University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

As I neared the residence of Mrs.
Huntly and Lilian, (which had also been
mine for some months) for the purpose of
bidding my friends another long adieu, I
heard the merry voice and ringing laugh
of Eva Mortimer. Another time this
would have been music to my ears; but
now my spirits were greatly depressed,
and I was not in a mood to appreciate it.
The cabin—it would scarcely bear a more
exalted title—seemed surrounded with an
air of gloom. It was as good as any, better
than most, which formed the village of
Oregon City; but yet, what a place to be
the abode of those who had been used all
their lives to the luxurious mansion of
wealth!—and I could not avoid making a
comparison between the condition of the
tenants now, and when I had approached
to bid them farewell some three years before—nor
of thinking with what Christian-like
resignation they had borne, and still
bore, their misfortunes. Their present
dwelling was built of unhewn logs, whose
crevices were filled with clay, had a
thatched roof, puncheon floors, and three
apartments. One of these had been assigned
to Teddy and myself, another to
Lilian and her mother, and the third answered
the treble uses of parlor, sitting-room
and kitchen. A few beds and
bedding, a table, one or two chairs, together
with a few benches, and the most
common househould utensils, comprised
the principal furniture. And this was the
abode of the lovely and once wealthy
heiress, Lilian Huntly! And she could
seem contented here! What a happy
spirit, to adapt itself to all circumstances—
to blend itself, if I may so express it,
with every fortune!

With this reflection I crossed the threshhold,
and beheld Lilian and Eva in gay
conversation, and Mrs. Huntly seated by
the table, perusing a book. Both the
young ladies turned to me as I entered, and
Eva at once exclaimed:

“So, Mr. Francis, you have just come
in time—we have it all settled.”

“May I inquire what?” returned I,
gravely.

“May you inquire what?” she repeated,
with a playful curl of the lip. “Did you
ever see such a starch, ministerial look,
Lilian?—as grave is he as a sexton. Why,
one would suppose all his friends were
dead, and he had come to invite us to the
funeral. Heigh-ho! if ever I get a lover,
he shall wear no such look as that; if he
do, it will be at the risk of having his hair
combed and powdered, I assure you.”

“But I have reason for looking grave,”
I replied.

“Eh! what!” cried Eva, changing instantly
her whole expression and manner
“Surely you have no bad news for us?”
and she approached and laid her hand
upon my arm, with a troubled look, while
Lilian sunk down upon a seat, as if she had
some sad foreboding, and Mrs. Huntly
turned her eyes upon me inquiringly.

“Give yourselves no alarm,” I hastened
to reply. “I have only come to say, we
must separate for a time.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Eva, looking serious.

“You have heard tidings of Charles?”
added Mrs. Huntly.

I glanced at Lilian, but she said not a
word, though all color had forsaken her
features.

“No, I have not heard from Charles,”
I rejoined, in answer to Mrs. Huntly;
“but presume I shall ere I return.”

“Good heavens! then you are going
far?” cried Eva, in astonishment.

“I contemplate making a journey to the
east, and may meet Charles on the way,
in which case I shall return at once—
otherwise, I may be absent the summer.”

“Why, Francis, what has made you resolve
thus so suddenly?” inquired Mrs.
Huntly. “How are we to do without you?
I thought—(she paused and glanced toward
Lilian, who had turned her head aside
and seemed deeply affected,)—that—that
you intended to pass the summer with
us.”

“Cruel man,” said Eva, in a whisper,

“how can you leave the sweetest being on
earth? O, you men!” And then she
continued aloud: “I wish we were all
going with you. Can you not take us all
along?”

“Why, I fear it would not be safe.”

“As safe as it is here, I am certain.
Surely we could not be more than killed
if we went, and who knows but some
of these Indians, that are in the habit of
visiting our great city here, may take a
notion we have lived long enough, and so
murder us all, or marry us, which would
be the same thing! But whoever knew a
gentleman gallant enough to do what was
asked of him? Ah! I see—you don't
even listen now—your thoughts are all
with somebody else—and so I will retire.
Let me know when it is over, as I wish to
bid you adieu;” and she darted out of the
room.

Mrs. Huntly was on the point of interrogating
me farther, but perceiving by a
sign from Lilian that the latter wished to
see me alone, she made some excuse, and
went into an adjoining apartment. The
moment she had disappeared, Lilian sprang
up and flew into my arms.

“Is this true, Francis?” she exclaimed.
“Are you really going to leave us?”

“I fear I must for a time,” I said, in a
not very firm voice.

“A long time then,” sighed the fair girl;
“a long time, if you are going east. O,
Francis, I did not think we should part so
soon! What have you heard? Something,
surely—for you have never intimated
this before—and you would not deceive
one who loves you!”

This was said so touchingly, with such
naivete, that for a time I only replied by
pressing her more closely to my heart, and
imprinting a kiss upon her ruby lips.

