University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

To describe minutely what occurred during
the first half hour after this singular
meeting between mother and daughter, is
wholly beyond my power—for I was too
much excited myself to note anything
distinctly. For a time all was uproar and
confusion — persons running to and fro,
calling for this thing and that, and uttering
exclamations of terror, surprise and
bewilderment.

Meantime Madame Mortimer was borne
in an unconscious state to an adjoining
apartment, where such restoratives as could
be had were speedily applied, for a long
time without success; while Prairie Flower,
more dead than alive, was conducted
to a seat, where Eva, the first alarm for
her mother over, flew to embrace her, to
twine her arms around her neck, call her
“Dear, dear sister!” and weep and laugh
alternately as one insane. Lilian and Mrs.
Huntly seemed completely bewildered;
and were now with Madame Mortimer, and
anon with Prairie Flower, aiding the recovery
of the one, wondering over the
other, and continually uttering, “How
strange! how strange!” Charles, pale as
a corpse, had sunk upon a seat, and with
his face buried in his hands, sat in silence;
while I, after running up and down the
room several times, found myself, much to
my surprise, alone in the center of the
apartment and dancing for very joy.

At last everything began to assume a
more tranquil and sane appearance. Prairie
Flower found vent to her feelings in a
flood of tears upon the breast of Eva, who,
as she put in now and then a soothing
word, begging the other to be calm, mingled
her own with her sister's; while Lilian
and her mother wept in sympathy of
joy, and my own eyes, by the spontaneous
action of an overflowing soul, would, in
spite of myself, occasionally grow dim.
Madame Mortimer, too, gradually regained
her senses, and looking hurriedly about
her, anxiously inquired for her long lost
daughter. Prairie Flower was at once
conducted to her side, whither we all followed
to witness the interview.

For something like a minute, Madame
Mortimer gazed upon her daughter without
speaking, during which her features displayed
all the varying expressions of a
mother's tender, yearning love for a long
lost child.

“'Tis she!” at length escaped her lips,
in that deep tone by which the very soul
gives utterance: “'Tis she! the long-lost—
the sadly-wept—the deeply-mourned. Yes,
'tis she — there is no mistaking those features.
The lost is found — the dead restored
to life.” Then pausing, clasping,
her hands and looking upward, she added:
“God! all merciful, all wise, and all just—
for this I thank thee, from the inner depths
of a grateful heart! This day's happiness,
O God! hath canceled long years of suffering
and sorrow; and henceforth the
study of my life shall be to glorify thy
name.”

During this brief, solemn, but heart-felt
offering of gratitude to the Great Author
of the universe, Prairie Flower gradually
sank upon her knees beside the bed whereon
the speaker was lying, and covering her

face with her hands, appeared lost in silent
devotion. This over, she arose, and
gazing upon Madame Mortimer a moment,
with a look of unutterable affection, uttered
the single word “Mother!” threw herself
upon the breast of the latter, was
strained to her heart, and the tears of both
mingled.

It was a touching scene, and one that
needs no comment from me.

“And now, my sweet child,” said Madame
Mortimer, pressing her lips warmly
to the other's, “my long lost Evaline Mortimer
— for by that name, which you bore
in infancy, you must henceforth be known
— tell me something of yourself, and how
you came to be found among the Indians!”

Prairie Flower — or Evaline, as I will
hereafter term her — started, turned pale,
and sighed heavily, but did not reply. At
once I comprehended her thoughts and
hastened to relieve her; for I saw in her
look a secret dread, lest the unrevealed
secret in her possession might even now
dash the cup of joy from her lips, by
proving her the child of another.

“She knows but little of her own history,”
I began, and then went on to recount
our first suspicions as to who she
might be, and what followed, up to her
finding the hidden box, which probably
contained a statement of the facts, but
which she, for reasons explained, had not
yet examined.

“Alas!” sighed Evaline, “and that is
what troubles me now. I fear there may
have been some mistake; and if, oh God!
there be —”

“Give yourself no uneasiness, my
child!” interrupted Madame Mortimer;
“for you are my child, I feel and know;
and for my own satisfaction, would never
seek other proof than what I have — your
likeness to Eva, and a mother's yearnings.
But if you have any doubts, examine your
left arm, and you there will find a scar, in
the form of a quarter moon, which was
impressed upon Evaline Mortimer in infancy.”

Evaline started, and hurriedly bared her
arm with a trembling hand. We all pressed
forward to examine it. There, sure
enough! just below the elbow, the identical
scar could be traced -- dim, it is true,
but still the scar of the quarter moon.

