University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

To describe my feelings and those of
Huntly, when we halted within view of
the dwellings containing those around the
very tendrils of whose hearts our own
were entwined — on whose happiness or
misery our own were depending — would
be impossible; and therefore I shall not

attempt it. The day's journey had been
very severe — for we had all ridden hard,
in order if possible to reach the village
before nightfall. In this we had not succeeded;
but knowing we were near, we
still pressed forward after night set in, and
by nine o'clock in the evening, had come
in sight of the glimmering lights, as shown
in the last chapter.

We now held a short consultation, which
resulted in Huntly, Teddy and myself resolving
to go forward, while Prairie Flower
and her companions should encamp and
remain where they were through the night.
Our object in this was to see our friends
alone, and prepare them to receive our
fair benefactress, whom we intended to
introduce as an Indian maiden, and then
leave matters to take their own course.

Having at length arranged everything
to our satisfaction, we rode forward, and
in less than half an hour drew rein near
the humble cottage of Mrs. Huntly.

“And is it here,” said Charles, as he
gazed with a sigh upon the rude edifice:
“And is it here I again meet my dear
mother and sister? Alas! Frank, there
is a change indeed in our fortune! and
now I feel it.”

“Repine not,” returned I; “but rather
thank God you are safe, and look forward
to better days!”

“I will not repine,” he said. “But,
Frank, there is such an air of poverty
here, I could not avoid giving vent to my
thoughts.”

As we spoke we dismounted, and giving
our horses in charge of Teddy—with orders
to take good care of them, and seek
another place of rest for himself, — we
approached the door with trembling steps,
and with conflicting feelings of hope and
fear. What if something had happened,
and we should find a stranger in place
of those we sought! But no! no! we
would not harbor such a thought—would
look to clasp our friends to our beating
hearts!

The house was tightly closed, but not
uninhabited, as we could see by the light
which here and there shone through a
crevice.

“Go forward!” whispered Huntly; and
I advanced and rapped timidly on the
rough door with my knuckles.

To this there came no answer, and I
repeated it, but harder and louder.

“Who is there?” said a soft voice from
within.

Gracious heavens! how its tones thrilled
me! I knew it! I would have known it
among a million! It was the voice of my
own beloved Lilian!

“A friend,” answered I, as with one
hand I grasped the arm of Charles, who
was now trembling with agitation.

“Pardon me!” answered Lilian; “but
will you give me your name—as it is already
somewhat late, and there is no one
within but mother and myself.”

“And do you not know me, Lilian?”

“That voice!” I heard her exclaim;
“that voice!” and the next moment there
was an agitated rattling at the door, which
instantly swung open, and revealed the idol
of my thoughts standing before me, pale
and trembling.

“Lilian!” I exclaimed, “thank God
we meet again!” and in an instant she
was folded in my embrace and weeping
with joy.

“O,” she ejaculated, looking up affectionately
into my face: “O, Francis, this
is more than I have prayed for — more
than I expected: I did not look for you
this season. But, ha!” she exclaimed, as
the shadow of her brother, who had stolen
in behind her unperceived, fell upon her
vision — “we are not alone — who have
we here?”

She turned suddenly round, and her
eyes met the tearful ones of Charles, as,
with outstretched arms, he stood ready to
receive her, too much affected to utter a
syllable.

For a brief moment she remained speechless
and motionless, as if fearing to believe
her senses; and then gasping “My brother!”
she staggered forward and sank
fainting upon his breast.

At this moment Mrs. Huntly, who had
been on the point of retiring, but had been
deterred by the sound of voices, entered
the room from an adjoining apartment.

“Who have we here?” she said, as she
advanced toward us, looking from one to
the other inquiringly, but unable from the
position of the light to see our features.
“Francis!” she exclaimed joyfully, as I
took a step forward; “Francis, my son!

do I indeed see thee again!” and ere the
words were concluded, I found myself
closed in a motherly embrace. “This
is indeed a happy surprise!” she added,
warmly.

“But there,” returned I, pointing to
Charles, who, still straining Lilian to his
breast, was now gazing upon his mother
with that singular expression of intense
joy, which the imprisoned soul, struggling
as it were for release, and choking all utterance,
stamps upon every feature: “There,”
said I, “a more happy surprise awaits
you;” and springing forward, I took the
half unconscious form of Lilian from the
arms of my friend.

For a moment mother and son stood face
to face, gazing upon each other, completely
overpowered by their feelings.

“Mother!” at length burst from the
lips of Charles.

“My son!” and staggering forward,
they fell upon each other's neck, and gave
their overcharged souls vent in tears and
sighs.

For sometime no one spoke; then raising
her tearful eyes to Heaven, and in a
voice of deep solemnity, Mrs. Huntly ejaculated:

“Almighty God! I thank thee for this
moment of unclouded happiness — for restoring
the wanderer safe to the only parent
he has on earth!”

“Ay, the only parent,” added Charles,
with a fresh burst of emotion; “the only
one, dear mother. My father—alas! my
father!”

He paused, overcome by his feelings.