“I cannot tell my Lilian everything,” I
at length made answer. “Suffice, that I
have important reasons for going; and
sometime, God willing, you shall know all.
My resolution to leave was formed to-day,
and to-day we must part.”

“To-day?” she gasped, and I felt her
whole form quiver like a reed shaken by
the wind. “O, no! not to-day, Francis!
that would be too much—too sudden!
You must not go to-day!”

“Why not, dearest? I shall return one
day sooner for it doubtless; and it will be
as hard to part to-morrow as to-day.”

“But it is so sudden—so unexpected,”
she pleaded. “Delay till to-morrow
Francis!”

“Well, anything to please you,” and I
stamped the promise with the seal of love
“Be cheerful as you can in my absence
Lilian, and when I return with your
brother—”

“O, then you are going to find him!”
she exclaimed, interrupting me. “That
return will be joyful indeed! Poor
Charles! If you do not meet him on the
way, most likely you will in Boston. Cheer
him all you can, Francis, and tell him we
are as happy as circumstances will allow
us to be.”

“Beg pardon, your honor,” said the
voice of Teddy at this moment, startling
Lilian, like a frightened roe, from my
arms. “Beg pardon for interrupting yees
—but the baast ye buyed this while ago,
is not inywhere to my knowing.”

“Never mind, Teddy, go and hunt it.
It must be about, unless the Indians have
stolen it, in which case I must get another.
Hunt for it—I shall not leave
to-day.”

“Troth, thin, I'll 'av another parthing
mesilf, jist,” returned Teddy, as he disappeared
with a pleased look.

At this moment Mrs. Huntly, hearing
another voice, reappeared, and my tete-a-tete
with Lilian was for the present broken
off. The former had a great many questions
to ask me—why I had decided leaving
so suddenly—when I expected to reach
Boston, and the like—so that I had no little
difficulty in replying in a way not to
commit myself. Then she had letters to
write to her friends; and Lilian had letters
to prepare also; and the news of
my departure having circulated quickly
through the village, numbers called to
see me, to send messages and letters to
their native land—so that with listening
to their requests, to an extra amount of
advice as to the proper mode of conducting
myself under all circumstances, and
attending to my own affairs, I was kept
busy all day, without the opportunity
of another private interview with Lilian.

A fine horse, which I had purchased a
few days before of an Indian, was lost—

the owner I suppose, or some of his friends,
thinking it best to recover the animal
without troubling me in the matter at all,
Consequently, another beast was to be
procured; and as this was for Teddy, I
allowed him to make his own selection—
the one I had ridden hither still being in
my possession.

At last, everything being prepared, I
retired to my couch, heartily fatigued with
my day's work. But thought was too busy
to allow me much sleep; and I question if
at least one other did not pass a restless
night from the same cause; for on appearing
in the morning, I noticed the features
of Lilian were very pale, and her eyes
red as if from recent weeping. But she
seemed firm, ready to endure the separation,
and uttered not a single word of
complaint. I could have loved her for
this, if for nothing else—her conduct was
so womanly and sensible. She did not
feel the less, that she did not show it
more, I knew. She was about to part
with one she had loved from childhood—
one to whom her heart and hand were
given — and this in a strange, wild country,
for a long separation, full of peril to
both, with no certainty of ever seeing him
again. It could not but be painful to her
in any situation—doubly so in the one she
was placed — and I fancy I appreciated
her noble firmness as it deserved.

The countenances of Mrs. Huntly, Madame
Mortimer, Eva, and many others, all
were grave; and I read in their looks unfeigned
sorrow at my close-coming departure.
The morning meal was partaken in
silence, as all were too sad and full of deep
thought for unnecessary conversation.—
Ere it was finished, my friends had all
collected to bid me farewell and God
speed; and the announcement by Teddy
that the horses were ready, was the signal
for me to begin the parting scene. Commencing
with those I cared least about,
I shook each heartily by the hand, and
passed from one to the other as rapidly as
possible.

“Francis Leighton,” said Madame Mortimer,
when I came to her, and her hand
pressed mine warmly, and her voice trembled
as she spoke, “remember that to you
and your friend my daughter owes her
life, and I a debt of gratitude that may
never be canceled. If my prayers for
your safe and happy return be of any
avail, you have them. God bless you,
sir! and remember, that whatever may
happen in this changing world, in me,
while living, you have a warm friend; and
(approaching and whispering in my ear)
so has Lilian and her mother. While I
have aught, they shall never want. Farewell,
my friend, farewell—but I hope only
for a time.”

It may not surprise the reader, if I say
the pressure of my fingers was none the
less for this information, nor my heart any
heavier, unless it was by the additional
weight of tears of joy.

Madame Mortimer stepped aside, and I
turned to Eva. There was no merriment
in her look—nothing light upon her
tongue.

