University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

Far away stretched the prairie, bounded, ocean-like,
only by the horizon; the monotony occasionally relieved
by clumps of aged live oaks, which tossed their branches
to and fro in summer breezes and in wintry blasts, and
lent a mournful cadence to the howlings of the tempest.
Now and then a herd of deer, lifting proudly their antlered
heads, seemed to scorn danger from the hand of man, as
they roamed so freely over the wide, desolate waste which
possessed no visible limits. And groups of cattle, starting
at the slightest sound, tossed their horns in defiance, and
browsed along the mosquit, in many places so luxuriant as
well-nigh to conceal their forms. The day had been unusually
warm for January, and the sun beamed down with
a sickening intensity which made the blood tingle in the
veins. Toward noon the sky assumed a dull, leaden cast,
and light flakes of cloud, like harbingers of evil, scudded
ominously overhead. The sun passed the zenith, and a
low sighing breeze swept moaningly across the wide waste,
even as the wail of lost spirits floats out on the midnight
air, and then is hushed forever.

The cattle that stood leisurely cropping about, and now
and then moving a few paces, lifted their heads, snuffed
the air, and, with a simultaneous lowing, started at full
speed to the timbered tracts, where they were wont to resort
for shelter from the winds of winter. On, on they
rushed, till in the distance one might fancy them a quantity
of beetles, or other insects, dotting the surface before
them. Soon not a vestige remained of the flying herd, and
happy it was for them they made good their retreat, and
gained a place of refuge ere the “norther” burst in all its
keenness on the unprotected plain. Wildly the piercing
blasts whistled through the trees, and rushed furiously on,
unimpeded by the forests, which in more eastern lands present
a formidable barrier to their progress. The rain began
to fall heavily, when a small cavalcade sought the
protection of a clump of oaks, by placing the leafy boughs
between themselves and the beating, driving torrents. The
party consisted of several ladies and gentlemen, two children,
and as many servants; the latter in a wagon, the
remainder on horseback. With all possible speed the gentlemen
dismounted, and, tightly buttoning their great coats
about them, proceeded to stretch two tents, by means of
poles and pins, carried in the wagon.

Night closed in, and finding a sheltered spot beneath the
trees, a large fire was kindled, which threw its ruddy light
into the surrounding tents, and illumined the entire grove.
The horses were picketed out, almost within reach from
the tents, and the wagon containing their stores drawn so
near as, in some degree, to shelter them. The servants
prepared the evening meal—simple, it is true, yet enjoyed

far more than a sumptuous repast of Indian delicacies, and
untold ragouts, eaten without the sauce of hunger produced
by their long ride. More than a week had elapsed since
leaving San Antonio, and Mary had borne better than
they dared to hope the fatigue of the journey.

To-night, however, she lay exhausted on her pallet, the
thin cheek bright with fever: gently she declined all that
was proffered, and her hollow cough chased the smile from
the lips of her friends. Dr. Bryant knelt beside her, and
taking one hot hand in his own, asked, in a low anxious
voice, if she suffered.

Turning away her face, she said—“Oh no, not much.
There is, however, such a painful throbbing about my heart
I can scarcely breathe. Am I not feverish?” she continued.

“Yes;” and he placed his fingers on the pulse, beating
violently. “I am afraid you have taken severe cold—the
day has been so inclement.” And, with a somewhat unsteady
hand, he administered a potion.

“Don't feel uneasy about me, Doctor, I shall be better
when I sleep.” And she turned away, and wearily closed
her eyes.

When the camp-fire burned low, and all slumbered save
Mary, who could not calm her feverish excitement, and lay
wide awake, she fancied she heard steps around the tent.
All was silent; then again came the sound; and raising
herself, she thought she perceived some one standing near
the entrance. The figure disappeared, and then followed
a rumbling, stamping, kicking, as though the horses were
verily bewitched. “The Indians!” thought Mary; and
quickly rising, she threw a black mantle round her, and

creeping to the door of the tent, peeped cautiously out.
The horses still seemed restless, stamping and snorting, and
she thought she could softly reach the adjoining tent and
rouse the gentlemen, knowing that their arms were in
readiness. She had just stepped out of her own tent, and
stood out of doors, when she caught a glimpse of a dark,
muffled figure walking toward her The rain had ceased,
but it was very dark, and only by the aid of the fire-light,
now grown dim, she perceived it. A cold shudder crept
over her, as, raising her eyes to the blackened sky but an
instant, she sprung forward toward the place where she
fancied the gentlemen were sleeping. A hand was laid on
her arm, and a deep voice sounded in her ear:

“Be not alarmed, Miss Mary, I am here!”

