University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

I found Prairie Flower seated upon her
little pony, in company with her Indian
friends, pale and agitated, but looking, if
anything, more beautiful than ever. She
wore a plain, neat dress without ornament,
which fitted her person well, and displayed
her airy, symmetrical figure to the best
advantage. Her dark, glossy hair was
braided and arranged, if not a la mode, at
least in most exquisite taste; and altogether
her appearance was such as could not offend
the searching gaze of the most fastidious
critic. All trace of the Indian was
gone; and gazing upon her sweet, modest
countenance, one could hardly realize her
life, for the most part, had been spent in
the wilderness, among the red children of
the forest.

“And how fares my fair friend this
morning?” I said, with a smile, as I came
up.

“But indifferently well,” she answered,
dismounting.

“I fear you did not rest well last night.”

“I did not rest at all,” she replied.
“How could I rest, sir, with such momentous
thoughts as kept me company? O,
sir,” she added vehemently, placing her

hand upon her heart; “here, here were
strange feelings, strange emotions, strange
yearnings — but all powerful as strange —
and they kept my senses from slumber.
Every nerve was then strained, and I felt
strong. But now — I am weak — very
weak;” and as she spoke, she rested her
hand on the neck of her little pony for
support.

“Come!” said I, advancing to her side,
“take my arm, and I will conduct you
bence. It is intense excitement which so
unnerves you; but you must not give way
to it. It is necessary, for the present, that
you be calm, and do not lose your wonted
presence of mind.”

“And whither would you conduct me?”
she timidly inquired.

“Within this humble cottage.”

“And—and—are—they there—of—of
whom you spoke?” she fairly gasped.

“Ay! they await your presence to
thank you for all your kindness.”

“And do—do—they know?” she said,
emphasizing the last word, clasping my
hand, and fixing her dark eyes, with a
singular expression, upon mine.

“They know nothing, Prairie Flower,
but that you are the author of many noble
deeds, for which they are your debtors,
and for which they are anxious to return
you heart-felt thanks. My friend and I
thought it best to bring you together,
without even hinting our surmises.”

“It was a happy thought in you,” she
replied, with some reassurance; “I am
glad you did so; I am glad they know
nothing; and I will try to be calm and
appear indifferent. But, sir, believe me!
this is a great trial. I have been used to
danger all my life. I—though you may
think it strange, for I have never told it
you before — have even stood upon the
field of carnage, where the fierce battle
raged, and the deadly missiles were whirling
past me, fairly hissing in my ear, and
there have striven to succor the wounded.
I have had my life in danger many times,
when I believed every moment would be
my last. I have, for my years, seen
much hardship and peril—but never, sir,
a moment like the present—never a time
when I felt my soul shrink within me,
and refuse to do my bidding as now—
never a time when I had less self-com
mand and felt I needed it more. I am
about to enter the presence of those whose
blood, perchance, runs in my veins; and
the doubts—the uncertainty—the hopes
and fears which are based upon this bare
possibility, are mighty in their strength.
O, sir! such feelings—such wild, strange
feelings as rush over me at the thought,
are beyond the utterance of mortal tongue
—words could not express them. But I
will say no more. I keep them waiting.
I will nerve myself. I am ready.”

“But perhaps your friends here had
better wait till this first interview is over.”

“True,” she added, “they must not
witness it;” and turning, she addressed
a few words to them, and signified that
she was ready.

At this moment my eye fell upon
several of the villagers, who were sauntering
toward us, attracted, some of them
perhaps by curiosity, and others by the
news of my arrival. As I did not care
to see any at present, I said a word to
Prairie Flower, and we hastened our steps
to the threshold of the cottage.

“Courage,” I whispered, and led her
in with a faltering step.

All eyes were instantly fastened upon
her; and the involuntary exclamation from
more than one was, “How beautiful!”
Prairie Flower, pale, and trembling, could
not return their gaze, but sank her own
to the ground.

“My friends,” I said, I herewith present
you our fair benefactress, to whom
two of us at least, if not all present, are
indebted for our lives. This is the Prairie
Flower, of whom I spoke; and taking
slight liberty with her name, I may be
permitted to term her the Flower of the
Wilderness.”

As I spoke, each of the ladies rose and
advanced to meet her, but Lilian was the
first to gain her side. With a quick step
she came forward, and taking the inactive
hands of Prairie Flower in her own, said
in a bland, frank, affectionate tone:

“Welcome, sweet maiden, to the home
of those who already love you for your
many virtues. I have—”

At this moment Prairie Flower raised
her eyes to those of the speaker, whose
countenance suddenly changed to a look
of bewildered surprise, and taking a

step backward, she clasped her hands
and ejaculated:

“Good heavens! how remarkable!”

