Bennett, Emerson - Prairie Flower 02

by Leni-Leoti or, Adventures In The Far West (lit)

  CHAPTER XVII.

  PRAIRIE FLOWER—HER APPEARANCE — EMOTIONS— INTRODUCTION—THE SURPRISE — THE LIKENESS — A THRILLING SCENE — A MOTHER'S FEELINGS — WILD INTERROGATIONS— STARTLING DENOUEMENT.

  I found Prairie Flower seated upon her little pony, in company with her Indian friends, pale and agitated, but looking, if anything, more beautiful than ever. She wore a plain, neat dress without ornament, which fitted her person well, and displayed her airy, symmetrical figure to the best advantage. Her dark, glossy hair was braided and arranged, if not a la mode, at least in most exquisite taste; and altogether her appearance was such as could not offend the searching gaze of the most fastidious critic. All trace of the Indian was gone; and gazing upon her sweet, modest countenance, one could hardly realize her life, for the most part, had been spent in the wilderness, among the red children of the forest. "And how fares my fair friend this morning?" I said, with a smile, as I came up. "But indifferently well," she answered, dismounting. "I fear you did not rest well last night." "I did not rest at all," she replied. "How could I rest, sir, with such momentous thoughts as kept me company? O, sir," she added vehemently, placing her hand upon her heart; "here, here were strange feelings, strange emotions, strange yearnings — but all powerful as strange — and they kept my senses from slumber. Every nerve was then strained, and I felt strong. But now — I am weak — very weak;" and as she spoke, she rested her hand on the neck of her little pony for support. "Come!" said I, advancing to her side, "take my arm, and I will conduct you bence. It is intense excitement which so unnerves you; but you must not give way to it. It is necessary, for the present, that you be calm, and do not lose your wonted presence of mind." "And whither would you conduct me?" she timidly inquired. "Within this humble cottage." "And—and—are—they there—of—of whom you spoke?" she fairly gasped. "Ay! they await your presence to thank you for all your kindness." "And do—do—they know?" she said, emphasizing the last word, clasping my hand, and fixing her dark eyes, with a singular expression, upon mine. "They know nothing, Prairie Flower, but that you are the author of many noble deeds, for which they are your debtors, and for which they are anxious to return you heart-felt thanks. My friend and I thought it best to bring you together, without even hinting our surmises." "It was a happy thought in you," she replied, with some reassurance; "I am glad you did so; I am glad they know nothing; and I will try to be calm and appear indifferent. But, sir, believe me! this is a great trial. I have been used to danger all my life. I—though you may think it strange, for I have never told it you before — have even stood upon the field of carnage, where the fierce battle raged, and the deadly missiles were whirling past me, fairly hissing in my ear, and there have striven to succor the wounded. I have had my life in danger many times, when I believed every moment would be my last. I have, for my years, seen much hardship and peril—but never, sir, a moment like the present—never a time when I felt my soul shrink within me, and refuse to do my bidding as now— never a time when I had less self-com mand and felt I needed it more. I am about to enter the presence of those whose blood, perchance, runs in my veins; and the doubts—the uncertainty—the hopes and fears which are based upon this bare possibility, are mighty in their strength. O, sir! such feelings—such wild, strange feelings as rush over me at the thought, are beyond the utterance of mortal tongue— words could not express them. But I will say no more. I keep them waiting. I will nerve myself. I am ready." "But perhaps your friends here had better wait till this first interview is over." "True," she added, "they must not witness it;" and turning, she addressed a few words to them, and signified that she was ready. At this moment my eye fell upon several of the villagers, who were sauntering toward us, attracted, some of them perhaps by curiosity, and others by the news of my arrival. As I did not care to see any at present, I said a word to Prairie Flower, and we hastened our steps to the threshold of the cottage. "Courage," I whispered, and led her in with a faltering step. All eyes were instantly fastened upon her; and the involuntary exclamation from more than one was, "How beautiful!" Prairie Flower, pale, and trembling, could not return their gaze, but sank her own to the ground. "My friends," I said, I herewith present you our fair benefactress, to whom two of us at least, if not all present, are indebted for our lives. This is the Prairie Flower, of whom I spoke; and taking slight liberty with her name, I may be permitted to term her the Flower of the Wilderness." As I spoke, each of the ladies rose and advanced to meet her, but Lilian was the first to gain her side. With a quick step she came forward, and taking the inactive hands of Prairie Flower in her own, said in a bland, frank, affectionate tone: "Welcome, sweet maiden, to the home of those