University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

It was the last day of May, in the year
of our Lord 1843. Already the earth felt
the genial air of summer, and looked as
smiling as a gay maiden in her teens. The
blade had covered the ground with a carpet
of matchless green, amid which, their
lovely faces half concealed, bright flowers
of a hundred varieties, peeped modestly
forth to render the landscape enchanting,
giving their sweet breath to a southern
breeze that softly stole over them. The
trees in every direction were in full foliage,
and already among them could be
seen green bunches of embryo fruits. It
was in fact a delightful day, a delightful
season of the year, and a delightful scene
upon which I gazed, with feelings, alas!
that had more in them of sadness than
joy.

I was still in Oregon City; but two
months had flown since on the banks of
the romantic Willamette I offered my hand,
heart, and fortune to Lilian Huntly, and
was accepted, only to find the nuptial day
prolonged to an indefinite period — the return
of my friend and her brother. I did
not describe my feelings then to the reader;
but, as he or she must have imagined,
they were very painful. I had deceived
Lilian and her mother, I knew, in leading
them to hope, even, for the return of
Charles Huntly, and I felt stung to the
very soul, as one guilty of a crime. What
was I to do? Should I avow all to Lilian
and make her wretched by destroying all
hope of ever seeing Charles again? or
should I still let her remain in blissful
ignorance of his fate, and look in vain to
the future for the consummation of her
ardent wishes? It was a painful dilemma.
The first was the most open, upright,
and straight-forward manner of settling the
matter, most undoubtedly; and conscience
and a first impulse urged me to it; but
then, a doubt in my own mind that he
was really dead — a faint, a very faint
hope that he might sometime return to his
friends — a loathing to inflict a wound
upon the affectionate heart I loved, which
time alone could heal, perhaps cause
needless suffering to one who had already
suffered enough — restrained me; and
between a desire to do right, and a fear
to do wrong, I did nothing but muse
abstractedly, the result of which was, in
my own mind, to take a day for thought,
and then decide. But the next day found
me in the same quandary, and the next,
and the next.

Thus days rolled on, one after another,
and at the end of the month I was as undecided
as ever; and though daily basking
in the smiles of Lilian, and listening to her
artless words of musical sweetness, not

even a hint had I ever thrown out regarding
what I knew of her brother. Often
would she mention him, but always in a
way to denote she scarcely had a doubt
of seeing him the coming summer; and
the thought that she must be disappointed,
ever tended to make me sad and melancholy.
I had never objected to the indefinite
period fixed on for our wedding, for
the simple reason that, to object, was only
to subject myself to an inquiry into the
cause, and this I feared. What was I to
do? The question came up night and
day, at all times and in all places, and
troubled me sorely — so much so, in fact,
that I began to fear its effects upon my
constitution.

At last I resolved to tell her all, and for
this purpose invited her one morning to our
usual stroll on the banks of the Willamette.
The day was fine, and everything
around beautiful. We took our way directly
to the falls, and paused upon a bluff
immediately over the rolling, sparkling
waters. This bluff, which is the bank of
the stream at Oregon City, varies from
twenty to eighty feet in hight, and, running
back, forms the level upon which the
town was then just beginning to be laid
out. The scene was charming, notwithstanding
it was in the wilderness. A beautiful
forest stretched away on either hand—
below us rolled the river, roaring over
the falls — and on the opposite side rose
similar bluffs, and another pleasant forest.
It seemed a place fitted for the communion
of lovers; and here Lilian and I had
whiled away our happiest hours. Here I
had offered my hand to her — here been
accepted — and of course the scene could
not but recall pleasant associations. Hither
then we strayed; and as we paused above
the bright river, Lilian exclaimed, with a
look of joy:

“O, it will be so delightful when Charles
joins us! Do you know what I have determined
on, Frank?”

“Surely not,” I answered.

“Do you see that level yonder (pointing
down the stream), which sets off so
pleasantly below this, shaded by those tall
old trees?”

“Ay, I see, Lilian.”

“Well, there I have planned having such
a pic-nic, on the day when—when we—”

She paused, and blushed, and glanced
timidly at me, as if expecting I would
complete the sentence. I did not, for my
mind was busy with sad thoughts. Now,
thought I, is the time to tell her all. But
how should I begin to pain her! I was
uneasy, and felt miserable, and doubtless
looked as I felt, for the next moment she
added, in some alarm:

“Why, Francis, what is the matter?
You look so pale! Has anything happened?”

