CHAPTER XX.
EVALINE'S RESOLVE—SOME PLANS FOR THE FUTURE—RETIRE FOR THE NIGHT—SUBSEQUENT EXCITEMENT OF MY FRIEND—IMAGINARY DUEL—A HAPPY MISTAKE—LOVE TRIUMPHANT—THOUGHTS OF HOME.
"Poor child! my own sweet Evaline," said Madame Mortimer, affectionately, as the former concluded; "what a singular life has been yours! and how much you must have suffered!" "For which she shall be made happy the rest of her days," said Eva, springing to and imprinting a kiss on her lips. "Ah!" chimed in Lilian, following the example of Eva; "did I not say we would love her as a sister?" "Ay, but I had no idea you spoke so much truth, and in a double sense," rejoined Eva, glancing archly toward Charles. "I trust we may love her as a sister both!" "Indeed you may," chimed in I, laughing. "Eh! Charley?" "Be quiet, I beg of you!" answered my friend, in some confusion, while Evaline hung her head with a blush, and a pleasant smile played over each face of the rest of the group. "And now, dear Evaline," said Madame Mortimer, "I suppose we may count on your spending the remainder of your days with us?" Evaline seemed to muse seriously, but did not reply. "Surely you do not hesitate, my child?" "Why, to tell the truth," she answered, "I love the Indians, and know they will be loth to part with me." "And has a mother no tie stronger than that of mere association?" rejoined the other, reproachfully. Evaline looked up and her eyes filled with tears. "Nay, mother," she said, "do not speak thus! Yes!" she exclaimed, suddenly rising, and throwing her arms around the other's neck: "Yes, dear mother, I will go with you, even to the ends of the earth— for I feel I could not part from you again. From my very childhood, I have yearned for this happy moment, to hear the sweet voice of one I could call mother. It may be wrong to forsake my calling; but if it be, I feel I must err; for I am only mortal after all, and cannot withstand the temptation of being with those I already love beyond all others I have ever seen." "Bless you, Evaline, for those words!" "But I must return to them," she added. "I have promised that. I must return and bid them a last farewell." "But where are you to find them, my child?" "They will winter on the Black Hills, some sixty or seventy miles from Fort Laramie." "And will they remain through the spring?" asked I. "I cannot say. They may remain there through the summer, for all are particularly attached to the spot; and if any place can be called their home, it is the one in question." "Then you can visit them on our way to the East; and every thing prosperous, we shall start as early in the spring as practicable." "O, then we are to go East in earnest!" exclaimed Eva, clapping her hands for joy. "Yes," I replied, "I am anxious to see home, and cannot think of leaving my friends behind me." "Thank you for this welcome news!" she returned; "for I am already tired of the forest." "But you do not regret having come here, Eva?" said her mother, inquiringly. "Why, I have regretted it all along, till I found my sweet sister. Of course I cannot regret being made happy by her presence, which but for this journey had probably never been. At the same time, I am not the less anxious to return now, and take her with me." "And I," said Mrs. Huntly, "now that I am blessed with my children, begin to feel anxious to see my native land again, to there pass the remainder of my days, and lay my bones with those that have gone before me." "God grant it may be long ere the latter event!" returned Charles with feeling. "Amen!" added I. "It seems," observed Madame Mortimer, after some reflection, "as if Providence especially directed our steps hither; and it is the only way I can account for my anxiety to visit this part of the world, and thus expose myself and Eva to hardships and perils. What need had I to come westward? I had a handsome competence, and no ambition to be a pioneer; and yet something whispered me I must go. Truly, as I said before, God works in wonders!" In like conversation an hour or two flew by, when the party broke up, and Madame Mortimer and her daughters were conducted by Huntly and myself to their own abode, which was close at hand, and the fatigue and excitement of the day was soon by each forgotten in the pleasant dreams of the night. Time rolled away pleasantly, and the third night after this, having retired at the usual hour and fallen into a sweet sleep, I was awakened by Huntly, whom I found pacing up and down the room, apparently in great excitement. "Good heavens! what is the matter?" exclaimed I, rubbing open my eyes and starting up in bed. "So, then, you are awake at last!" he replied, his eyes sparkling with what to me seemed unnatural fire. "Why, Frank, I was beginning to think you were taking your last long sleep, and that I might as well call to a log of wood. Come! up, now, and give me joy! It is all settled, my dear fellow—all settled!" "Is it?" rejoined I, completely, at a loss to comprehend what he meant, but somehow, in my sleepy confusion, mixing it up with a duel of which I had been dreaming the night previous. "And so it is all settled, eh? Well, I am glad to hear it, Charley. "I knew you would be," he replied; "and I awoke you on purpose to have