who already love you for your many virtues. I have—" At this moment Prairie Flower raised her eyes to those of the speaker, whose countenance suddenly changed to a look of bewildered surprise, and taking a step backward, she clasped her hands and ejaculated: "Good heavens! how remarkable!" "The charm works," whispered I to my friend, who had silently joined me. He pressed my hand nervously, but said nothing. "Yes, welcome to our humble abode, Prairie Flower," said Mrs. Huntly, in a kindly tone, who, her gaze riveted upon the fair maiden, had not as yet noticed the surprise and agitation of her daughter. "Eh! what! how!" she added the next moment, as the dark eyes of Prairie Flower in turn rested upon hers; and she glanced quickly toward Eva, Madame Mortimer and Lilian, and then back again upon Prairie Flower, as if uncertain what to think or how to act. "I thank you — for — for — your kindness!" faltered Prairie Flower, again dropping her eyes to the ground, and evidently scarcely able to support herself from sinking. At the moment Mrs. Huntly spoke, Eva had extended her hand within a step of Prairie Flower, and her lips were just parted to utter a welcome, when the same look which had surprised the former, arrested her motions and held her spellbound, as if suddenly transformed to a statue of marble. But it was Madame Mortimer who now fixed my whole attention. She had come up a little behind the others, with an expression of patronizing, benevolent curiosity on her fine, matronly features. The first glance at Prairie Flower had changed the idle look of curiosity, to one of surprise and interest at her maiden beauty, and the absence of that distinguishing mark of the Indian which she had expeated to find. The next moment she evidently became struck with her strong resemblance to Eva, which had so surprised each of the others; and a sudden vague, wild thought — suspicion—a something undefinable — rushed over her half bewildered brain; and her features grew ashy pale, her bosom heaved, and her very lips turned white with internal emotions. But it was when Prairie Flower spoke, you should have seen her. There was something in that voice, that seemed to thrill every nerve, and then take away all power of motion — suspend every ani mal function. At the first sound, she leaned a little forward, one hand, unconsciously as it were, stretched toward the speaker, and the other instinctively clasping her forehead; while the blood rushing upward, crimsoned her features, and then retreating to her heart, left them paler than ever. Her lips parted, her eyes seemed starting from their sockets, her heaving breast ceased its throbbing, and she stood transfixed to the ground, motionless and mute, apparently without life, or only that life of surprised and bewildered inaction, which the master sculptor of the passions sometimes transfuses into the otherwise inanimate object of his creation. It was a strange and impressive picture, and one that would have made the fortune and fame of any artist who could have accurately transferred it to canvas. A momentary silence prevailed—a deathly silence—that seemingly had in it the awful calm preceding the frightful tempest. For a brief space no one moved—no one spoke—and, I may add, no one breathed; for the internal excitement had suspended respiration. There they stood, as I have described them, a wonderful group—sweet Prairie Flower as the central figure and object of interest, the cynosure of all eyes, and, if I may be permitted the expression, the very soul of all thought. Just behind Prairie Flower stood Huntly, my hand clasped in his and suffering from its pressure. Madame Mortimer was the first to move— the first to break
the silence. Suddenly taking a step forward, between Mrs. Huntly and Eva, and clasping her hands before her, her eyes still riveted upon Prairie Flower, she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, that had something sepulchral in its sound: "Merciful God! who are you? Speak! speak! In Heaven's name, who are you?" Prairie Flower looked up wildly, clasped her hands, fixed her eyes upon the other, and trembled violently, but said nothing. "Who are you?" cried Madame Mortimer again. "For God's sake, speak! and break this terrible spell of painful, bewildering uncertainty! Speak! I charge you, speak!" But the lips of Prairie Flower gave no answer. "Speak you!" continued Madame Mortimer, wildly, appealing to me: "Speak any! speak all! but speak somebody! and tell me I am not in a dream—a dream from which it would be terrible to wake and know it but a dream." "You do not dream," said I; "and, I have every reason to believe, are standing in the presence of —" "Who?" she screamed, interrupting me. "Your long lost daughter!" "Ah!" she shrieked: "God of mercy! I thought so!" and staggering forward, she threw out her arms, fell heavily upon the breast of Prairie Flower, and swooned in her embrace.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CONFUSION — MADAME MORTIMER RESTORED— SECOND INTERVIEW OF MOTHER AND DAUGHTER — THE GRATEFUL PRAYER — FEARS OF PRAIRIE FLOWER—DOUBTS REMOVED— LIGHT CONVERSATION—A STROLL— OLD ACQUAINTANCES—OREGON CITY — LOVE'S MISGIVINGS—RETURN TO THE COTTAGE.

