University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

When I awoke on the following morning,
the bright sun was already streaming
through the half closed shutter of my
room. Huntly was up and dressed, and
standing by my bed.

“Come!” he said, as I partially aroused
myself to look around: “Come, Frank,
the sun is up before you, and breakfast is
waiting!”

At first I felt a little bewildered, as a
person sometimes will in a strange place.
But it was only momentary; and remembering
where I was, I sprang to the floor,
hurried my rude toilet, and accompanied
my friend to the larger apartment, where I
found the table smoking with hot viands,
and Lilian and her mother ready to welcome
me with sweet smiles and cordial
salutations.”

“And how did you rest?” inquired
Mrs. Huntly.

“Well!” I answered. “I slept soundly,
I assure you, or I should have made
my appearance ere this.”

“I am glad to hear it, my son, for you
needed rest. Lilian and I were not so fortunate;
for the unusual events of last
night drove all slumber from our eyelids,
and we could do nothing but talk of you
and Charles.”

“I fear our presence, then,” said I, smiling,
“has robbed you of a sweet night's
rest?”

“Do not be alarmed,” returned Lilian,
archly. “Your presence has been more
beneficial than sleep, I assure you — and
never did I behold daylight with more
joy.”

“That you might escape from your reflections,
eh! Lilian?”

“That I might see you again,” she rejoined,
with one of her sweetest smiles.

“A kiss for that!” cried I gaily.

And I took it.

The morning meal passed off cheerfully
with all save Charles, who appeared somewhat
gloomy, at times abstracted, and
rarely spoke.

“What is the matter, my friend?” inquired
I. “One would look to see you
cheerful, if not gay; and yet you are silent
and thoughtful.”

“I feel a little depressed in spirits,” he
answered. “But never mind me. I shall
be myself in time. At present I am soberly
inclined.”

“Fatigue, perhaps?” suggested his
mother.

“My father!” he answered, solemnly.

Instantly a dead silence prevailed, and
the tears sprang to the eyes of both Mrs.
Huntly and Lilian.

“But, come,” added Charles, after a
pause, “do not let me make you sad, my
friends! You mourned my father bitterly,
long ere I heard of his death. You must
remember my cause for grief is recent.”

“Alas!” sighed Mrs. Huntly, “we all
mourn him still, and ever must.”

Another gloomy silence succeeded.

“I saw Teddy this morning,” at length
pursued Charles, anxious to divert our
thoughts from the painful channel into
which his remarks had drawn them, “and
I dispatched him to Prairie Plower, requesting
the presence of herself and

friends. She and they will soon be
here.”

“And I,” added Lilian, “have seen
Eva. It would have done you good to
have witnessed her surprise and delight,
on hearing the joyful tidings I imparted.
I expect her here every moment. Ha!
she is here now!” she added, rising; “I
know her step;” and hastening to the
door, she conducted the object of her remarks
and Madame Mortimer into the
apartment.

I hurriedly arose and advanced to meet
them.

“O, I am so rejoiced to see you, Francis!”
cried Eva, springing forward and
extending both hands, which I shook warmly.
“This is a joyful surprise indeed!”

“And I,” said Madame Mortimer, coming
up, “I, too, believe me, am most happy
to welcome you back, as it were, to the
land of the living! We have felt your
loss severely — most severely, sir!” and
the pressure of her hands, as she said this,
convinced me her words were not idly
said.

“I feel myself most fortunate and happy
in having such friends,” I replied, emphasizing
the last word; “And, I assure
you, I am as rejoiced to meet them as they
can be to see me. But, come! let me present
you to my long lost friend!” and
turning to Huntly, who had risen from his
seat, I introduced both mother and daughter
together.

Huntly bowed low to each, and, with
unusual embarrassment for him, said it
gave him extreme pleasure to meet with
those whom he had seen years before, in
a moment of peril, and of whom he had
since heard so much from me.