Evaline gazed upon it a moment, faint
and pale with joyful emotions, and then
turning her soft, dark eyes above, with the
sublime look of saint, and clasping her
hands, said solemnly:

“God! I thank thee!”

“My sister—my sweet, long lost sister!”
said Eva affectionately, gently twining her
arms around the neck of the other and
gazing upward also — “I, too, thank God
for this!”

Evaline turned, clasped the other in her
arms, and falling upon each other's neck,
the beautiful twin sisters wept in each
other's embrace.

“What a singular meeting is this!” observed
Mrs. Huntly to Madame Mortimer,
who now completely recovered arose from
the bed. “And how remarkable, that
both you and I should have a long lost
child restored to us at the same time!”

“Ay,” answered the other, “God sometimes
works in wonders, and this is one.
But not the least remarkable of all is the
fact, that some years since your son saved
the life of my daughter, and subsequently
my daughter saved the life of your son
— though each at the time wholly unknown
to the other, with no apparent connection
between the two striking events.
The good we do returns to us, as the evil
of our life often falls heavily upon our
heads. I have experienced both;” and she
sighed heavily. “But come, my daughter,”
she added, turning to Evaline, “you
have friends with you whom we have long
kept waiting. We must now entertain
them, or they will think themselves slighted,
and with good reason. When everything
is properly arranged and settled, we
will have those secret documents produced
and hear your tale.”

As she spoke, she led the way to the
larger apartment.

“Charley,” I whispered, “I fear we
have forgotten to congratulate Prairie
Flower on the happy termination of this
interview and change of name!”

He pressed my hand and answered:

“You must be spokesman, then — for
at present I am unable to express my
feelings.”

“Be it so — but you must accompany
me;” and advancing to Prairie Flower, I
took her hand and said:

“I give you joy, Evaline Mortimer! —
and so does my friend here, though at
present too bashful to say it.”

Both Huntly and Evaline blushed and
became embarrassed. But quickly recovering
herself, the latter returned:

“I thank you -- thank you both — from
my heart. But for you, this might never
have been;” and her eyes instantly filled
with grateful tears.

“But for you, dear Evaline,” rejoined I,
“we might never have been here. The
obligation is on our side — we are the
debtors.”

“Prairie Flower,” began Huntly, taking
the disengaged hand and making an effort
to command himself—“Or rather, I should
say, Evaline — I — I — Well, you understand!
Imagine all I would say — for
just now I can say nothing.”

“Bravo, Charley!” said I, laughing and
giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“Bravo, my dear fellow! Spoken like
yourself!”

“Hush!” he returned, with a gesture
of displeasure; “do not jest with me now,
Frank!”

Meantime I noticed that Eva and Lilian
watched the features of both Evaline and
Charles closely, and then whispered to
each other, and smiled, and again looked
earnestly at each.

The secret is out, thought I.

At this moment Madame Mortimer, observing
us together, approached and addressed
my friend with a bland smile:

“Said I not, Charles, that the heroine
of this life-romance must necessarily be a
personage of consequence?”

“And I am rejoiced your words are
verified,” was the reply.

“Thank you! and thank God, I have
found them verified in a way I little expected!
But all heroines, you know, must
fall in love!” she added, laughing. “How
is it in the present case, eh?”

“It turns out on the most approved
plan,” I answered pointedly, glancing at
both Charles and Evaline, who, judging
from their looks, wished themselves for the
moment, anywhere but where they stood.

“I am rejoiced to hear it,” rejoined the
good dame.

“And how is it with you, Eva?” I
asked, playfully

“Why, I suppose I must resign all pretensions,”
she replied, in her wonted light
tone. “Of course I was anxious to make
a conquest — as what young lady is not?
But I see there is no chance for me,” she
pursued, glancing slyly at my friend; “and
so I will e'en make a virtue of necessity,
pretend I don't care anything about it,
and, heigh-ho! look some where else,
with the old motto, `Better luck next time.'
Ay,” she added, springing to the blushing
Evaline, and imprinting a kiss on her sweet
lips, “I am too happy in finding a sister,
to mourn long for a lover—more especially
if a certain somebody (again glancing at
Charles,) has any design of becoming a
relation.”

“Well said!” I rejoined. “And now,
Charley —”

“Hist!” he exclaimed, interrupting and
dragging me away. “Come,” he added
“let us take a stroll;” and arm-in-arm
we quitted the cottage.