“You have heard the words of mother,”
she said, impressively. “They are not
meaningless. To you and your friend I
am indebted for my life. My conversation
at times may have seemed light and
trifling; but notwitstanding, Francis, I
would have you believe, there is a heart
beneath all that does not overlook the
merits of its friends, nor feel lightly for
their welfare. When you see your friend,
tell him that he is prayed for daily, by
one who, though she never saw, can never
cease to remember him. Adieu! and
may God bear you safely through all
peril!” and she turned away, as if to hide
a tear.

“Francis,” said Mrs. Huntly, striving
to command her voice, which trembled not
a little, as she held both my hands in hers:
“Francis, it is hard—very, very hard—to
part with you. But I suppose I must, and
hope it is all for the best. I have had so
much trouble within a few years—have
seen so many of those I once supposed
my friends forsake me—that it really becomes
grievous to part with any of the
few I have tried and not found wanting.
But go, Francis, and God protect you!
Should you be fortunate enough to meet
with dear Charles (here her voice faltered
to a pause, and she was forced to dash
away the tears dimning her eyes),—tell—
tell him all. Break the matter gently, if
he does not already know it—and—and
comfort him the best way you can. My

love, my deepest, undying love to your
parents and all my friends. There—
there—I can say no more—no more. Go,
Francis, and God's blessing and mine
attend you! Good-by! farewell!” and
shaking my hands warmly, with her head
averted, she dropped them and disappeared
into another apartment, seemingly too
much affected to tarry longer in my
presence.

With a proper delicacy, for which I
gave them ample credit, one after another
departed, until I was left alone with Lilian.

While these several partings were taking
place, she had remained seated, watching
the whole proceedings, with what
feelings, I leave lovers to judge. I now
turned to her, and felt the grand trial was
at hand, and my heart seemed in my very
throat. Her sweet countenance was pale
and death-like, her very lips were white,
and her eyes full of tears. There was no
shyness—no trembling—no apparent excitement.
She seemed, as her heavenly
blue eyes fixed upon mine, rather a beautiful
figure, cut from the purest marble,
cold and motionless, than a living, breathing
human being. But oh! what thoughts,
what agonies were rending that soul
within, mastered only by a most powerful
will! With a step none of the
firmest, I approached and took a seat
by her side, and laid my hand upon
hers.

“Lilian,” I said, in a scarcely articulate
voice: “Lilian, the time has come
to—to—part.”

She did not reply in words—she could
not; but she sprang to her feet, her ivory
arms encircled my neck, and her feelings
found vent in tears upon my heaving
breast.

Smile, if you will, reader—you who have
passed the romantic bounds of a first pure
and holy passion, and become identified
with the cares and dross of a money-getting,
matter-of-fact, dollar-and-cent-life—
smile if you will, as your eye chances upon
this simple passage, and curl your lip
in proud disdain of what you now consider
foolish days of love-sick sentimentality;
but remember, withal, that in your long
career of painful experience, you can refer
to no period when you felt more happiness
more unadulterated joy, than that when
the being of your first ambition and love
lay trustingly in your arms. It is a point
in the life of each and all, who have experienced
it (and to none other are these
words addressed), which can never be
erased from the tablet of memory; and
though in after years we may affect to
deride it as silly and sentimental, it will
come upon us in our reflective moments
like a warm sunshine suddenly bursting
upon a late cold and gloomy landscape
and insensibly, as it were, our spirits will
be borne away, to live over again, though
briefly, the happiest moments of our existence.
The man who has passed the
prime and vigor of manhood without ever
having felt this—without this to look
back to—I pity; for he has missed the
purest enjoyment offered to mortal; and
his whole path of life must have been
through a sterile desert, without one garrer
blade or flower to relieve its barrer
aspect.

For some moments the heart of Lilian
beat rapidly against mine, and her tear
flowed hot and fast. I did not attempt to
restrain the latter, for I knew they would
bring relief to an overcharged soul, and I
rejoiced that she could weep. At length
they ceased, and Lilian spoke.

“I will not detain you longer, dear
Francis. Between you and I who know
each other so well, words are idle and
unmeaning, or at least, unexpressive of
our feelings. Avoid danger for your own
sake, and for the sake of her who loved
you; and do not forget that she will count
the days, the hours, ay, the minutes, of
your absence.”

“I will not, dearest Lilian,” I exclaimed,
straining her to my breast, and pressing
my lips again and again to hers. “I will
not forget what you have told me. I will
not forget there lives an angel to make
happy my return, and God send my return
may make her happy also! Adieu, dearest—take
heart—do not despond—and
Heaven grant our meeting may be soon
There, God bless you! and holy angels
guard you!” and taking a farewell salute,
I gently seated her as before, and rushed
from the cottage.

Two fiery horses stood saddled and
bridled at the door, pawing the earth
impatiently. Everything was ready for a

start; and snatching the bridle of one from
the hand of Teddy, I vaulted into the
saddle. The next moment I was dashing
away through the forest at a dangerous
speed, but one that could scarcely keep
pace with my thoughts.