She trembled so that she could scarcely stand. He supported
her a moment, ere she replied in a whisper—

“What causes the disturbance to-night?”

“I feel assured there are Indians about, though you need
fear nothing, for they are not in sufficient numbers to attack
us. There are four men in our party—nearly a dozen muskets,
besides my pistols, and plenty of ammunition. Were
you one of the timid sort, I should not venture to tell you
my apprehensions: but I know that you are not. I have
not slept, or even lain down; and a while ago, I heard the
sound of hoofs approaching. Taking my pistols, I went
round to the horses, and had not waited many moments
before I saw two figures, evidently reconnoitring and planning
the abduction of our horses, who seemed much alarmed.
I suppose the intruders must have seen me, for they
suddenly wheeled off and galloped away.”

“Perhaps there is a party not far distant, for whose assistance
they have gone.”

“Possibly, though I think not; but you must not stand
on this wet ground.” He led her to the tent, and seating
himself near the door, continued:

“I shall not sleep to-night, and rest assured you will be
most carefully guarded. You were imprudent to venture
out on such a night.”

“What! when I thought there was danger, and none,
save myself, aware of it?”

“Did you think I could rest, knowing, as I do, how you
are suffering?”

“I never imagined you were up, or watching, for I heard
no sound near me.”

“Well, no matter; sleep, if you can, and dream of peace,
and quiet, and perfect happiness.” He sighed heavily as
he spoke, and rising, renewed the fire.

Mary lay watching him as he paced to and fro in front
of the burning logs—his arms folded across his chest, and
his cap drawn over the brow: gradually a sense of utter
weariness stole over her, and she slept.

At dawn a bustle commenced in the camp, and preparation
made—first for breakfast, then for moving.

When Mary came out, her pale face and wearied look
attracted Mrs. Carlton's attention.

“My dear child, I am afraid you are scarcely able
to travel to-day; did you not sleep well?”

“Not so soundly as I could have wished,” she said,
passing her hand over her brow, as if to remove some
painful thought.

Dr. Bryant acquainted them with the adventures of the
night suggesting, that in future some of the party should
watch, as security for their horses; and all agreed that it
was advisable.

“How readily one might suppose this a gipsy encampment.
Miss Hamilton and myself are quite dark enough to
favor the illusion, and Ellen and Mr. Carlton would pass
as of gipsy descent; but what would they think of Miss
Mary? She is decidedly anti-gipsy in her appearance.”

“I can tell you, Uncle Frank,” cried Elliot, clapping his
hands; “they would take Miss Mary for an angel that came
to our tent, like the one that came down to see Abraham.”

“Unfortunately, angels never appear in the form of
a lady, Elliot; so you must tax your ingenuity to dispose
of me in a different manner,” said Mary, smiling gently on
the noble boy beside her.

“Indeed, I would sooner think you ought to be an angel
than any gentleman I know, or lady either; don't you
think so too, Uncle Frank?”

“Certainly I do; but, Elliot, you should not have made
me say so in Miss Florence's presence. You forget that
she is also a young lady.”

“No, I don't, uncle, and I ask her pardon if I was rude;
but I heard you say Miss Mary was an angel, and though
I like Miss Florence very much indeed, I can't help thinking
so too.”

Dr. Bryant's cheek flushed, and he glanced quickly
at Mary. Mr. and Mrs. Carlton and Florence laughed
good-naturedly; and laying his hand on the boy's head,
Frank said:

“My very promising nephew, you will never be accused
of want of candor if you grow up in your present spirit.”

Mary drew the child to her, and whispered in his
ear:

“Your uncle meant that I should soon be in Heaven,
Elliot; and I hope it will not be very long before I am an
angel. Don't you see how thin and pale I am?”

Elliot's eyes filled, as he looked earnestly at the gentle
girl, so wasted of late, and throwing his arms about her
neck, he hid his face on her shoulder, and murmured:

“Oh! you must not go from us—we can't spare you
even to God! Why does he want to take you? He has
plenty of angels already around him! Mother and uncle
and I had almost as soon die ourselves as see you go away
forever.”

None heard what passed between them; but Mrs.
Carlton saw a look of pain on Mary's pure white brow,
and gently drawing her son away, changed the conversation
by asking if it would not be better for Mary to ride
awhile in the wagon.

“I am afraid she would find the jolting rather too
much for her. However, it will answer as a change, and
by driving myself, I can avoid many inequalities. So Miss
Irving make up your mind to relinquish your babicca at
least for to-day.”

