University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
A RIDE AND A QUARREL.

When I awoke on the following morning, the sun was
pouring a golden flood of light into my chamber. I arose
in some haste, for I had slept later than I intended; and
at the same moment my faithful Tom made his appearance,
and placed in my hand a slip of paper, on which was traced,
with a pencil, as follows:

I perused this note some two or three times, with emotions
of delight beyond my power to describe. Clara wished to
give me an explanation in private; and if I augured more
from this than was actually set down in black and white, it
is nothing I think to be wondered at, considering that I was
in some sort a lover, and of a rather sanguine temperament.
I hardly need say, that the injunction to destroy the note
as soon as read, was not complied with. With the usual
extravagance of one in my situation, I pressed it a dozen
times to my lips, and then carefully hid it away as near my
heart as was convenient. On turning to Tom, who had

been eying me the while, I fancied I saw a merry twinkle
in his eye, and a suppressed smile on his ebony countenance.

“What are you grinning at?” I demanded.

“I's not grinning, Massa Hal, dat I knows on,” answered
the black, looking very serious.

“Who gave you this note?”

“De young Missus Clara.”

“Did she give you any message with it?”

“She say, `Tom, you gib dat to your massa, and don't
you let nobody else see it;' and den she slipped dis into my
hand;” and Tom exhibited a silver coin.

I expected to meet Clara at the breakfast table—but I
was disappointed. She did not make her appearance, and
Mary informed me that she was slightly indisposed.
After the meal was over, I went out with Walter, and took
a stroll around the town, with which I was much pleased—
though, being situated upon a low lying prairie, the climate
is not very salubrious. Toward noon, as we were on our
return, we met Warncliff. He bowed coldly to me, and I
returned his salutation as coldly. He then drew Walter
aside, and spoke hurriedly to him in a low tone.

“I cannot,” I heard Walter say; “Mr. Walton is my
guest, and it would be ungentlemanly to leave him.”

“But perhaps he would accompany us?” suggested the
other.

“No! no!” returned Walter, quickly; and then lowering
his voice, he added something I did not overhear.

Both now conversed in low tones for a few moments,
and then I heard Warncliff say:

“Leave it to me.”

He then turned to me, and with much formal politeness
said:

“Not aware that Mr. Moreland was otherwise engaged,
I this morning made an engagement for him to meet a

few choice friends, who will be much disappointed if he
does not come. Would you be so good as to excuse him
for a few hours?—or, if you prefer it, honor us with your
company?”

“Oh, I will excuse him, most certainly,” I answered,
with a stiff bow.

“You will not be offended?” said Walter coming
forward and taking my hand. “You see how it is—the
engagement has been made for me, unknown to myself.”

“Give yourself no uneasiness on my account,” I replied,
with cordiality. “I will return and have a little chat
with your sister.”

I did not say which; but the look which Warncliff bestowed
upon me, seemed to imply that he at least thought
of only one. His eyes flashed, his lips compressed, and
an angry flush passed over his features, leaving them very
pale. I was satisfied I had roused his jealousy; and this
being exactly the result I intended, I bowed, with a meaning
smile, and walked slowly away.

On arriving at the house, I met Colonel Moreland
coming down the steps.

“Ha! in good time—where is Walter?” he said.

“We were met by Mr. Warncliff, who said he had made
an engagement for him, and the two went away together.”

“This is unlucky,” he returned, musingly. And then,
after a pause, he added: “By-the-by, perhaps I could
count on you to do me a favor?”

“Certainly, Colonel—any thing in my power.”

“Thank you! The fact is, you see, my brother's
widow—the mother of Tom, whom you chanced to see die
—has been taken suddenly ill, and has sent word that she
must see Clara immediately. Now that neither Walter
nor Warncliff are here, there is no one to escort her but
myself; and I have some important business to attend to,

and cannot well spare the time. Now if you would be so
kind—Are you fond of riding horseback?”