“Nothing new.”

“What then? You always look so
pained when I allude to brother Charles!
Surely there must be some cause! Have
you kept anything hidden from me? Speak,
Francis! — you left him well, did you
not?” and she grasped my arm, and
looked earnestly in my face.

“I did, Lilian.”

“Well, what then? You must have no
secrets from me now, you know.”

I must tell her, I thought, and there
can never be a better time than this.

“Lilian,” I began, and my voice trembled
as I spoke: “Lilian, I —”

“What ho! my lovers, are you here?”
shouted a merry voice. “I thought I
should find you here;” and the next moment
we were joined by the gay, light-hearted
Eva Mortimer. “In the name of
humanity,” she said, as she came bounding
up to us, “what makes you both look
so pale? Not making love again, I hope;”
and she ended with a ringing laugh which,
however pleasant it might have sounded
at another time, now jarred most discordantly
with the feelings of both.

“No, not exactly making love, Miss
Mortimer,” I answered, turning to her
with a forced smile, and, if truth must be
owned, rather rejoiced than otherwise that
she had broken off what must have proved
a painful interview.

“Well,” she rejoined, playfully, brushing
back her dark ringlets with one of the
prettiest white, dimpled hands in the world
— mind I say one of the prettiest, reader,
for of course I considered Lilian's equal,
if not superior: “Well, I am glad to hear
that, for I feared, from your sober looks,
you were either getting into a lover's
quarrel, or going over a nameless scene
that was enacted here some weeks ago;”

and she looked meaningly, first at Lilian,
who colored deeply, and then at me, who
I fancied stood it like a philosopher.
“Come,” she added, in the same gay tone,
“I have use for you both all day. We—
that is I, and my good mother, and yours,
Lilian, and some others — have decided
on going to see a beautiful lake, which, we
are told, ornaments a certain fern bluff
that you see away yonder, some half mile
back of this magnificent city. City indeed!”
she continued, with a curl of the
lip. “Why, it might be stolen from the
suburbs of Boston, or any other place of
note, and never be missed. But mother
would come in spite of me, and when she
takes a notion in her head she must carry
it out. She wishes herself back now, and
I join her with all my heart; but, heigh-ho!
I suppose I shall have to spend my
days here, for I see no means of getting
away. But I will tease her, though — I
am pledged to that—and that will be some
comfort, and save me dying of ennui.
Oregon City! Umph! I thought it would
turn out to be woods before I came, and I
told her so—but she would not believe me.
Come, Mr. Leighton, don't be standing
there looking so sober! nor you, my bonny
Lilian. I am going to have you along,
and if I don't make you laugh, why, I will
turn in and cry myself. Only to think of
being here without a lover! It don't matter
with you, Lilian, for you have got one;
but think of me, in pity do! Nobody here
but some thick-headed rustics that don't
know how to make love. I wish your
brother would come, Lilian — I am dying
to see him. He saved my life, you know,
and so I am bound, by all the rules of novels,
to fall in love with him out of pure
gratitude.”

“You will not need gratitude, I fancy,”
added I, with a sigh at the thought of him,
“Should you ever be fortunate enough to
see him; for he is a noble fellow, and one
I think to your liking.”

“Ah!” she replied, “you need not tell
me he is a noble fellow—for none but such
would have risked his life as he did for a
stranger. I have been in love with him ever
since I heard about it, though I had long
ago given up all hope of ever seeing him.”

“And he will be ready, I will vouch for
him, to reciprocate the tender feeling.”

“Do you think so?” she said, slightly
blushing, and her eyes sparkling. “O,
that will be so romantic! and I love romance
dearly. I will have him down upon
his knees at every frown, and will frown
twenty times a day, just to have him down
on his knees. Now that will be making
love to some purpose, eh?” and giving
vent to a ringing laugh, she added, taking
my arm: “Come, don't let us keep the
good people waiting, or they may get off
the notion, and I would not miss seeing
the lake for a costly ruby.”

