 | CHAPTER III.
A NEW FRIEND. The border rover |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
A NEW FRIEND.
It is fair to conclude, from my own experience in
observing the different grades of the genus homo, that
one pint of whiskey in a human being will either
make him very loquacious, or seal up his organs of
speech. Much to my chagrin, the effect of my liberality
on One-Eyed Sam was of the latter kind; for
from the moment the last drop disappeared, he became
very stupid, and I could get no further rational
answers to my questions. But he had started an idea
in keeping with my desire, which I felt there could
be no harm in giving serious consideration; and so I
left him, and repaired to my state-room, where, stretching
myself in my berth, I held quite an argument with
myself, concerning the propriety of extending my
travels beyond the limits I had laid down in my mind
at the time of taking passage on board the boat which
was now bearing me further from home. The first
thing I considered was, the anxiety with which my
father would look for my return, and the disappointment
he would experience in not having me present
at the time he had appointed for his emancipation
from the cares of a long mercantile life; and secondly,
how I could avoid being present on my birth-day,
and not have a too serious account to settle with my
health not being perfectly restored—which was true
—I had thought it best, all things considered, to take
a trip across the prairies, intending to be absent only
the summer season, and reach home early in the fall;
and having got my conscience to side with me in this
arrangement, I leaped from my berth, and hastened
to execute the letter-writing portion of my new-formed
design.
I dated my letter on board the steamer Missouri;
and, after entering into a good deal of round-about
detail, came to the important point, and supported it
with so much logical force, that I was quite surprised
myself, on reading it over, to perceive how strong a
case I had made out in my own favor, and how discreetively
and reasonably I had met all objections
which might, could, would, or should be raised
against my doing exactly as I desired. Having
finished, read, and superscribed the epistle, I held
another very anxious debate with myself as to whether
I should send it or not. I could step on shore, at
some of the villages on the route, and put it in the
post; but as I already began to suspect myself of
being rather fickle-minded, I thought it advisible to
keep it in my possession till such time as I should
arrive at a positive decision.
It will thus be seen, that, having surmounted the
one great obstacle to the gratification of my desire,
conscientious scruples, I had rather a down-hill path
to travel; and once started, I moved over the ground
for I had reserved from my collections in St. Louis
sufficient to meet all contingencies; and a little persuasion,
which I soon received from an unexpected
source, settled the matter, and entirely changed the
career which my father, if not Providence, had marked
out for me.
The state-rooms, so termed, of the Western steamers,
are small apartments, entered from a long, general hall,
or saloon, and contain two berths; so that, when the
boat is full, each traveller has one room-mate at least
—who may be a personal friend or acquaintance—or,
if travelling without company, an entire stranger. As
I was travelling alone, the individual allotted an equal
right and share in my sleeping apartment, was a person
I had not seen at the time of writing the letter to
my father; but on entering my state-room an hour
subsequent to that important event, I found a pale,
delicate-looking young man seated on the lower berth,
with a recently published map of the territories spread
out across his knees, and over which his dark, bright
eye was languidly wandering. On perceiving me, he
slowly raised his head, made a slight salutation, and
commenced refolding the map.
“Pardon me,” said I; “but as I am about half-resolved
to travel over a portion of the country which
you have mapped out before you, I should like to
glance at the land-marks there laid down.”
“It is very imperfect, sir, I am told,” he replied, as
he handed me the map; “but it is the best I could
make so bold, are you bound?”
“I have not positively decided on going beyond
the settlements,” I answered; “but I have a strong
inclination to venture across the prairies to Bent's
Fort, merely for change of scene, and to gratify my
curiosity concerning a part of the world which has
long held a prominent place in the picture gallery of
my mind.”
“Have you selected your companions for the journey?”
he inquired, with some interest.
“No! on the contrary, as I said before, I am still
hesitating about the propriety of going myself.”
“I hope you will decide on going, and that you will
allow me to accompany you,” said the young man
earnestly, a faint flush tinging his wan cheek.
“It is your intention, then, to cross the plains to
Bent's Fort?” I inquired, with increased interest in
my room-mate.
“It is my intention to spend one season among the
mountains, if God sees fit to preserve me that long,”
was the solemn reply; and, as he spoke, he coughed
two or three times, in that short, dry, hacking manner
peculiar to persons afflicted with pulmonary disease.
“You are in bad health, I perceive.”
“Yes,” he sighed; “and I have set out on a
perilous journey, for the purpose of prolonging my
life. I have been told that consumptive patients, after
having been given over by physicians as incurable,
have been restored to health by a year's sojourn in
about to make the trial—but what the result will be
God only knows! I trust it will be favorable—for
much do I now desire to live; but if otherwise, I must
say, `God's will be done!' even though my bones
bleach in the wilderness, afar from the quiet churchyard
where they should repose.”
“And have you actually set out alone on this long
journey?” I inquired.
“Yes, I am alone; and that is why I so earnestly
desire the company of one in whom I can confide.