you share my happiness. Come, give me your hand!" "But how did you settle it, Charley?" "O, I made bold to take up the matter at last and press it to a conclusion." "And so you settled it?" "Ay, and it is to come off at the same time as yours." "As mine! But my friend, I have no such affair on hand, to my knowledge." "What!" exclaimed Huntly, looking at me in astonishment. "Why, you have given me to understand, all along that you had." "I? No, you must be mistaken." "Ha! then you have quarreled?" "No! exactly the reverse. But you told me a moment since you had settled the whole matter, and now you say it is to come off with mine. Somehow I do not understand it. Either you or I must have made a mistake. When you said it was all settled, I supposed you to mean amicably settled; but I see now you simply referred to manner, time, and place. Well, at all events, I will stand by you to the last, though I sincerely regret the affair could not have ended without a meeting. Pistols or rifles, Charles?" "Pistols or rifles!" he repeated, gazing at me with a peculiar expression. "Why, Frank, what do you mean by this strange language? or are you still asleep? In the name of all that is curious, pray tell me if you know yourself what you are talking about?" "Why, fighting, of course." "Fighting?" "Ay, you were speaking of a duel, were you not?" For a brief moment Huntly looked at me seriously, and then broke forth in a roar of laughter that fairly made the cabin tremble. It was some time ere he could command his voice sufficiently to make himself intelligible. "Go to bed, Frank!" were his first words, as, half bent over, his hands clasping his ribs, he stood gazing at me with a comical look. "Go to bed, Frank, and dream yourself into a sensible fellow—for just now you are as wild as a night-hawk." "But if you did not allude to a duel, Charles, pray tell me to what you did allude?" "To matrimony — neither more nor less," he answered, laughing. "Ha! I see it all now. Why, how stupid I must have been! But I was dreaming of a duel last night, and being awakened so suddenly, and seeing you so, excited, got completely bewildered. And so you have been tete-a-tete with Evaline, found your tongue at last, and said the sensible thing, eh?" "Ay, and am now the happiest fellow living." "You found it all right, did you, just as I said you would?" "So far that I found she loved me, and had from the date of our first meeting; but that, believing herself a poor, hameless girl, she had avoided me, and striven in vain to crush her passion in the bud. Though she would have loved me, she said, to the exclusion of all others, even to the day of her death, yet had matters not turned out as they have, she would most assuredly have refused my hand, though backed by all the eloquent pleadings of which the human tongue is master." "Ay, and indeed would she!" I rejoined, "for such is her proud, noble nature. You remember our conversation years ago respecting her. My remark then was, if I mistake not, that though she might love, she would reject you; and gave, as one reason therefor, that she was too noble minded to wed above herself. Strange! what has since transpired, and for which you may thank your stars! You and I little dreamed then what the future had in store—that mighty future, which to all mortal eyes is a sealed book, on whose pages are impressed the destinies alike of worlds, of nations, and of individuals, which none may read but as its pages are o'erturned by the wizzard fingers of old Time. Well, well, thank God all has turned out for the best!" "Ay, Frank," returned my friend, solemnly, "we may well thank God, and congratulate
each other that we are here alive, after the thousand dangers to which we have been exposed." "And she accepted your hand?" I said, after a pause. "She did, though not without much urging; for she contended that even now she was but a simple forest maiden, unused to the ways of civilization, and far my inferior in education, and said that I might aspire higher and be successful. But she loved—that was enough for me—and love and my pleadings at last overcame her scruples, and I left her with a lighter heart than I have known for many a long year." "Well, my friend, I sincerely congratulate you on the happy termination. And so, to speak plainly, your wedding is to come off with mine?" "Even so." "Mine was to have come off on the day you returned; such were the conditions; but the day passed as you know how, and as we are determined on going East in the spring, Lilian and I have thought best to defer it till we arrive at home. Ah! Charles, how that word thrills me! Home! Ah, me! how long since I have seen it! and who knows what disappointment and sorrow may be there in store for me! And how must my doting parents have mourned my long absence! Perchance they think me dead! Merciful Heaven! perchance they may be dead themselves! Oh God! should such be the case—But, no! I will not, dare not, think so. I will hope for the best, and strive not to borrow trouble. It is enough to bear it when it comes. Come, my friend, to bed! for the thought of home has driven all others out of my mind, and I can talk no more to-night."
Bennett, Emerson - Prairie Flower 02 Page 16