My design of telling a sad tale was thus
broken off, and, as I said before, I was
not sorry for it. Arm in arm with the
two, I returned to what was denominated
the village, Eva the while chatting away
gaily, flying from one thing to another, but
ever adroitly returning to Charles Huntly,
showing that he now occupied no small
share of her thoughts.

From the specimen given, it will be seen
that Eva Mortimer was a very different
being from Lilian Huntly; and as she is
destined to figure more conspicuously in
these pages than the previous ones, I consider
the present a good opportunity to
describe her.

In person, Eva Mortimer was slightly
above medium, with a form well developed,
and a bust of rare beauty. Her
complexion was clear and dark, though
scarcely sufficient to entitle her to the appellation
of brunette. Her soft, hazel
eyes, shaded by silken lashes, were very
expressive, and could look love languishingly,
or sparkle with the poetry of mirth,
anger, or any of the passions of impulse.
Her features were regular and very prepossessing,
with a nose slightly acquiline,
and mouth and lips as tempting as one
would care to look upon. Her disposition
accorded with her looks. At heart she
was open and generous, with a desire to
please and be pleased, let fortune smile or
frown. Her spirits were almost ever buoyant,
and it required a strong cause to depress
them. Very different from some,
she could not easily be brought to consider
this bright earth as only a grave yard, and
herself a mournful inhabitant, ever stalking
among tombs. She did not believe in
storm, and cloud, and dreariness, so much
as in an open sky, sunshine, cheerfulness

and joy. It would have required great
depth of reasoning to convince her that
God had placed man here expressly to
mope out his days in gloom and sorrow,
either real or imaginary. She did not
fancy the dark side of the picture; and
full of the poetry of an ardent temperament,
there was to her in the sunshine, the
breeze, the leaf, the blade, the flower, the
mount, the vale, the storm, and, in fact,
in everything of nature, something to
excite joy rather than sadness. Whatever
her fortune, she took care to make
the best of it and not repine. She was
lively even to gayety, and could rattle on
for hours in a light, frolicsome strain, calculated
to mislead such as look not below
the mere surface; but those who judged
Eva Mortimer by this, judged wrongly;
for beneath was a heart as warm, as earnest,
as pure, as true, as ever beat in the
breast of woman. This was the drift, the
foam, that floated along on the strong current
of a noble mind. Had you seen and
listened to her in her merry moods, you
would have thought, perhaps, she had no
mind above trifles, or beyond the mere
present; that she was vain and coquettish
to a fault; that she would take no delight
in serious meditation; and yet you could
not easily have erred more in judgment.
I have seen her alone, in the night, gazing
at the stars for hours, when she thought
no human eye beheld her. I have watched
her musing over a flower, while leaf by
leaf she dissected it, as if to lay bare its
mysteries — over the pebbles which she
had gathered in some ramble—over a leaf,
a blade of grass, and, in fact, over whatever
had chanced in her path—in a way
to show her possessed of mind, and that
of the highest order.

There were but few in her present locality
who really knew Eva Mortimer; and
none who seemed to appreciate her as did
Lilian. In their short acquaintance, these
two bright beings had become friends; not
the cold, unmeaning term of the world —
but friends sincere and true, and bound by
a tie beyond the power of death itself to
sever. Like the magnet and the needle
had they come together, to be held by attractions
peculiar to themselves. To each
other their hearts were ever open, and the
joys and sorrows of the one, were the joys
and sorrows of the other. They talked
together, walked together, read together,
(each had brought a few choice books,)
sang together, and both ever seemed happier
on all occasions for the other's presence.
They were nearly of the same
age, of different temperaments, and united
like the different strings of a harp, to
bring forth nothing but music. In short,
they loved each other—not with the evanescent
love of fiery passion, which burns
and freezes alternately — but with that
deeper and truer love which springs from
admiration of, and dependence on, in a
measure, the qualities we do not possess
ourselves. It was a holy love—the love
of two fair maidens just budding into
womanhood.

Am I getting tedious, reader—presuming
too much upon your indulgence—keeping
you too long from the more exciting
part of my story? Well, then, I will press
forward; for much is to be said and done
ere my task be finished.