“It is one of my favorite pastimes, Colonel.”

“Well, then, if you will be so kind as to accompany her
on horseback, you will lay me under an obligation.”

“It will afford me great pleasure,” I answered, scarcely
able, for very joy, to keep myself calm.

“Clara might venture alone,” pursued the Colonel;
“but as the nearest way to the widow's residence lies
across a prairie, I should feel better satisfied to have some
one with her.”

“Nothing will afford me more delight than such a
ride,” I rejoined. “What is the distance?”

“About ten miles across the prairie—but nearly twice
as far round by the road. Clara knows the way—so you
have nothing to do but keep her company. Come! come
in and take a lunch—for I shall not let you stay to dinner.
Cato, (to a house servant) go and tell Mingo to saddle the
gray for Miss Clara, and the sorrel for Mr. Walton, and
bring them round to the door here immediately. And hark
you, boy! if Mingo is not at the stable, put the saddles on
yourself. Away with ye! and don't let the grass grow
under your feet.”

Saying this, he led the way into the house, and ordered
some refreshments to be served without delay. Just as he
had done giving these directions, Clara entered the room,
looking very pale, but more lovely I thought than ever.
A slight flush mantled her features as she saluted me—
but ere she had time for further speech, her father exclaimed:

“Away, Clara, and don your riding dress! Mr. Walton
has kindly consented to accompany you: Walter has not
returned. Come! away with you! for your aunt may die

ere you get there—something tells me she is not long for
this world.”

Clara blushed still deeper, as her father made this announcement;
and turning quickly away, she left the room.

“So you are going to run away with Clara, eh?” cried
Mary, bouncing into the room, with a roguish twinkle in
her black eyes. “Take care you bring her back safe, Mr.
Walton, or it will not be well for you to show me your
face again!”

“I shall certainly endeavor to do so,” I answered, with
a laugh.

“I wish I were going. Papa—”

You will stay,” said her father, peremptorily.

“Always the way,” muttered Mary, pouting her pretty
lips, as the Colonel quitted the apartment. “If there is
the least chance for a spice of romance, Clara goes, and I
am carefully housed. Never mind!” she pursued, tossing
her head and shaking her raven curls; “I shall not
always be in leading strings, and then let them bridle me
who can. Now mind!” she continued, with an arch look,
holding up her finger: “don't you run away with Clara,
nor steal her affections! do you hear?”

“Away with you, Miss Impertinence!” cried the Colonel,
at this moment returning. “I trust Mr. Walton is a
gentleman; and if so, it will be enough for him to know
that the hand of Clara is already engaged. The lunch is
ready, sir—this way.”

I was glad to escape from what I was just beginning to
feel a rather embarrassing situation. After a hasty meal,
I made some change in my dress, secured my pistols about
my person, and informed Tom whither I was going. By
the time I had done this, the horses were at the door, and
Clara, in a riding habit, stood ready to mount. I assisted
her into the saddle, with emotions I shall not pretend to

describe. I had never seen her look so charming as now,
as she sat erect on her gallant gray—the plume of her
riding-cap sweeping down so as to mingle with her sunny
curls—her eyes sparkling, and her pale features growing
animated with that sort of enthusiastic rapture which the
true lover of the equestrian art ever feels when well
mounted. I was soon by her side; and waving a cheerful
adieu to the father, mother and sister of my companion,
who were watching our departure, we rode slowly down
the avenue to the gate opening upon the street.
Suddenly, I knew not why, I felt a cold shudder pass
through my frame; and, for a moment or two, a sense
as of some heavy calamity oppressed me, and fairly made
my heart sink. At the same moment Clara turned her
head to look back; and as I thus caught a full view of
her features, I was struck with their deathly pallor, and a
certain expression of wildness and alarm which they displayed.
Could it be that we both had a presentiment of
coming evil? that a dark cloud of the future was lowering
over our heads, invisible to all but our spiritual eyes?