But I will not prolong the affecting
scene. Suffice, that for more than an
hour very little was said, except in the
way of thanks to the Supreme Ruler for
bringing us all safely together once more.
And well might we be thankful to that
watchful Providence, which had slumbered
not in the hours of grief and danger,
and had brought us all out, as it were,
from the very “Valley of the Shadow of
Death.”

The first transports of joy over, we
gradually grew calm; and having formed
a small circle before the cheerful fire:

“Now,” said Mrs. Huntly, “let me
hear something of my friends in Boston.”

“Alas!” sighed I, my mind reverting
at once to my own parents, “I can give
you no news in that quarter.”

“And have you not been home?” she
asked in surprise.

I shook my head.

“Then you met Charles on the way,
and he perhaps can tell me?” and she
turned to him inquiringly.

“Nay, mother,” he answered sadly, “I
have not seen the land of my nativity
since I there parted from you.”

“Why, what means this?” she asked,
turning to me.

“Pardon me,” I said in some embarrassment,
“if I once deceived you both!
—but I did it for the best.”

“Deceived us!” exclaimed both Lilian
and her mother in a breath. “Pray explain
yourself, Francis!” added the latter.

“You remember I told you that when
I parted with Charles, he was going eastward?”

“Well! well!”

“But I did not add, it was only intended
as a parting of a few minutes, and that
when I met you on the mountains, I
believed him lost to us all forever.”

“Lost?” screamed Mrs. Huntly.

“Lost?” echoed Lilian.

“Lost!” rejoined I. “Ay, lost indeed
—for I believed him dead.”

“O, speak, Francis!” exclaimed Mrs.
Huntly, greatly agitated, and looking from
me to Charles, and from Charles to me:
“Speak, Francis, and tell us what you
mean!”

“Charles,” I returned, in a trembling
voice, “was taken prisoner by a band of
guerrillas; but I — I — believed him dead
— for no trace of him could be found.”

“A prisoner! You, Charles, my son,
a prisoner?” cried his mother; and again
throwing herself upon his neck, she burst
into tears; while Lilian, gliding up to his
side, took his hand in silence, and gazed
mournfully upon him with swimming eyes.

“Is it so, Charles?” asked his mother.
“Is it so? Have you indeed been in
captivity?”

“I have, dear mother, I have!” he
answered in a voice choked with emotion.

Drawing back, Mrs. Huntly gazed upon
him with a look of unutterable fondness
and affection, and then turning to me, said
somewhat coldly:

“Francis, how could you deceive me!
I did not think this of you.”

I was about to reply, when Lilian turned
quickly round and confronted her mother:

“Mother,” she said, “do not speak in
that manner. If Francis did not tell us
all, it was because he feared to wound our
feelings — to give us unnecessary pain.
Was it not so?” she asked, appealing to
me with her soft blue eyes.

“It was!” I exclaimed, struggling to
command my feelings. “It was, dear Lilian—God
bless you for an angel--it was!”

“I crave pardon!” said Mrs. Huntly,
taking my hand. “I did not intend to
wound your feelings, Francis, and sincerely
believe you did all for the best. But the
suddenness of the news — the shock --
surprised and alarmed me, and I did not
heed what I said. I now know it was all
for the best; for had I known Charles
was lost, I fear the result might have been
fatal. Thank God,” she continued, turning
again to her son: “Thank God, you
are safe before me now! O, Charles, my
son,” she added, covering her eyes with
her hands to conceal her emotion, “you
must never, never leave me again.”

“Never, mother,” he answered solemnly,
“till we are parted by death.”

“And this,” said Lilian, turning fondly
to me, “is why you became so agitated
whenever I mentioned my brother. I understand
all now. And this, too, is the
cause of your abrupt departure, which has
ever appeared so singular to me, and over
which Eva and I have speculated many an
hour, without solving the problem.”

“And did my departure indeed appear
so singular, sweet Lilian?” I inquired in
surprise. “Did I not tell you I was going
to seek your brother?”

“Ay! but you forget you did not tell
me he was lost—and we, you know, supposed
him in Boston, There was nothing
so remarkable in your going to meet him,
as in the hurried manner which you departed,
without any previous notice, as if
you had heard bad tidings. It was this
that put us to conjecture.”

“True, I did overlook that.”

“Well, well, dear Francis, never mind;
you are here again; and now we must
hear the tale of your adventures, and how
you found Charles.”

“Yes,” rejoined Mrs. Huntly, “I am
all anxiety to hear the story.”

“Who shall tell it?” asked I.

“You, Frank,” answered Charles. “You
can tell it better than I.”

The tale I told: beginning with the
loss of my friend at Pueblo de los Angelos,
and its subsequent effect upon me, up
to the time when I met with his mother
and sister near the South Pass of the Rocky
Mountains. I then narrated my last adventure,
and gave a brief description of
the scenes already laid before the reader,
and how I had, little by little, traced
Charles to the very spot of his captivity,
only to find that another had released him.
This led me to Prairie Flower, whom I described
as a beautiful being, and as good
as she was beautiful. I described our first
meeting with her and her tribe, and something
of their manners and customs, and
recalled to mind how she had, at the risk
of her life, appeared to warn the emigrants,
on that memorable night before they
crossed the Rocky Mountains. I then reverted
to Charles, and how I had found
him in company with the tribe. In fact,
I gave an outline of all the principal incidents
of interest, carefully avoiding any allusion
to the attachment existing between my
friend and Prairie Flower, as also that we
had any suspicions as to who the latter
might be, or that she had accompanied us
on our last journey.