Of the early history of Eva Mortimer, I
at this time knew but little, and this I had
gleaned from Lilian. Her mother, a woman
between forty and fifty years of age,
was a native of England, of wealthy parentage,
but not of noble birth. Some
twenty-five years before the date of these
events, she had clandestinely married a
French exile, apparently without name or
fortune, rather for the love of romance,
and because she was strongly opposed by
her friends, than for any real affection
which she felt toward the individual himself.
This proceeding had so incensed her
parents, that they had cast her off; but
unlike most parents in such cases, unwilling
she should suffer too much, had offered
her a life annuity above want, on condition
she quitted the country immediately and
returned to it no more. To this she had
readily assented, and shortly after, with
her husband, had embarked for America,
and had finally settled at Quebec, in Canada,
where for several years they had
continued to live together, though not, it
must be confessed, in the most harmonious
manner. Being rather head-strong and
self-willed, and withal possessed of an independence,
Madame Mortimer sought to
have everything her own way, and had not
scrupled occasionally to make her husband

feel he was her debtor for every luxury
he enjoyed. Of a proud spirit, and a
temper somewhat irritable, he had not
displayed any too much Christian humility,
meekness and resignation, and
many a bitter quarrel had been the consequence.

Time rolled on, and at the end of five
years she had given birth to female twins.
Both had been hoping for a male heir; and
consequently this event, instead of mending,
had rather served to widen the breach.
Quarrel succeeded quarrel, and as love
was wanting to harmonize two opposing
spirits, it was at last found necessary to
separate. Two years had passed meantime,
when one morning Mortimer came
into the presence of his wife, with a letter
in his hand, and abruptly announced his
intention of leaving her.

“As you like,” returned Madame Mortimer,
coolly.

Mortimer turned and left her, nor had
she ever beheld him since. The night
following, the twin sister of Eva disappeared,
and the most diligent inquiries,
together with the offer of a large reward,
had failed in restoring her to her anxious
mother. The effect of this upon Madame
Mortimer proved very severe — for she
loved both her children dearly—and a nervous
fever was the result, which nearly cost
her her life. Soon after this she received
news of her father's death, and that, having
repented his rashness, he had left
her a rich legacy, with permission to return
to England. To England, therefore,
she went, and there had remained, superintending
the education of Eva, until a
desire of travel had brought her once more
to this country, whither she had come in
company with her daughter and a wealthy
American lady, whose acquaintance had
been made across the water, and who
subsequently introduced her into New-York
society, simply as Madame Mortimer,
without a word of explanation, this being
at her own earnest request. Thus it was,
as I have before mentioned, none who met
her in society had been able to learn who
she was or whence she came, and this had
doubtless added to her popularity. This
was all I had been able to gather from
Lilian, and all, in fact, she knew; and this
had been picked up at different times, from
remarks that had escaped the lips of Eva
in her more communicative moods.

In person, Madame Mortimer was large,
with a full, handsome countenance, expressive
black eyes, and a bearing dignified
and queen-like. At heart she was
kind and affectionate; and doubtless, had
she been properly mated, would have
made an exemplary wife. Her passions,
when excited, were strong to violence,
with a temper haughty and unyielding to
an equal, but subdued and mild to an inferior.
She loved passionately, and hated
madly. With her, as a general thing,
there was no medium. She liked or disliked,
and carried both to extremes. She
was a woman of strong mind, much given
to thought and reflection, an acute observer
of everything around her, and just
sufficiently eccentric to throw the freshness
of originality over all she said or did.
She would do what she thought was proper,
without regard to the opinion of others, or
what the world would say. She had
resolved on a journey to Oregon, not for
any particular purpose, but merely to carry
out a whim, and see the country. She had
done both, was dissatisfied with her present
locality, and now designed returning to the
States the first favorable opportunity.

But to return from this digression.

Of the fate of her brother, Lilian still
remained ignorant; for after the interruption
of Eva, I could never summon enough
moral courage to again attempt the sad
narration. As time rolled on, I became
more and more depressed in spirits, and
more perplexed as to the course I should
pursue. It was not impossible, I began
to reason, that Charles Huntly might be
living; and the more I pondered on this,
the more I was inclined to believe it the
case. He had been lost mysteriously, in
a part of the world notoriously infested
with robbers and Indians. If captured by
the former, there was no argument against
the supposition that he had been plundered
and sold into slavery. If by the
latter, might he not have been adopted by
some tribe, and now be a prisoner? In
either case, was I not in duty bound to go
in quest of him, and, if found, to rescue
him from a horrible doom, either by ransom
or force? At all events, I said to myself,
I can but fail, and may succeed.