You, sir, are a stranger to me; and yet I seem to
know you as one who has a noble and sympathetic
heart—as one whose spirit answers to the yearnings
of mine for a true companion. This suddenly formed
opinion may seem strange to you; and I am unable
to give a satisfactory reason for it myself—for my
natural disposition is to be reserved, except toward
those I have tried and most highly esteem. I see I have
excited your curiosity to know something more of
one, in whom, as every expression of your countenance
betrays, you already take more than a passing interest.
Sit down—I will tell you in brief something of my
history—for I feel it is important that we know more
of each other.
“My name is Alfred Varney. I am twenty-four
years of age, and was born in a midland county of
the State of Tennessee. My father was a planter of
some note—for several years a member of the Legislature—but
died when I was quite young. An expensive
relate, subsequently absorbed all the property he left
behind him; and my mother and myself, her only
child, would have been left in destitute circumstances,
had not a wealthy relative generously stepped forward,
and, partly by persuasion and partly by force,
put her again in possession of a competency. I was
sent to college, and graduated, in my twenty-first
year, full of honors; but it may be those honors will
cost me my life; for hard study seems to have planted
the seeds of disease in a constitution never remarkably
strong.
“My collegiate course finished, I went to reside
with my mother, and remained with her till her
death, which took place something more than a year
ago. Grief for her loss prostrated me for several
months; and when at last I began to recover from
the first heart-rending pang, I found myself attacked
with a cough, which my family physician informed
me proceeded from a serious affection of the lungs.
He ordered me to travel, and I was nothing loath to
take his advice—for there was no longer any tie to
bind me to the place of my nativity, and I felt the
need of change of scene to relieve the mind if not the
body. I repaired to New Orleans, and thence set sail
for Havana, where I spent the winter. But I grew
worse instead of better; and believing my time of
departure from this world to be near at hand, I
decided upon returning to the land of my birth, that
my bones might rest in the quiet churchyard, beside
mother.
“One leaving Havana, I had no desire but to reach
home and die. The world looked gloomy to me—I
had firm faith in a better beyond—and my soul yearned
for that eternal reunion with those I loved, for which
all good Christians hope and pray. How trivial an
incident—trivial perhaps to all save those whom it
affects as a Providence, or a destiny—may change the
whole current of our feelings, causing the hopes and
desires that were setting strongly onward toward eternity,
to flow backward upon time, like the waters of
a rushing stream when suddenly obstructed. On the
passage to New Orleans, I one day chanced to perceive
a very beautiful young lady, standing on the
poop, near the taffrail, with a glass in her hand, through
which she appeared to be scanning some distant
object. There was a heavy sea, and the vessel was
rolling and pitching in a manner that should have
warned her that her position was one of peril. Yet,
careless of her footing, she stood, absorbed in her
view, heedless of danger. Life, though of little
account to me, was doubtless of much to her; and
impulsively I moved toward her, for the purpose of
giving her a timely caution. I had scarcely taken
three steps, when a sudden lurch of the vessel prostrated
me, and at the same moment a shriek of despair
pierced my very soul. I looked up, and to my horror
perceived that the young lady had disappeared. I
was a good swimmer, my life I did not value, and I
had scarcely resounded, when I leaped over
the taffrail into the crested waves, and reached the
object of my solicitude just as she was disappearing.
It was a hard struggle to keep her and myself above
water till a boat came to our assistance—but I succeeded
in my effort, and she was saved.
“She proved to be the daughter, and only surviving
child, of an immensely wealthy Louisiana sugar-planter;
and when she was placed in the arms of her
nearly distracted father, I thought he would go mad
with joy. His gratitude for the service I had rendered
knew no bounds. He hugged me in his arms
till I gasped for breath, shook my hands till I feared
he would dislocate the bones, and then informed me
that an ample fortune was at my disposal. I replied
that I was already more than repaid for the little I
had done, and that, having means wherewith to live
comfortably the brief period allotted me, a fortune
could add nothing to my happiness. The state of my
health excited his deepest sympathy; and after some
inquiries into my history, he said I must go home
with him, and he would consult some of the best
physicians in the country in regard to my case. I
would have declined his invitation, but he would take
no refusal; and so I consented, on condition that, if I
died on his premises, he would have my remains
interred beside those of my ancestors.
“The day following, I was introduced to his
daughter as the preserver of her life. She took my
thanked me from her heart; and added, looking
upward, with the rapt, holy and touching expression
of the Madonna:
“`May God reward you, when you stand in His
glorious presence!'
“As this holy invocation passed her lips, I felt a
strange thrill pervade my whole being—a sensation as
of something unearthly communing with my spirit,
and saying:
“`Live, Alfred, for her—for she was born for
thee!'
“This might have been fancy, a freak of the senses,
and it might have been something more—I do not
know. I was excited, but weak in body; and how
much involuntary power the mind in such a case may
possess, it is not for me to say. It came as a reality,
palpable to the senses, was felt through the innermost
recesses of my soul, and left on me an impression of
something superhuman. I am not naturally superstitious;
but I believe the spirit exists after the death
of the body; and it is reasonable to suppose it may,
through some law not generally understood, make
itself manifest to the spirit still in its earthly tabernacle.
