University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

“Prairie Flower! my dearest friend!”
I exclaimed, springing to my feet and
clasping her extended hands in both of
mine: “Prairie Flower! this is a happy
meeting—most happy!”

“I am very glad to see you Mr. Leigh
ton,” she said, with something like a sigh
“very, very glad!” and she closed in a
tremulous tone, while her dark eyes filled
with tears.

O, how beautiful she looked, as we stood
face to face, her hands clasped in mine!
Never had she appeared more lovely!
Since our first meeting, time had ripened
her to full maturity; and though her sweet
countenance was pale and sad, and though
something like care and thought could be
traced thereon, yet it was so mellowed, so
blended with something lofty and noble,
that it added a peculiar charm to her
appearance which mere physical beauty
could not sustain. It was a something
that, while you admired, awakened your
sympathy, and drew you to her, as toward
one you felt it your duty and delight to
soothe, cherish, and protect. As I gazed
upon her a moment in silence, I became
forcibly struck with the resemblance she
bore to Eva Mortimer. She was a shade
darker, perhaps; but this might be owing
to her life in the mountains, and constant
exposure to the free, bracing air. There
was the same mold of feature, and in her
now sad and thoughtful expression, a
marked resemblance to that I had seen on
the countenance of Eva as she bade me
farewell. A sudden thought sent a hot

flash over me, and involuntarily I took a
step backward and scrutinized her again.
Good heavens! could it be possible! No!
no! it was too visionary! And yet why
too visionary, I said, half aloud. As
strange things had happened. Eva had
a sister—a twin sister—who was lost at
an infantile age — who had been stolen
away. There was no existing proof—or
at least none to my knowledge—that that
sister was dead: no one knew what had
become of her. Here was a being of her
own age apparently, and of a marked resemblance.
Her history she would never
touch upon—perhaps did not know. Might
Prairie Flower not be that twin sister?
The thought, the suspicion, was wild and
romantic—but what argument was there
against it? The ways of Providence are
strange, but not in all cases past finding
out.

“It must—it must be so!” I ejaculated,
completely absorbed with my speculations,
and forgetful of everything around
me.

I was aroused from my reverie, by the
voices of both my friend and Prairie
Flower.

“What is the matter, Frank?” cried
Huntly, grasping my arm, shaking me,
and gazing upon me with a look of alarm.
“Speak to me! speak! that I may know
you have your reason!”

“Are you ill, sir?” joined in Prairie
Flower, with a startled look. “I fear you
are ill, Francis! Fatigue has overcome
him,” she added to Huntly. “Better get
him to lie down on the mat, while I run
for assistance.”

“Stay! stay!” I exclaimed, as the
latter turned to depart. “I am not ill. I
was only—I beg your pardon!—did I act
strangely?”

“As I never saw you before,” replied
Huntly. “You stared wildly at Prairie
Flower, and spoke incoherently. Tell me!
are you in your senses?”

“Most certainly I am. I was only
thinking of—of—”

“Of what, pray?”

“Prairie Flower, speak?” I exclaimed,
addressing her, as she stood near the entrance,
uncertain whether to depart or not:
“Speak! what do you know of your history?”

“My history?” she repeated in surprise.
“Have I not forbid you—”

“Never mind now! I have important
reasons for asking.”

She colored to the eyes, and seemed
greatly embarrassed.

“What reasons can you have,” she rejoined,
“for asking this, in this wild manner?
You surprise and alarm me!”

“A resemblance,” I replied, “a strong
resemblance you bear to another. Fear
not to tell me and my friend what you
know, and we promise, if necessary, to
keep your secret inviolate.”

“Ay, do, Prairie Flower!” urged
Huntly, vehemently, who now comprehended
the whole matter. “Speak, dear
Prairie Flower, without reserve! Speak,
I pray you! for much depends upon your
answer.”

“Are you both mad?” she said, looking
from one to the other, as if doubting
our sanity.

“No! no!” I returned, “we are not
mad, but in our sober senses. A weighty
reason, which my friend did not at first,
but now understands, and all important to
you as well as ourselves and others, induces
the inquiry. Come, Sweet Prairie
Flower! will you not grant our request?”

She hung down her head, tapped the
earth with her foot, and seemed confused
and agitated. I approached and gently
took her hand, and again in a soothing
voice entreated her to tell us all she knew,
reiterating my promise, that, if necessary,
it should never pass to other ears.

“Say, sweet being! are you not of our
race?—are you not a pale-face?”

For some time she did not reply, during
which she seemed struggling to master her
emotions. At length a half inaudible “I
am” escaped her lips.

“I thought so — I could almost have
sworn it!” I returned, triumphantly.
“And your parents, Prairie Flower?”

She burst into tears, and hid her face in
her hands.

“Nay, sweet Prairie Flower, be calm!”
I added. “Do not let this affect you so
seriously. I do not seek to pry into you
private affairs, only so far as I fancy the
knowledge imparted may benefit yourself.
Tell me — did you or do you know your
parents?”

She shook her head and sobbed aloud.

“Believe me, gentle maiden, nothing is
farther from my design, than to wound
your feelings or recall painful associations.
Do you know how you came among the
Indians?”

“Something I know,” she answered.

“Will you tell us what you know?”