“What is the matter?” I inquired of my fair companion.

“Nothing! nothing!” she said, hurriedly; and giving her
horse a smart cut with her riding whip, she rode quickly
forward to the street, and then moderated her pace.

This street led out of town in a northerly direction; and
as this was our course, we did not turn out of it. We had
advanced along it some two hundred yards perhaps,
and I had my eye on a beautiful prospect away to the
left, when I heard a voice, not unfamiliar to me, exclaim:

“Whither bound, my pretty runaway?”

I turned my head quickly, and beheld the object of my
dislike, Willard Warncliff, in the act of putting his hand
upon Clara's bridle-rein.

“Do not detain me!” she said, hurriedly, with considerable
agitation, as he stopped her horse. “I am on
my way to visit my aunt, who has suddenly been taken ill
and sent for me.”

“Methinks I am the proper person to escort you
thither,” he replied, with marked emphasis on the
pronoun, glancing somewhat fiercely toward me.

Clara looked frightened, and I felt my blood boil—
though, by a great effort, I controlled my temper, so as to
rejoin, in a cold, quiet tone:

“As you and Walter had a pressing engagement on
hand, and were not present, Colonel Moreland assigned the
pleasure of escorting Miss Moreland to her destination, to
your most humble servant.”

“But I am present now, sir,” he replied; “and, with
your good leave, I will take the trouble off of your hands.”

“Will you be so good, my dear sir, as to inform me to
what trouble you allude?” I inquired, with mock politeness.

He colored to the temples, and his eyes flashed fire.

“In short,” he rejoined, “I will take your place by my
affianced bride.”

“In short, you will do no such thing,” said I, “unless
Miss Moreland particularly desires it.”

“Which she does, of course,” he said, appealing to
Clara.

“Where is Walter?” she inquired, a good deal agitated,
and apparently somewhat alarmed.

“He is with some friends, not far off,” replied Warncliff.
“I chanced to espy you coming up the street, and left him
to speak to you: I can call him if you wish.”

“It were a pity to withdraw you both from your friends
at the same time,” I interposed; “and therefore, in case

you do call Walter, perhaps you had better take his
place.”

“I was not addressing my conversation to you, Sir
Insolence!” cried Warncliff, almost beside himself with rage
—at the same time giving me a look, which, had looks the
power to destroy, this narrative had never been penned.

“It is a matter of indifference to me to whom you were
speaking,” I rejoined, carelessly.

“Say you so, sir!” began Warncliff—but was interrupted
by Clara, with:

“Come, come, gentlemen—no quarrelling!”

“Your presence, Miss Clara, will protect him now,” he
replied; “but,” and he looked fiercely at me, “we shall
meet again.”

“I hope not,” I returned, “for I dislike to meet any
but gentlemen.”

“How, sir! do you—”

“Come, come, Willard,” cried Clara, now really
alarmed; “for my sake, retire, and let there be no more
words between you! Go, Willard—you are detaining
me; and my aunt, for what I know, may be dying.”

“Shall I take his place?” inquired Warncliff, sullenly.

“No, no! I would not so insult him.”

“Indeed!” sneered the other: “Umph!”

“Come, Willard, let go my bridle-rein!” said Clara,
coaxingly, in a tremulous tone.

To this request Warncliff gave no heed; but first looked
fixedly at her, and then fastened his eye on me, with an
insolent and most wicked expression. I felt that I had
borne about as much as my nature could stand; and quietly
taking Clara's riding-whip from her hand, I bade him
let go his hold or take the consequences. As he did not
seem inclined to move, I raised the whip, with the rapidity

of lightning, and struck him a blow across the hand
that brought the blood.

With a yell of demoniac rage and pain, he sprang back;
and at the same moment I started both horses forward,
upon a quick gallop. After riding a short distance, I
turned my head, and saw Warncliff still standing where we
left him, looking after us with one of the most fiendish
expressions of countenance I have ever seen. In his hand
he held something which I took to be a pistol. This he
raised and pointed toward me; and while I kept my eye
on him, expeeting every moment he would fire, he suddenly
wheeled on his heel and disappeared.