Considerable of a crowd had already
collected around our Indian friends, and
were listening to a story from Teddy, who,
as he privately expressed himself to me,
“Was in all the glory of making the
spalpeens belave himself and us the heroes
of a hundred mighty fights, and
bathels, and scrimmages, and hair-length
escapes, and thim things.”

Among the number present, I recognised
several of my old acquaintances, who
appeared much delighted to see me, and
to whom I introduced my long lost friend.
After the usual commonplace observations
were over, I turned to Teddy, and gave
him instructions to conduct the Indians
into the cottage forthwith, and then see to
having their horses well taken care of.
This done, Huntly and I sauntered down
through the village, to note the improvements,
and talk over the important events
of the last few hours.

As Lilian remarked I would, I found the
village of Oregon City greatly altered for
the better, and that it had already begun
to assume the appearance of a thriving
settlement. During the past season there
had been a large influx of population from
the East, the effects of which were everywhere
visible in new dwellings and workshops.
Some three or four merchants had
come on with goods, opened stores, and

were now doing a thriving business, in disposing
of their commodities at the most
extravagant prices. A grist-mill and sawmill
had also been erected on the Williamette,
and were now in active operation—
the former grinding out the staff of life,
and the latter supplying such of the settlers
as desired habitations superior to log
cabins, with the necessary materials for
more finished building. Here and there
were the workshops of the carpenter,
blacksmith, saddler, shoemaker, and tailor
—and, in short, everything necessary apparently
to a business place.

Strolling down to the Williamette, we
halted upon a bluff overlooking the romantic
stream, and, as chance would have it
upon the very spot where I had offered my
hand to Lilian.

“Here, Charley,” said I, “is ground
which to me is sacred. Can you not
guess from what cause?”

He only answered by pressing my arm
and heaving a deep sigh.

“Come,” added I, smiling, “a wager I
can guess your thoughts!”

“Well, say on.”

“You are thinking of Evaline.”

He changed color, and sighed: “Well?”

“And now you begin to have doubts
that all may not terminate as you desire!”

“You are good at guessing,” he rejoined,
gazing solemnly down upon the current
below.

“Courage, man!” rejoined I. “Never
despair on the point of victory!”

“Ah!” he sighed, “if I could be assured
of that.”

“Assured, Charley! What more assurance
would you have? She loves you,
I will vouch for that; and now that the
mystery hanging over her early life is
cleared up, you have nothing to do but be
yourself and ask her hand.”

“Do you think so?” he cried, suddenly
confronting me with an eager look.
“Do you think so, Frank?”

“Do I think so?” I repeated. “Why,
where is your wonted assurance? Do I
think so? No! I do not think—I know!”

“But I—I—somehow—I have my misgivings.”

“Pshaw! my friend—love's misgivings
only. If you had not these, I should put
it down as a solemn fact that you did not
love. She has her misgivings, too—but
they spring from the same source as yours,
and amount to exactly the same thing—
that is, nothing. Why, how you have
changed! You are as timid as a schoolboy
at his first public declamation, and tremble
more in the presence of one beautiful
being, than you did in the clutches of a
fierce banditti. Throw aside this foolish
bashfulness, and act like a sensible fellow.
There is nothing so very alarming in telling
a young maiden you love and adore
her, when you once set yourself about it.
I have tried it, and speak from experience.
Once, I remember, you talked the matter
of matrimony over as deliberately as if
making a bargain and sale—purchasing or
transferring property.”

“Ay,” he answered, musingly, “but it
was merely talk then—now it is quite a
different thing. If—if—she should refuse—”

“Nonsense!” interrupted I, laughing;
and then added, imitating him: “If—if—
you should refuse, why—”

“Cease!” he exclaimed, almost angrily.
“Why will you be ever jesting,
Frank?”

“That I may bring you to sober earnest,
Charley.”

In like conversation we whiled away an
hour or two, and then returned to the cottage—Huntly
in a better flow of spirits
than I had seen him for many a day.

The news of our arrival—the restoration
of a long lost daughter to the arms
of her mother—together with exaggerated
and marvellous reports of the whole affair,
had already made the dwelling of Mrs.
Huntly a place of attraction to the villagers,
whom we here found collected in
goodly numbers of both sexes. In fact,
the house was thronged throughout the
day, and both Huntly and myself were
kept busy in recounting our exploits to
curious and eager listeners.

Night, however, came at last, and with
its approach departed our visiters, much
to our relief and gratification.