  To describe minutely what occurred during the first half hour after this singular meeting between mother and daughter, is wholly beyond my power—for I was too much excited myself to note anything distinctly. For a time all was uproar and confusion — persons running to and fro, calling for this thing and that, and uttering exclamations of terror, surprise and bewilderment. Meantime Madame Mortimer was borne in an unconscious state to an adjoining apartment, where such restoratives as could be had were speedily applied, for a long time without success; while Prairie Flower, more dead than alive, was conducted to a seat, where Eva, the first alarm for her mother over, flew to embrace her, to twine her arms around her neck, call her "Dear, dear sister!" and weep and laugh alternately as one insane. Lilian and Mrs. Huntly seemed completely bewildered; and were now with Madame Mortimer, and anon with Prairie Flower, aiding the recovery of the one, wondering over the other, and continually uttering, "How strange! how strange!" Charles, pale as a corpse, had sunk upon a seat, and with his face buried in his hands, sat in silence; while I, after running up and down the room several times, found myself, much to my surprise, alone in the center of the apartment and dancing for very joy. At last everything began to assume a more tranquil and sane appearance. Prairie Flower found vent to her feelings in a flood of tears upon the breast of Eva, who, as she put in now and then a soothing word, begging the other to be calm, mingled her own with her sister's; while Lilian and her mother wept in sympathy of joy, and my own eyes, by the spontaneous action of an overflowing soul, would, in spite of myself, occasionally grow dim. Madame Mortimer, too, gradually regained her senses, and looking hurriedly about her, anxiously inquired for her long lost daughter. Prairie Flower was at once conducted to her side, whither we all followed to witness the interview. For something like a minute, Madame Mortimer gazed upon her daughter without speaking, during which her features displayed all the varying expressions of a mother's tender, yearning love for a long lost child. "'Tis she!" at length escaped her lips, in that deep tone by which the very soul gives utterance: "'Tis she! the long-lost— the sadly-wept—the deeply-mourned. Yes, 'tis she — there is no mistaking those features. The lost is found — the dead restored to life." Then pausing, clasping, her hands and looking upward, she added: "God! all merciful, all wise, and all just— for this I thank thee, from the inner depths of a grateful heart! This day's happiness, O God! hath canceled long years of suffering and sorrow; and henceforth the study of my life shall be to glorify thy name." During this brief, solemn, but heart-felt offering of gratitude to the Great Author of the universe, Prai rie Flower gradually sank upon her knees beside the bed whereon the speaker was lying, and covering her face with her hands, appeared lost in silent devotion. This over, she arose, and gazing upon Madame Mortimer a moment, with a look of unutterable affection, uttered the single word "Mother!" threw herself upon the breast of the latter, was strained to her heart, and the tears of both mingled. It was a touching scene, and one that needs no comment from me. "And now, my sweet child," said Madame Mortimer, pressing her lips warmly to the other's, "my long lost Evaline Mortimer— for by that name, which you bore in infancy, you must henceforth be known— tell me something of yourself, and how you came to be found among the Indians!" Prairie Flower — or Evaline, as I will hereafter term her — started, turned pale, and sighed heavily, but did not reply. At once I comprehended her thoughts and hastened to relieve her; for I saw in her look a secret dread, lest the unrevealed secret in her possession might even now dash the cup of joy from her lips, by proving her the child of another. "She knows but little of her own history," I began, and then went on to recount our first suspicions as to who she might be, and what followed, up to her finding the hidden box, which probably contained a statement of the facts, but which she, for reasons explained, had not yet examined. "Alas!" sighed Evaline, "and that is what troubles me now. I fear there may have been some mistake; and if, oh God! there be —" "Give yourself no uneasiness, my child!" interrupted Madame Mortimer; "for you are my child, I feel and know; and for my own satisfaction, would never seek other proof than what I have — your likeness to Eva, and a mother's yearnings. But if you have any doubts, examine your left arm, and you there will find a scar, in the form of a quarter moon, which was impressed upon Evaline Mortimer in infancy." Evaline started, and hurriedly bared her arm with a trembling hand. We all pressed forward to examine it. There, sure