“Oh! Mr. Walton, what have you done?” said Clara to
me, in a tone of alarm, as we slackened the speed of our
horses about half-a-mile beyond the town.

“Nothing, I trust, offensive to you,” I replied—“or, if
so, I shall deeply regret it.”

“You have made Warncliff your mortal enemy, and I
fear he will revenge himself upon you in some terrible
manner.”

“Were I certain Miss Moreland only regretted this on
my account, I should rejoice at the danger which could
give me so much interest in her eyes,” I replied.

“Nay, this is folly,” she said, hurriedly. “My taking
an interest in your welfare would not advantage you in the
least; but, on the contrary, might raise you up enemies
where you least expect them.”

“I know not how that may be; but only tell me
your heart is mine, and I will unflinchingly brave all consequences,
even though the displeasure of your father be
one of them.”

“Ha! why do you mention the displeasure of my
father?” she returned, quickly: “have you and he spoken
together on this subject?”

I repeated what he had said concerning her hand being
engaged.

“Ah! yes,” she sighed—“on this point he is inexorable,
and will hold any one an enemy who seeks to counteract
his wishes.”

“It is then by his express command that you tolerate
the visits, or more especially the suit, of Warncliff?”

“I cannot deny it,” returned Clara, in a low tone.

“I fancied as much,” I rejoined; “for it is easily seen
you rather fear than love him.”

“But it was not always so,” she resumed. “Nay,
there was a time when he stood high in my esteem; but
of late, from some cause—” She paused, and hung her
head, and the color deepened on her lovely features—“In
short, I think I have seen that in his character which no
true woman would tolerate, and which no one would like
to perceive in him who is to be her partner for life.”

“Then, even at the risk of offending you again, I must
repeat my warning—beware how you perjure yourself
before God's holy altar! for when you there take upon
you the sacred vow—to love, honor and obey—will it not
be perjury?”

“But what am I to do?” she said, earnestly. “My
father's commands must be obeyed.”

“No parent's commands should be obeyed, when those
commands lead to dishonor,” I replied; “nor has any
parent a right to impose such commands upon a child. I
know that you love and respect your worthy father, and
my counsel to you in this matter may seem harsh; but
believe me, I speak for your own good, and with no selfish
motive—though you appeared to think otherwise last
night.”

“I was offended last night, I do not deny; for I then
felt that, for a stranger, you were taking unwarrantable

liberties; but after due reflection, I was forced to acknowledge
to myself that, if a little severe, you were just; and
thinking perhaps that I had wounded your feelings, and
that there could be no harm in giving you a fair statement
of how matters stand between Warneliff and myself, I this
morning sent you a note to this effect.”

“Which I received, Clara, with grateful emotions,” I
rejoined; “and without which I should never have presumed
to address you on this important subject again.
No, believing myself out of place at your father's house—
that my presence would prove rather an embarrassment
and annoyance to you than a pleasure—I had resolved to
take the first favorable opportunity of bidding you a final
farewell.”

“Would that we had never met!” murmured Clara,
drooping her head.

“As matters stand, it had doubtless been better for
both of us,” I rejoined. “Still, Clara, if you are willing
to look upon me as a friend, I will counsel you to the best
of my poor ability, and promise you not to say aught to
you which I might not with propriety say were you
already wedded.”

“Oh, say you so?” cried Clara, joyfully. “Thanks,
sir! thanks! your words relieve me of a weight of embarrassment.
Now I feel I can speak to you as to a friend
who will not abuse my confidence. The truth is, my approaching
nuptials with Warncliff give me great uneasiness—but
I know not how to avoid them, without offending
my father.”

“Would it not be well for you to go to him, and in
plain language tell him, that to obey his commands in
this respect would make you unhappy for life?”

Clara shook her head.