I particularly noted the countenance of
Eva, who now beheld Charles Huntly for
the first time. As I presented her, she
turned pale, then crimsoned to the eyes,
then took a faltering step forward, as if to
meet him, but finally paused and let her
eyes sink to the floor, seemingly greatly
embarrassed. Not so with Madame Mortimer.
With a quick step she instantly
advanced toward Charles, who met her
half way, seized his proffered hand, and
frankly said, in a voice tremulous with
emotion:

“God bless you, Charles Huntly! I
am most happy to behold you. You, sir,
a stranger, saved the life of my daughter,
at the risk of your own. You have had a
fond mother's prayers for your safety and
happiness ever since; but until now, I
have never had an opportunity of expressing
to you my most lasting obligations;”
and she turned away her face to conceal
the springing tears.

“You owe me no obligations,” returned
my friend, frankly. “If there were any
due, they have long since been canceled
in your kindness to those I love. I did
but my duty; and if the adventure was
perilous at the time, it certainly brought
its own reward afterward, in a satisfied
conscience.”

Here he rested his eyes upon Eva, with
an expression as of uncertainty whether
to advance to her side or remain where he
was. At the same time Eva looked up,
their eyes met, and with a simultaneous
movement, each approached and took the
other by the hand.

“O, sir!” began Eva, in a timid voice,
and then paused, while her snowy hand
trembled with agitation. Then making
a struggle to appear calm, she added: “I
—I—am very—very grateful;” and the
last word died away in an almost inaudible
murmur.

What a perplexing predicament for my
friend! Before him stood the first being
he had ever loved, beyond the love filial
and fraternal. She stood before him, face
to face, her hand trembling in his, and her
voice sounding the sweet words of a grateful
heart in his ear. That voice and those
words which once would have made him
frantic with rapture. Which once would
have sent the hot blood to his heart, only
that it might again leap in burning streams
through his swollen veins. Which once,
in short, would have made him the happiest
of mortals. How was it now? Time
and circumstances work great changes in
the human heart, and my friend was changed—at
least changed in that impassioned
sentiment he had once felt for the object
before him. He was not cold and indifferent—not
insensible to her lovely charms
and noble virtues. No! he was affected—
deeply affected—affected to tears by her
look and language. He loved her still—
but with a modified love. The love of a

brother for a sister. The love which is
founded on esteem, for the high and noble
qualities possessed by another, without regard
to mere personalities. There was no
ardency — no passion. No! all this was
gone — transferred to another. Prairie
Flower alone held the heart of Charles
Huntly.

“Miss Mortimer,” replied my friend —
“or rather let me call you Eva — I am
most happy to meet you, and feel it is I,
rather than you, who ought to be grateful,
for having been permitted to do an act
which has already repaid me ten-fold. I
am one who hold that every virtuous deed
bears with it its own reward. Pray, be
seated, and we will talk farther!”

“Ay,” chimed in Madame Mortimer,
“and you shall give us, Charles, some of
your own adventures. Since you came to
the Far West, you have, if I am rightly
informed, experienced much of the romantic.”

“I have seen a little of romance, I believe,”
replied Huntly, as, pointing his
friends to seats, he took another between
them.

“Lilian,” pursued Madame Mortimer,
“has already told me something, and I
am anxious to hear more. She says you
are indebted to a beautiful Indian maiden
for both life and liberty—certainly a heavy
obligation on your part.”

“I feel it such,” rejoined Huntly,
changing color.

“And who is this Indian girl? and to
what tribe does she belong? The daughter
of some great chief, I suppose?—for in all
novels, you know, the heroine must be
some great personage, either acknowledged
or incog.”

“But you forget, madam,” returned
Huntly smiling, “that the heroine in this
case, as you are pleased to term Prairie
Flower, is an individual in real life; whereas
in novels, the heroine alone exists in
the imagination of the author, and can be
whatever he may see proper to make her.
Therefore you should not be surprised,
should she turn out some humble individual.”

“Well,” answered Madame Mortimer,
all romance is much alike, whether imaginary
or real; for the novelist, if true to
his calling, must draw his scenes from real
life; and hence I may be permitted to suppose
the heroine, in this case, a person of
some consequence.”