enough! just below the elbow, the identical scar could be traced -- dim, it is true, but still the scar of the quarter moon. Evaline gazed upon it a moment, faint and pale with joyful emotions, and then turning her soft, dark eyes above, with the sublime look of saint, and clasping her hands, said solemnly: "God! I thank thee!" "My sister—my sweet, long lost sister!" said Eva affectionately, gently twining her arms around the neck of the other and gazing upward also — "I, too, thank God for this!" Evaline turned, clasped the other in her arms, and falling upon each other's neck, the beautiful twin sisters wept in each other's embrace. "What a singular meeting is this!" observed Mrs. Huntly to Madame Mortimer, who now completely recovered arose from the bed. "And how remarkable, that both you and I should have a long lost child restored to us at the same time!" "Ay," answered the other, "God sometimes works in wonders, and this is one. But not the least remarkable of all is the fact, that some years since your son saved the life of my daughter, and subsequently my daughter saved the life of your son— though each at the time wholly unknown to the other, with no apparent connection between the two striking events. The good we do returns to us, as the evil of our life often falls heavily upon our heads. I have experienced both;" and she sighed heavily. "But come, my daughter," she added, turning to Evaline, "you have friends with you whom we have long kept waiting. We must now entertain them, or they will think themselves slighted, and with good reason. When everything is properly arranged and settled, we will have those secret documents produced and hear your tale." As she spoke, she led the way to the larger apartment. "Charley," I whispered, "I fear we have forgotten to congratulate Prairie Flower on the happy termination of this interview and change of name!" He pressed my hand and answered: "You must be spokesman, then — for at present I am unable to express my feelings." "Be it so — but you must accompany me;" and advancing to Prairie Flower, I took her hand and said: "I give you joy, Evaline Mortimer! — and so does my friend here, though at present too bashful to say it." Both Huntly and Evaline blushed and became embarrassed. But quickly recovering herself, the latter returned: "I thank you -- thank you both — from my heart. But for you, this might never have been;" and her eyes instantly filled with grateful tears. "But for you, dear Evaline," rejoined I, "we might ne
ver have been here. The obligation is on our side — we are the debtors." "Prairie Flower," began Huntly, taking the disengaged hand and making an effort to command himself—"Or rather, I should say, Evaline — I — I — Well, you understand! Imagine all I would say — for just now I can say nothing." "Bravo, Charley!" said I, laughing and giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "Bravo, my dear fellow! Spoken like yourself!" "Hush!" he returned, with a gesture of displeasure; "do not jest with me now, Frank!" Meantime I noticed that Eva and Lilian watched the features of both Evaline and Charles closely, and then whispered to each other, and smiled, and again looked earnestly at each. The secret is out, thought I. At this moment Madame Mortimer, observing us together, approached and addressed my friend with a bland smile: "Said I not, Charles, that the heroine of this life-romance must necessarily be a personage of consequence?" "And I am rejoiced your words are verified," was the reply. "Thank you! and thank God, I have found them verified in a way I little expected! But all heroines, you know, must fall in love!" she added, laughing. "How is it in the present case, eh?" "It turns out on the most approved plan," I answered pointedly, glancing at both Charles and Evaline, who, judging from their looks, wished themselves for the moment, anywhere but where they stood. "I am rejoiced to hear it," rejoined the good dame. "And how is it with you, Eva?" I asked, playfully "Why, I suppose I must resign all pretensions," she replied, in her wonted light tone. "Of course I was anxious to make a conquest — as what young lady is not? But I see there is no chance for me," she pursued, glancing slyly at my friend; "and so I will e'en make a virtue of necessity, pretend I don't care anything about it, and, heigh-ho! look some where else, with the old motto, 'Better luck next time.' Ay," she added, springing to the blushing Evaline, and imprinting a kiss on her sweet lips, "I am too happy in finding a sister, to mourn long for a lover—more especially if a certain somebody (again glancing at Charles,) has any design of becoming a relation." "Well said!" I rejoined. "And now, Charley —" "Hist!" he exclaimed, interrupting and dragging me away. "Come," he added "let us take a stroll;" and arm-in-arm we quitted the cottage. Considerable of a crowd had already collected