“You do not know him,” she said; “he likes not to

have his wishes thwarted, no matter from what cause.
He is self-willed; and once determined upon a thing, it
is almost impossible to change him. In this case, I am
certain he would remain inexorable, unless he himself
should find cause to take offence at Warncliff; and that
he is not likely to do; for the latter is one who, for self-interest,
would sacrifice his right hand to please him.”

“And pray who is this Warncliff, that has so strong a
hold upon the regards of your father? and how has he
managed to work himself so deeply into his favor?”

“He is the son of an early friend of my father's, who
came to this country with him, and died here about six
years ago. The elder Warncliff had buried his wife a
year or two previous—so that Willard, an only child, was
left parentless on the demise of his father. The latter
left his son a small property, of which my father was
appointed trustee, until such time as Willard should attain
his majority, which took place about a year or so after
the death of his parent.

“I have said that the elder Warncliff and my father
were friends; and so warm is the attachment of my
father, that I verily believe he would willingly sacrifice
half his worldly possessions, rather than see one he calls
his friend suffer. On his death-bed, Warncliff said to my
father, that if agreeable to all parties, he should like
to have Willard and myself united; and my father promised
to do all in his power to bring about such a result.

“Well, to be brief, after the death of his father, Willard
became a daily visitor at our house, and was treated as
one of the family. Though much my elder, he ever
showed me so much deference, and took so much pains to
please me, that, though at first I was any thing but
partial to him, I came to like him exceedingly; and when,
a year or two after, my father one day took me into his

library, and informed me that he designed Willard as my
future husband, I did not object, but laughingly replied—

“ `Better him than a worse.'

“This I suppose my father communicated to Willard;
for a day or two after, he made me a formal proposal;
which I, girl-like, thoughtlessly accepted; though he
stipulated that the wedding-day should be distant, and of
my own fixing.

“Time wore on; and the more I saw of Willard, the
less I really liked him; till at last I began to look upon
a closer connection with him with a feeling akin to abhorrence.

“He came not so regularly now as formerly to our
house. Sometimes I would not see him for a month; and
when I did see him, methought I could detect traces of
recent dissipation. He gave out that he was speculating
in lands beyond the Brazos, which kept him much away;
and certainly his style of living when here, indicated an
income he could never have derived from the small property
left him by his father.

“At present he is stopping at the most expensive
hotel, has two servants and a span of horses, and spends
money with an extravagance that would soon impoverish
a man of wealth. I do not know what to make of it;
but I have sometimes thought—that—perhaps—”

“His resources are not honestly gained,” rejoined I, as
Clara paused.

“Ay, even so,” replied Clara—“though I did not like
to say it.”

“Fear nothing from me, Clara—your words will not be
repeated.”

“I believe you,” she said, the color deepening on her
fair features; “and to show you how much you possess
my confidence, I now assure you that I have never

breathed these suspicions to a soul besides yourself—nor
would I dare do so, unless I had substantial proofs to support
them.”

“From my heart, Clara, I thank you for your confidence,”
I replied, with very peculiar emotions; and it was
with difficulty I could restrain myself from saying more:
but I remembered my promise, and withheld the warmer
expressions that rose to my lips. “Yes,” pursued I,
recurring to the main subject, “I do not think Willard
Warncliff any too honest; indeed, I believe him unprincipled,
and one that would scarcely scruple at any thing
necessary to the accomplishment of any purpose he may
have in view; therefore, as to one standing on a fearful
precipice, do I cry, beware! draw back! ere you take the
leap from which you can never recover. Nor do I say this,
Clara, with any selfish motive; but, as I know my heart,
purely for your own good, and as I would warn you from
any other danger. No, Clara, you have my promise that
I will say nothing to you which I might not with propriety
say were you already married; and to this I will now
add, that were you to freely offer me your hand, I would
not accept it without your father's consent; and as this,
according to your own showing, would not be likely to be
obtained for one who had thwarted his wishes in a matter
of so great a consequence as the disposal of your hand, you
will readily see what little prospect there is of my ever
having further claim on you than that which is accorded
to disinterested friendship: hence, I pray you, if you
value my counsel at all, let it join with your own honest
convictions, and prove powerful enough to save you from
irretrievable ruin and hopeless misery!”