“As you seem so anxious,” she said,
making an effort to dry her tears; “I will
on condition I gain the consent of Cha-cha-chee-kee-hobah.”

“And what has he to do with it?”

“I have promised to reveal nothing
without his consent. And now I think of
it,” she quickly added, “perhaps I have
done wrong in saying what I have.”

“Give yourself no uneasiness, Prairie
Flower; for even he could attach no blame
to what you have said. But how came
you to promise him this?”

“He exacted it of me as my guardian.”

“Indeed! Then he must know your
history?”

“He knows more of it than I do.”

Then I must see him at once. Pray,
conduct me to him!”

“Nay, sir,” she answered, “it were
useless. He would tell you nothing. He
is old, and singular, and would look upon
you as an intruder. I will see him, and
see what can be done. He loves me, and
I have more influence over him than any
other of the tribe. If he refuses to tell
me, no earthly power can open his lips,
and the secret will go down to the grave
with him. But now let me hear something
of yourself, and how we all came to
meet again in a manner so singular.”

“One question more, Prairie Flower.”

“Nay, no more. I will answer nothing
farther, till I have consulted the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains.”

“Be it so, then,” I answered; and the
conversation changed to matters connected
with my present adventure.

We were still engaged in recalling past
events, when an Indian maiden hurriedly
entered the lodge, and said something in
her own language to Prairie Flower.

“Indeed!” she exclaimed, starting and
turning deadly pale. “Gentlemen, excuse
me!” and she hastened from the cot.

“What can be the meaning of this?”
said Huntly.

“Some startling news, I judge. Perhaps
some one has been taken ill and sent
for her.”

“And so, Frank,” returned Huntly the
next moment, “you really think Prairle
Flower and Eva sisters?”

“There is so strong a resemblance, my
friend, that, until I have proof to the contrary,
I can hardly believe otherwise.”

“Strange!” he rejoined, musingly:
“Strange! very strange! Yet since you
have told me something of the history of
the Mortimers, I must say the matter looks
possible, not to say probable.”

“At all events,” I returned, “there is
mystery somewhere, and I shall not rest
till it be sifted to the bottom. I hope she
may prevail upon the old man to allow her
to tell what she knows, even if he add
nothing himself.”

“And should it turn out as we suspect,
Frank!” said Huntly with great energy,
grasping my arm as he spoke.

“Well?”

“You know I—that is—”

“I understand. You would have her
the closest of kin—eh! Charles?”

“Say no more. I see you understand
me. But then, I —”

“Well, say on.”

“I—that is—you—perhaps she—she
does not fancy me!”

“What! do you doubt?”

“Why, no — yes—I—I cannot say I
doubt—but—but she is so strange, Frank
I would give the world to have her talk to
me with the freedom she does to you.”

“And if you really love her, Charles,
you should give the world to have everything
exactly the reverse; in other words,
exactly as it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, simply, that she does not love
me.”

“Are you sure of this, Frank?” and
Huntly fastened his eyes intently upon
mine, as if to read my soul.

“As sure as that the sun shines at noon-day.”

“And you think she—she —”

“Loves another.”

Huntly turned deadly pale.

“Who, Frank? — who?”

“Charles Huntly.”

“Indeed!” he exclaimed, with a rapid

change of countenance. “You think
this?”

“I know it.”

He took a step backward and looked at
me hard a moment—during which his color
came and went rapidly, and his breathing
became audible — and then said, impressively:

“Frank, do not jest with me! To me
this matter is of the gravest importance.”

“I do not jest, Charles; I know your
feelings, and you may rest assured I
would be the last to jest with them.”

“And you say she loves me?”

“I do.”

He grasped my hand, the tears sprang
into his eyes, and his voice trembled as he
rejoined:

“Frank, I thank you for these words.
I am suffering under deep affliction — my
life is clouded—but, if this be true, there
is still sunshine—still an oasis in the desert—still
something to look forward to.”

“My words are true, my friend, if that
is any consolation.”

“And how have you discovered this so
suddenly?”

“I have not. I have known it all
along.”

“Indeed! you never told it me before.”

“True, and for good reasons.”

“What reasons, I pray?”

“I did not wish to encourage an attachment
which may even yet prove hopeless.”

“What mean you?”

“As I told you once before: Prairie
Flower may love — nay, does love, mark
that! — but may never marry — nay even
reject the suit of him she idolizes.”

“For what cause?”

“That she is already wedded to her
tribe.”

“But should she prove to be what we
suspect?”

“That may alter the case with her; and
on the strength of that supposition, and
that you have been so mysteriously bought
together, and that I find your affections so
firmly placed upon her — have I ventured
to tell you what I have long known. But
remember, Charles, I warn you not to be
too sanguine in your expectations!”

“Well,” answered my friend, “I will
hope for the best. It is all very singu
lar!” he added, relapsing into a musing
mood.

“I suppose we had better not start for
Oregon to-day?” said I, playfully.

“No, not to-day!” he replied; “not
to-day! To-morrow, perhaps.”

“Or peradventure the day following?”

“Ay, peradventure.”

At this moment Teddy, Pierre and Black
George appeared at the door to pay their
respects to my friend, and I quitted the
lodge, bidding them pass in.