around our Indian friends, and were listening to a story from Teddy, who, as he privately expressed himself to me, "Was in all the glory of making the spalpeens belave himself and us the heroes of a hundred mighty fights, and bathels, and scrimmages, and hair-length escapes, and thim things." Among the number present, I recognised several of my old acquaintances, who appeared much delighted to see me, and to whom I introduced my long lost friend. After the usual commonplace observations were over, I turned to Teddy, and gave him instructions to conduct the Indians into the cottage forthwith, and then see to having their horses well taken care of. This done, Huntly and I sauntered down through the village, to note the improvements, and talk over the important events of the last few hours. As Lilian remarked I would, I found the village of Oregon City greatly altered for the better, and that it had already begun to assume the appearance of a thriving settlement. During the past season there had been a large influx of population from the East, the effects of which were everywhere visible in new dwellings and workshops. Some three or four merchants had come on with goods, opened stores, and were now doing a thriving business, in disposing of their commodities at the most extravagant prices. A grist-mill and sawmill had also been erected on the Williamette, and were now in active operation— the former grinding out the staff of life, and the latter supplying such of the settlers as desired habitations superior to log cabins, with the necessary materials for more finished building. Here and there were the workshops of the carpenter, blacksmith, saddler, shoemaker, and tailor— and, in short, everything necessary apparently to a business place. Strolling down to the Williamette, we halted upon a bluff overlooking the romantic stream, and, as chance would have it upon the very spot where I had offered my hand to Lilian. "Here, Charley," said I, "is ground which to me is sacred. Can you not guess from what cause?" He only answered by pressing my arm and heaving a deep sigh. "Come," added I, smiling, "a wager I can guess your thoughts!" "Well, say on." "You are thinking of Evaline." He changed color, and sighed: "Well?" "And now you begin to have doubts that all may not terminate as you desire!" "You are good at guessing," he rejoined, gazing solemnly down upon the current below. "Courage, man!" rejoined I. "Never despair on the point of victory!" "Ah!" he sighed, "if I could be assured of that." "Assured, Charley! What more assurance would you have? She loves you, I will vouch for that; and now that the mystery hanging over her early life is cleared up, you have nothing to do but be yourself and ask her hand." "Do you think so?" he cried, suddenly confronting me with an ea ger look. "Do you think so, Frank?" "Do I think so?" I repeated. "Why, where is your wonted assurance? Do I think so? No! I do not think—I know!" "But I—I—somehow—I have my misgivings." "Pshaw! my friend—love's misgivings only. If you had not these, I should put it down as a solemn fact that you did not love. She has her misgivings, too—but they spring from the same source as yours, and amount to exactly the same thing— that is, nothing. Why, how you have changed! You are as timid as a schoolboy at his first public declamation, and tremble more in the presence of one beautiful being, than you did in the clutches of a fierce banditti. Throw aside this foolish bashfulness, and act like a sensible fellow. There is nothing so very alarming in telling a young maiden you love and adore her, when you once set yourself about it. I have tried it, and speak from experience. Once, I remember, you talked the matter of matrimony over as deliberately as if making a bargain and sale—purchasing or transferring property." "Ay," he answered, musingly, "but it was merely talk then—now it is quite a different thing. If—if—she should refuse—" "Nonsense!" interrupted I, laughing; and then added, imitating him: "If—if— you should refuse, why—" "Cease!" he exclaimed, almost angrily. "Why will you be ever jesting, Frank?" "That I may bring you to sober earnest, Charley." In like conversation we whiled away an hour or two, and then returned to the cottage— Huntly in a better flow of spirits than I had seen him for many a day. The news of our arrival—the restoration of a long lost daughter to the arms of her mother—together with exaggerated and marvellous reports of the whole affair, had already made the dwelling of Mrs. Huntly a place of attraction to the villagers, whom we here found collected in goodly numbers of both sexes. In fact, the house was thronged throughout the day, and both Huntly and myself were kept busy in recounting our exploits to curious and eager listeners. Night, however, came at last, and with its approach departed our visiters, much to our relief and gratification.