On leaving home, I had supplied myself
with a large amount of gold to meet all
contingencies, and but little of this had
been expended. I could, perhaps, engage
a party, for a reasonable sum, to accompany
me; and this, after duly weighing all
the circumstances, I had decided to attempt
on the morning I have chosen for
the opening of this chapter. I would let
Lilian and the others suppose I had gone
home, and that I should probably return
with Charles Huntly. Having settled the
matter in my own mind, I resolved on
immediate action, and for this purpose
called Teddy aside to communicate my
intention.

“Teddy,” I began, gravely, “did you
love your former master?”

“Me masther!” repeated the Irishman,
with a look of curious inquiry, “and sure,
of who is't ye're speaking, your honor?”

“Of Charles Huntly.”

“Did I love him, is't? Faith, and
does a snapping turtle love to bite, or a
drunkard to drink, that ye ax me that
now?—Love him? Troth, and was he
living, I'd go to the ind of the world and
jump off jist to plase him, and so I would.”

“Maybe, Teddy, you can serve him
more effectually than by a proceeding so
dangerous.”

“Sarve him, is't! Och, now, I'd be
after knowing that same!”

“I've taken a fancy into my head that
he is living.”

“Howly St. Pathrick! ye don't say the
likes!” exclaimed the Hibernian, holding
up both hands in astonishment. “Ye're
joking, sure, your honor?”

“No, Teddy, I am serious as a judge.
I have always had some faint doubts of
his death, and now these doubts have
grown strong enough to induce me to set
off in search of him;” and I proceeded to
give my reasons.

“Ah, sure,” said Teddy, as I concluded,
“This is a happy day for me mother's son,
if nothing comes on't but parting wid—
wid—”

“But, Teddy, I had designed taking
you along.”

“And sure, Misther Leighton, is'nt it
going I is wid ye, now? D'ye think I'd
be afther staving behind, like a spalpeen,
and ye away afther Misther Huntly, pace
to his ashes, barring that he's got no ashes
at all, at all, but is raal flish and blood
like your own bonny self, that's one of the
kindest gintlemen as iver wore out shoemaker's
fixings, and made the tailor blush
wid modesty for the ixcillent fit of his coat?”

“But you spoke of parting, Teddy!”

“Ah, troth, and ye a gallant yourself,
your honor, and not sae it was a wee bit
of a female parthing I's mintioning, jist?”

“Female parting! I do not understand
you.”

Here Teddy scratched his head, and
looked not a little confused.

“Why, ye sae, your honor,” he replied,
hesitatingly, “ye sae the womens (Heaven
bliss their darling sowls!) is all loveable
crathurs, and it's mesilf that likes to maat
'em whereiver I goes; but somehow, your
honor, a chap's like to be thinking of one,
more in particular by raason of his nathur;
and that's the case wid mesilf now, and
Molly Stubbs that lives yonder, barring
that it's hardly living at all that she is in
this wild counthry.”

The truth flashed upon me at once.
One of the settlers, who had come here in
advance of my friends, had a large, buxom,
rosy-cheeked daughter of eighteen, who
went by the euphonious appellation of
Molly Stubbs—sometimes, Big Molly—
and I now remembered having seen Teddy
idling about the premises, though at the
time, without a suspicion of the real cause.

“And so, Teddy, you have been making
love, eh?”

“Divil a bit, your honor.”

“How? what?”

“No! ye sae it was all made to me hand,
and I've ounly been acting it out, jist.”

“Aha! exactly. And so you think you
can part with your belle ami, eh?”

“And sure, if it's Molly Stubbs you
maan by that Lathin, it's mesilf that can
say the farewell handsome, now.”

“Well, make your parting short, and
then see to having the horses got ready,
for in less than three hours we must be in
our saddles.”

With this I turned away, and with slow
steps, and a heart by no means the lightest,
sought the residence of Lilian to communicate
the unpleasant intelligence, that
in a few minutes we must part, perhaps to
meet no more.