the other—a glance, as I
fancied and felt, of haughty defiance. In that moment of
time—for almost instantly he turned away to speak to
Clara—his person and features became indelibly impressed
upon my memory.

In height he was rather tall, but slenderly made, though
evidently possessed of considerable physical strength. His

age I judged to be about twenty-five. His complexion was
light, with light curly hair, and blue eyes. His features
were not devoid of beauty, though not to my taste. They
were regular; and his nose, mouth, and chin, taken separately,
were certainly well-formed; but the expression of
the whole countenance, and particularly that of the eyes
and mouth, was to my mind that of an unprincipled voluptuary;
and though I now felt that Clara could never be
aught to me, yet I deeply regretted that her choice, or
peradventure the choice of her friends, had not fallen upon
a more worthy object. Mr. Warncliff was studiously and
elegantly dressed; and his short upper lip was graced with
a mustache, and his chin with an imperial—the rest of his
face being cleanly shaved. I could not deny that he had
seen good society; for his movements were easy and graceful;
and his manner, save so far as concerned myself, very
courteous.

“Good evening, Miss Clara,” he said, on turning to her.
“I am rejoiced to see you looking so charming in the pale
moonlight. I trust you have had a pleasant walk, and
now feel inclined for a pleasant ride. My carriage is at
the door.”

Was it fancy? or did she shrink back with a slight
shudder as he proffered his arm? She took his arm,
however; and then I heard her say, in a low, and as I
thought quavering, tone:

“You must excuse me to night, Mr. Warncliff—I really do not feel well.”

“Mr. Warneliff!” repeated the other, with a short laugh,
facing round. “Did you hear that, Walter? Clara grows
formal. It used to be—`Willard, will you do this? and,
Willard, will you do that?' But,” and he glanced at me
in a very significant manner, “I think I can guess the
reason of the change.”

I felt an angry flush flash over my features, and was
about to give a tart reply; but Walter immediately rejoined,
with a laugh:

“Oh, go on, Will—never mind formalities. Willard,
with the soft adjectives, will return in good time. Come,
Walton,” he pursued, taking my arm, “it is a glorious
night! and though at the risk of being wished a thousand
miles away, we will join our lovers in a ride.”

“Nay, you must excuse me,” I said.

“What! are you ailing too?” he cried. “Heyday!
what has come over you and Clara all of a sudden? Ah!
I see: your long walk has fatigued you.”

“I have not complained of illness, or fatigue, to my
knowledge,” I replied, with an air of cold reserve.

“Oh, well,” he replied, “if you really do not wish to go,
I will stay and keep you company.”

“By no means,” I rejoined; “it would please me better
to have you all go and enjoy yourselves, the same as if I
were not here. You know I am in part an invalid still;
and I will make free to request to be allowed to retire a
little earlier than usual.”

“Oh, certainly,” replied Walter, who seemed the soul
of frankness, good-humor, and affability; “if it will suit you
better to remain, I will not
press you to go.”

Thus conversing, we reached the house; and on the steps,
Warncliff, who still had Clara's arm, turned and said:

“Walter, I fear it will be you and I alone—for I can do
nothing with Clara—she is as obstinate as a mule.”

“Out upon you,” cried Mary from the window, “for
comparing my sister to one of your own species! Faith!
if I were she, you should apologize for that rude speech, on
your knees, ere you were twenty-four hours older, or you
should wake up some fine morning and find yourself a discarded
lover.”

“Sooner than suffer such a penalty, my pretty black
eyes, I would do almost any thing,” returned Warncliff,
laughing.

“I believe you,” rejoined Mary, in a tone and with
an emphasis that seemed to give her words a marked
meaning.

Notwithstanding her refusal, Clara was finally prevailed
upon to take a moonlight ride—though not till her father
had joined his request to Warncliff's in a tone so like a
command that she seemed to have no alternative. There
were seats for four; and as I still persisted in declining to
make one of the number to fill them—though I now studiously
shaped my language so as not to give any offence—
Mary took my place, and the party dashed off behind a black
driver and a splendid pair of black horses.

It was still an early hour in the evening; but pleading
some indisposition and fatigue, I shortly after took leave
of the Colonel and his good lady, and was shown by a black
domestic to the lodging I was to occupy during my brief
stay with the Morelands.

Alone, in the welcome solitude of my chamber, I locked
the door, and then gave full sway to those gloomy, despondent
feelings, which must ever follow upon the total annihilation
of bright and cheering hopes. Yes, strange as it
may seem to the reader—and strange as it now seems to
me, viewing it from another point of time—I really felt as
if all the bright things had been stricken from the earth,
and that nothing remained worth the living for. Not till now
was I aware how much the bright vision of Clara had been
associated with all the delights of the present—all the glorious
anticipations of the unattained future! Not till now
was I aware, that since the first hour of our meeting, she
had been inseparably mingled with my every enjoyment.
In short, not till now was I aware what a deep, firm, rooted

hold she had taken upon my heart, which gives its own peculiar
hue to every object. True, I had acknowledged to
myself that I loved her; yet not till I found that love hopeless,
had I been aware of the real strength of my passion.
True again, I had never looked upon her as absolutely mine
—for I knew too little of her, and she of me, to warrant any
such conclusion; yet less, I must confess, had I ever for a
moment harbored the idea that she might be another's.
But now the last startling truth stared me in the face.
Yes, the dream was over—she could never be mine. And
yet did she not love me? She did not love my rival, I felt
certain; and when I recalled to mind a thousand little
things—in themselves nothing, yet passing signs of the
drift of feeling—I could not but flatter myself that,
whatever might be her fate or mine, I should not readily
be forgotten.

Something evidently preyed upon the mind of Clara, and
I somehow felt that I was connected with her sorrow. Had
she rashly promised her hand to Warncliff? and did she
now regret it, and yet fear to make it known? Or had this
inconsiderate step been forced upon her by the entreaties—
it might be commands—of those she feared to disobey, and
who were governed solely by worldly motives? Yes, something
had evidently gone wrong, around which her peculiar
conduct had thrown an air of mystery that perplexed me in
more senses than one.

But much as I took this mystery to heart, I had no idea
of making any attempt to satisfy my curiosity, by inquiring
into the real facts of the matter. No! she could never be
any thing to me—her own lips had said it—there was no
hope—and it only remained for me to go forth and endeavor
to forget that we had met. This I felt I could
never do; but I could depart from her fair presence; and
this I resolved to do at the earliest moment that would

allow of my taking leave without giving room for any speculations
as to the cause.

With these, and many other like reflections, I worried
myself to sleep—little dreaming, in the vanity of human
calculations, what the eventful morrow had in store for me.
It is well for us that we know not what a day may bring forth.