“The charm works,” whispered I to
my friend, who had silently joined me.

He pressed my hand nervously, but
said nothing.

“Yes, welcome to our humble abode,
Prairie Flower,” said Mrs. Huntly, in a
kindly tone, who, her gaze riveted upon
the fair maiden, had not as yet noticed the
surprise and agitation of her daughter.
“Eh! what! how!” she added the next
moment, as the dark eyes of Prairie Flower
in turn rested upon hers; and she glanced
quickly toward Eva, Madame Mortimer
and Lilian, and then back again upon
Prairie Flower, as if uncertain what to
think or how to act.

“I thank you — for — for — your kindness!”
faltered Prairie Flower, again
dropping her eyes to the ground, and evidently
scarcely able to support herself from
sinking.

At the moment Mrs. Huntly spoke, Eva
had extended her hand within a step of
Prairie Flower, and her lips were just
parted to utter a welcome, when the same
look which had surprised the former, arrested
her motions and held her spellbound,
as if suddenly transformed to a
statue of marble. But it was Madame
Mortimer who now fixed my whole attention.
She had come up a little behind
the others, with an expression of patronizing,
benevolent curiosity on her fine, matronly
features. The first glance at Prairie
Flower had changed the idle look of curiosity,
to one of surprise and interest at her
maiden beauty, and the absence of that
distinguishing mark of the Indian which
she had expeated to find. The next moment
she evidently became struck with her
strong resemblance to Eva, which had so
surprised each of the others; and a sudden
vague, wild thought — suspicion—a
something undefinable — rushed over her
half bewildered brain; and her features
grew ashy pale, her bosom heaved, and
her very lips turned white with internal
emotions. But it was when Prairie Flower
spoke, you should have seen her. There
was something in that voice, that seemed
to thrill every nerve, and then take away
all power of motion — suspend every ani
mal function. At the first sound, she
leaned a little forward, one hand, unconsciously
as it were, stretched toward the
speaker, and the other instinctively clasping
her forehead; while the blood rushing
upward, crimsoned her features, and then
retreating to her heart, left them paler
than ever. Her lips parted, her eyes
seemed starting from their sockets, her
heaving breast ceased its throbbing, and
she stood transfixed to the ground, motionless
and mute, apparently without life,
or only that life of surprised and bewildered
inaction, which the master sculptor
of the passions sometimes transfuses into
the otherwise inanimate object of his creation.
It was a strange and impressive
picture, and one that would have made the
fortune and fame of any artist who could
have accurately transferred it to canvas.
A momentary silence prevailed—a deathly
silence—that seemingly had in it the awful
calm preceding the frightful tempest.
For a brief space no one moved—no one
spoke—and, I may add, no one breathed;
for the internal excitement had suspended
respiration. There they stood, as I have
described them, a wonderful group—sweet
Prairie Flower as the central figure and
object of interest, the cynosure of all eyes,
and, if I may be permitted the expression,
the very soul of all thought. Just behind
Prairie Flower stood Huntly, my hand clasped
in his and suffering from its pressure.

Madame Mortimer was the first to move
—the first to break the silence. Suddenly
taking a step forward, between Mrs.
Huntly and Eva, and clasping her hands
before her, her eyes still riveted upon Prairie
Flower, she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper,
that had something sepulchral in its
sound:

“Merciful God! who are you? Speak!
speak! In Heaven's name, who are you?”

Prairie Flower looked up wildly, clasped
her hands, fixed her eyes upon the
other, and trembled violently, but said
nothing.

“Who are you?” cried Madame Mortimer
again. “For God's sake, speak! and
break this terrible spell of painful, bewildering
uncertainty! Speak! I charge
you, speak!”

But the lips of Prairie Flower gave no
answer.

“Speak you!” continued Madame Mortimer,
wildly, appealing to me: “Speak
any! speak all! but speak somebody!
and tell me I am not in a dream—a dream
from which it would be terrible to wake
and know it but a dream.”

“You do not dream,” said I; “and, I
have every reason to believe, are standing
in the presence of —”

“Who?” she screamed, interrupting
me.

“Your long lost daughter!”

“Ah!” she shrieked: “God of mercy!
I thought so!” and staggering forward,
she threw out her arms, fell heavily upon
the breast of Prairie Flower, and swooned
in her embrace.