That it has done so, we have the solemn affirmation
of the righteous ones of old, and the testimony
of thousands who have lived since. But I am wearying
you, and I promised to be brief.”
“No! no! go on—I am deeply interested,” said I.
“I wish,” continued Varney, “I could picture to
before me, as she thus invoked my eternal happiness!
But I cannot. Words are inadequate to the portrayal,
and I am wanting in that power of words which limns
to the imagination as the artist to the sight. Call up
your ideal of something holy and beautiful, transfused
with inspired devotion, and let that suffice. From
that moment I date my acquaintance with the lovely
being I had saved from a watery grave; from that
moment I date a friendship eternal through its purity;
from that moment I date the knowledge of a love
which sees a universe of happiness with the object
which inspired it, and which, from its very nature,
must be as undying and enduring as the Great Source
of all good. From that moment I no longer desired
death; but ever since a silent and incessant prayer
has gone up for life—for life in the mortal state—for
life in a world I was longing to bid farewell.
“Let me hasten to a conclusion. I have not spoken
so much for days, and already I feel the debilitating
effects of over-exertion. The gnawing of the worm at
the seat of life warns me to cease—for every word
seems to feed the foe I dread. I accompanied General
Edwards and his lovely daughter to their splendid
home, and remained their guest for several weeks.
Everything was done for me that humanity could
suggest; and though at first my health seemed to
improve, I soon discovered it was only one of the
illusions of a disease that flatters with hope while grim
death stands by and strengthens his relentless grasp.
physician gave it as his opinion that I could not
long survive in a southern latitude.
“`Is there no hope for me, Doctor?' I one day
inquired, in a despairing tone—for while the lovely
Mary Edwards lived, the very thought of death made
me shudder.
“`There is a last resort,' he answered, `which I
have heard of as being efficacious in cases similar to
yours; but I only speak from hearsay, and must admit
that I think the remedy as fearful as the disease.'
“`Name it, Doctor?' said I, eagerly.
“`A year's residence among the Rocky Mountains.'
“A ray of hope broke in upon me, and my resolution
was instantly taken.
“`I will make the trial,' was my reply; `for it can
be but death at last.'
“I mentioned my design of speedily setting out for
the Far West, to General Edwards, and he tried to
dissuade me from making the rash attempt.
“`You may die on the journey,' he said, with feeling,
`and have not a single friend by to speak a
consoling word.'
“`Then know,' I rejoined, `my last prayer shall be
for you and yours, and that shall be my consolation
on the verge of eternity.'
“In a few days I bade my new friends a solemn
adieu, as one who might never look upon them again
in mortal life. Mary wept freely, her father was
deeply affected, and I tore myself away with an aching
river landing, some ten miles distant from his plantation;
but ere I reached my first destination, a
mounted negro overtook me, and placed in my hands
a sealed note. I knew the writing, and eagerly tore
it open. It read:
“`I shall never cease to remember and pray for the
preserver of my life. God bless, preserve and restore
you. Shall I ever hear from you again?
“There was the trace of a single tear on the page,
and I felt that every word came from her gentle
heart.”
Here the narrator paused, apparently exhausted by
his effort in speaking, and evercome by mingled
emotions of pleasure and pain. Recovering himself,
he added, in a feeble tone:
“My story is ended. You see me thus far on a
journey that may be my last. Why have I made you,
a stranger, my confidant? I have spoken from an
impulse almost foreign to my nature, and I am surprised
at myself.”
“Your confidence, Mr. Varney, has made me your
friend,” said I, taking his thin, transparent hand in
mine, and giving it a gentle pressure. “You shall
now hear my story, and then I will take counsel of
you as to whether I shall return to my native city, or
extend my journey, as your companion, to the rocky
steeps of the great wilderness.”
In as few words as I could, I now made him acquainted
expectations of my father, my own desires, how I came
to leave home, my subsequent anxieties—in short, all
I have laid before the reader.
“And now,” I said, in conclusion, “what do you
advise me to do?”
“My friend,” he said, “as much as I desire your
companionship, I would not advise you to do what
you think is wrong. If you go, you will disappoint
your father; if you return, you will make yourself
unhappy with regrets. The only moral point which
I perceive is, whether it is right to gratify your father
or yourself—for whichever is done, will be at the expense
of the other. It seems you have faithfully
served your father the term allotted him by law and
custom, and it is certainly your right, as a responsible
man, to dispose of the remainder of your time as you
think best. It is therefore not a question of obligation,
but of affection and inclination; and as they draw
different ways, I would rather you should decide for
yourself. One thing I may venture to add—I do not
think your father would have carried out the wishes
of his father, had they been repugnant to his own.”
I read him the letter I had just written, and asked
his opinion of that.
“You have certainly made out a very strong case
for yourself,” he replied; “the arguments preponderate
in your favor.”
“Are they substantial and just?” I inquired.
“They appear so to my view.”
“Then,” said I, grasping his hand, “the matter is
settled. I will go with you.”
His hollow cheek flushed, and his bright eye
glistened, as he rejoined:
“Thank God! I am no longer alone, and have a
friend in my companion!”
| CHAPTER III.
A NEW FRIEND. The border rover | |