“And so she may be for what we know
to the contrary,” said I, joining in.

“And do you not know who she is,
then?” asked Madame Mortimer.

“We know nothing positive.”

“Is she not the daughter of a chief?”

“No.”

“Is she beautiful?” asked Eva, giving
me a peculiar look.

“Very beautiful,” replied I, glancing at
my friend, who colored and seemed a little
confused.

Both Eva and her mother caught the
expression of Huntly's countenance, and
the latter said:

“Then perhaps Charles has lost his
heart with her?”

Eva turned to him quickly, with a searching
glance, and immediately added:

“I believe he has — for he changes
color at the mere mention of her name;”
and her own features, as she spoke, grew
a shade paler.

“One has his heart that is nearer at
hand,” observed Lilian, who with her
mother, had been standing a silent spectator
of what had passed.

“I pray you drop this jesting!” said
Huntly, with an effort to appear careless
and unconcerned.

“Nay, but I must know more of this
singular personage,” pursued Madame
Mortimer; “for I feel deeply interested in
her. A girl that could and would do what
she has done, can be no ordinary being.”

“So think I,” added Mrs. Huntly.

“And so you will find her,” I rejoined.

“I am dying to see her,” said Lilian.

“She must have taken great interest in
the fate of Charles, to seek him out in captivity,”
observed Madame Mortimer. “Is
it not so, Francis?”

“Her motto of life is to do all the good
she can,” I answered rather evasively.
“She would take an interest in any one
who chanced to be in trouble.”

“God bless her, then, for a true heart!”
was the response.

“But how came she to think of visiting
Oregon?” asked Eva.

“We persuaded her to accompany us
home,” I replied. “As she once saved

both our lives, and afterward ransomed
Charles from slavery, not forgetting that
night, which you all remember, when she
gave us timely warning of danger, whereby
much bloodshed was averted, I thought
you would like to see and thank her.”

“And you were right,” said Lilian, “O,
Eva, we will love her as a sister, will we
not?”

“Certainly,” answered Eva, rather abstractedly,
and evidently not so well pleased
with the idea of her being present as
the other. “Certainly, we will love her
as a sister.”

Could a faint, a very faint spark of jealousy
have begun to blaze in her breast? I
observed her closely, and drew my own
conclusions. Let the reader draw his.

Meantime Huntly had remained seated,
apparently indifferent to everything said.
Was he indifferent? Again let the reader,
who knows something of the state of his
heart, be his own judge. We who are in
the secret can think what we please. And
why did Eva suddenly become so thoughtful
and abstracted? Was she thinking of
Prairie Flower? and did she fear a rival
in an Indian maiden? — for I had never
intimated she was other than an Indian.
Again let the reader decide. My design,
as previously stated, was to bring all parties
together, and leave matters to take
their own course; and I now felt anxious
for all the actors to be on the stage, that I
might witness the denouement.

For some time the conversation went on,
gradually changing from Prairie Flower to
my friend, who was called upon to narrate
some of his adventures.

Anxious to entertain those present, and
divert his thoughts from other subjects, he
began the recital of a thrilling scene, in
which he was an inactive, though not
unconcerned spectator, and had already
reached the most exciting part, holding
his listeners breathless with interest, when
Teddy entered the apartment in haste,
exclaiming:

“Your honor—” Then pausing as he
saw who were present, and making a low
bow — “Beg pardon, ladies! My most
obedient respicts to all o' yees, by token
I've saan yees afore.”

“Well, well, Teddy—have they come?”
inquired I impatiently.

“Troth, and they has, your honor! and
that's jist what I's a-going to say whin
the likes o' so many beauthiful females put
me out a bit.”

“And where are they now, Teddy?”

“Jist round the corner, as ye may
say.”

“Remain here, and I will soon set Prairie
Flower before you,” said I, addressing
the others, who were now all excitement
to behold my fair friend.

And I hurried from the cot, followed by
Teddy.