During the recital, both Mrs. Huntly
and Lilian listened eagerly, occasionally
interrupting me with some question or exclamation,
when the incidents detailed
were unusually exciting. In fact, whenever
I described a scene of danger to myself,
Lilian would press close to my side,
and gaze up into my face, pale and breathless,
sometimes shuddering at the picture
called up in her mind, and seem to hang
upon my words as intensely as though
they were actually imparting life or death
to him she loved. Nay, more than this:
On several occasions did she become so
lost in the thrilling tale, as to utter exclamations
of horror; and then, remembering
where she was, she would clasp my
hand with a hearty pressure, and in a low
voice thank God for my deliverance and
present safety.

“And where is this beautiful Indian

maiden?” she asked when I had done.
“What a singular being! O, I should
love her so! for her goodness, and her
kindness to those so dear to me.”

“Ay, Lilian, you would indeed love
her,” I answered; “for she is one of the
sweetest beings you ever knew.”

“Always excepting Eva,” she rejoined,
playfully.

“Nay, Lilian, I will except no one but
your own sweet self.”

She blushed, and smiled, and added:

“You are too complimentary.”

“But what has become of this Prairie
Flower?” inquired Mrs. Huntly. “You
did not tell us where you had left her.”

“And what if I should say she is near
at hand?”

“Near at hand!” repeated Lilian.

“Explain, Francis!” added Mrs. Huntly.

“She crossed the mountains with us.”

“Indeed! and where is she now?”

“Within sight of the lights, of this
great city.”

“Is is possible! And why did you not
bring her here at once?”

“Why, it was already late; and as she
has several companions with her, we
thought it better for the party to encamp
and remain till morning, while we went
forward and prepared you to receive
them.”

“O, I am so anxious to see her!” rejoined
Lilian; “and so will Eva be, when
she hears of her. While she remains with
us, we will treat her as a sister.”

“I believe you,” returned I, pointedly,
and fixing my eye upon Huntly, who
blushed and turned his head aside, but
made no remark.

“O, what a surprise awaits Eva on the
morrow!” pursued Lilian. “She does
not dream you are here; and yet she has
been praying for your return with brother
Charles, every day since you left.”

“I thank her, from my heart, for her
interest in our welfare. She is a noble
girl.”

“She is indeed!” rejoined Lilian, enthusiastic
in praise of her friend; “and I
love her as a sister—which I hope she
may be ere long,” she added, playfully,
turning to Huntly with a smile, who appeared
not a little embarrassed. “O,
Charles,” continued Lilian, pursuing her
train of thought, “If ever one being loved
another without seeing him, dear Eva loves
you—for your name is ever on her tongue.”

“I am very grateful for it, certainly,”
replied Charles, evasively, feeling himself
pressed for an answer.

“And well you may be—for her equal
does not live!” persisted Lilian with spirit,
loth to quit the subject.

“Do not assert that!” returned I, with
a smile. “You forget that Eva had a
sister.”

“But who knows anything of her sister,
Francis?”

“Ay, who knows!” answered I, reflecting
on what I suspected, and on what
the morrow might reveal. “But come,
Lilian, since Eva has so much place in
your thoughts, tell me how it has fared
with you since last we met.”

“O, as well as could be expected, and
you away,” she answered, naively. “We
have walked, and rode, and played, and
sung, and read, and talked, and wondered
fifty times a day where you were, and
when you would return, and if Charles
would come with you, and so on. To
sum up, the spring, summer and most of
the autumn have passed—but somehow
the time has been more tedious than I
could have wished. There is not the society
here to please us, and on the whole
we have not been very well contented.
There has been quite an addition of settlers
here during the past season, and the
village has much improved since you saw
it. In fact, it begins to assume the aspect
of a civilized town; but still I feel I could
never be happy here.”

“And would you like to return to the
east?”

“O, dearly!”

“You shall start in the spring, then,”
I rejoined.

“O, that is joyful news. And Eva
shall go also?”

“All that desire to accompany us,
Lilian.”

“Eva will be so rejoiced at this. But
mother has invested what little means she
had in the purchase of land.”

“Well, that can be sold again; and it
will have lost nothing in value, since the
town has begun to flourish.”

“And will you go, mother?” asked

Lilian, addressing the good old lady, who,
meantime, had been conversing with
Charles in an under tone.

“As my children desire,” answered
Mrs. Huntly. “I shall leave all to you,
my children. But, come, Charles is about
to tell us of his captivity; and although it
is late, I am anxious to hear his tale.”

Thus ended my conversation for the
time with Lilian; and forming a half circle
around her brother, we all attentively
listened to his thrilling narrative. By the
time he had concluded, the night was far
advanced; and though I had a thousand
things to say to Lilian, I deferred them all
to another opportunity, and retired to rest
with a lighter heart than I had known for
many a long year.