“But what am I to do?” said Clara, dejectedly.

“Reject him! Tell him you have studied your heart,

and find you cannot love him, and that your hand can
only go with your heart.”

“But my father?”

“He may be angry at first; but far better brave his
anger, than perjure yourself before God, and endure a
wretched existence, by being irrevocably bound to one
you fear, and perhaps abhor.”

“Oh! I know not what to do!” groaned Clara, her fair
features expressing great mental suffering. “Yes, I do
fear him, and I tremble at the thought of telling him that
I can never be his. But it must be so!” she said, more
firmly; “and the sooner perhaps the better; for marry
him I have now resolved I never will. I dread the storm
that will follow—but better brave that than do worse.
And he is so pressing of late—so urgent for me to name
the day!”

“Ha! he urges you to name the day, does he?” cried
I. “So-so! perhaps the gentleman finds his funds running
low?”

“Ha!” exclaimed Clara, quickly; and she turned and
looked me full in the face, with the expression of one suddenly
struck with a new idea. “Yes! yes!” she continued:
“I see it now! I think you are right; for on the
day he marries me, he gets ten thousand dollars, already
set aside as my marriage portion. Ah me! what an
abyss have I escaped! and this escape I owe to you; for
without the advice of some friend, warning me back, I
fear I should have yielded to the force of circumstances,
and gone forward to my doom. But as you, like myself,
suspect his honesty—pray tell me in what way you think
him dishonest?”

“I know nothing, of course; but I strongly suspect
him of being a professional gambler, for one thing.”

“Good heavens!” cried Clara, much startled at the

suggestion; “and Walter is his associate! Perhaps he
is already winding the snares of hell around him! They
were always very intimate,” she added, musingly.

I remembered the almost startling vehemence with which
Walter had adjured me never to gamble again—recalled
the engagement of the morning, and the earnestness of his
manner in replying to Warncliff, that I must not accompany
them—and thought it more than probable that the
fears of Clara had too good a foundation.

“But Walter has been absent a couple of years,” I
replied—“so that Warncliff has had no chance to corrupt
him of late.”

“True,” rejoined Clara—“nor shall he now have an
opportunity, if I can prevent it.”

“You will have to be very cautious in what you do,”
said I.

“If I only had proof that Warncliff does gamble!” she
rejoined, thoughtfully.

“How would it do to ask Walter the question, in plain,
bold terms?” I suggested.

“I will try it,” she replied; “and if he deceives me, it
will be the first time.” Then, after a pause, she continued:
“I am sorry you struck Warncliff—for now you
will be exposed to his insults and the censure of others.”

“I should have been less than a man,” I rejoined,
“could I have stood quietly by and seen you plead in vain
for your liberty. So far as it gives you uneasiness, Clara,
I regret having struck him—but no farther. As to his
insults, and the censure of others, I care not a farthing
for them.”

“He will force a quarrel on you, I fear,” she rejoined;
“or, what is worse, take secret revenge. Good heavens!
perhaps he will challenge you!”

“Well, if he can prove himself a gentleman, I will give
him satisfaction.”

“Oh! no! no! no!” cried Clara; “you must not
fight! for you would be killed, and he would triumph.
Oh! promise me you will not fight him!”

“I would rather not make any such promise—but I will
try and avoid him, for the sake of all parties, and take
my departure as soon as I can after our return.”

“What! will you then leave us so soon?”

“You see the alternative.”

At this moment Clara looked quickly around, drew in
her horse, and exclaimed:

“Ha! where are we? I have been so much engaged
talking, and thinking, I fear I have missed my way.”