“You are very kind, Dr. Bryant, but I greatly prefer
your riding as usual. Indeed you need not look so incredulous.
I won't allow you to make such a sacrifice.”

“I was not aware that I was making any sacrifice,” he
coldly answered, and turned away.

Mary's lip quivered with internal pain, but she offered
no further opposition.

All was in readiness for moving on. Dr. Bryant stood
arranging Florence's bridle, and bantering her on her inattention
to the reins. She laughed in her turn.

“Indeed, Doctor, don't you think me a capital horsewoman?
you will certainly admit it, after being vanquished
in a race?”

“Really, Miss Florence, I rather think the credit due to
your fine horse than to your skill as a rider.”

“Ah, incorrigible as usual, I see, Doctor!” and she rode
off to join Mr. Carlton.

Mr. Carlton had placed Mary in the wagon, and carefully
arranged her shawls that she might rest easily. Frank
quietly seated himself, and drove on.

“I shall not exert myself in the least to entertain you,
so you need not expect it; for having very politely told me
you did not desire my company, I shall not disturb you with
my chatter, I promise you, and take this opportunity to
inform you that my tympanums are at your service the remainder
of the day.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the frail form nearly
buried beneath the weight of shawls and cloaks wrapt
about her. She smiled, and laid her head on her arm: as
she did so, he, looking at her, failed to perceive a large
stone in the track, and the wheels passing directly over it
caused the wagon to jolt most unmercifully.

Florence was just in the rear, and, unable to control
her mirth, laughed outright as Frank and Mary bounced
up and down; and, riding up to them, merrily asked “if

Mary duly appreciated her good fortune in having so
careful and scientific a driver?”

Not a little amused, yet scarce able to laugh, the latter
replied that “she did indeed congratulate herself on the
change of drivers, as she would not have survived the day
had it been otherwise.”

Frank joined heartily in their merriment.

“Miss Hamilton,” said he, “if you only knew what
caused me to overlook that unfortunate stone, you would be
more lenient in your criticisms.”

“I am very sure you will adduce every possible reason
in your own favor, sir, and therefore feel no sympathy for
your carelessness,” she retorted.

“Really you make me out as incorrigible a self-excuser
as the heroine of Miss Edgeworth's juvenile tales; though
even she chanced upon a good excuse occasionally. Come,
try me, and see what I can urge in my own defense.”

“Well, then, I ask you, à la Godfrey, what you were
thinking of when you, who had an ailing lady in your cart,
drove directly over the largest rock you have seen in a
week?”

“In the first place, I did not see it. You need not look
quite so incredulous; I assure you I did not.”

“That is very evident, but no excuse at all. Pray,
where were your eyes?”

“Where nature intended them to be, I suppose.”

“Nonsense! why didn't you use them?”

“Because I have not the faculty of looking two ways at
once, like Brahma; and my optics were irresistibly drawn
in an opposite direction.”

“A truce to all such excuses!”

“Patience, Miss Florence, hear me only once more.
The reason is, that I was looking at your cousin over there,
and calculating the chances of her surviving suffocation.”

“There is certainly some danger. Pray, Mary, why
wrap up so closely? Æolus has closed the mouth of his
cave, and the warring winds are securely pent in their
prison.”

“Are you not very much edified, Miss Mary? I should
beg pardon for such a waste of time and talk, if I were not
aware that

As Mary made no reply, he turned around and regarded
her earnestly. Her hat had fallen back from the face,
which rested on his black cloak. Every vestige of mirth
fled from his countenance as they gazed on the sleeping girl.
The feverish flush had left the cheek, now perfectly wan;
the dark brown hair clung on the pure, beautiful brow, and
beneath the closed eyes were dark circles, traced by mental
suffering. The expression of the face was perfectly calm,
yet a wearied look, as though longing to be at rest, lingered
there. So motionless she lay, that Frank hastily placed
his hand on hers to feel if warmth and vitality remained.
Slowly and faint came the pulsations, and, as he watched
her deathlike slumber, his cheek grew pale, a look of unutterable
anguish settled on his noble brow, and the finely
cut lips were tightly compressed, as with some acute though
hidden pain. Florence slowly returned to Mr. and Mrs.
Carlton—no smile passed her lips the remainder of the day;

she seemed now, for the first time, to realize her cousin's
danger, and naught could divert her mind from this new
grief.

Dr. Bryant bent his head upon his breast, and murmured
in saddened tones: “Oh, Mary! Mary! how gladly
would I give all I possess on earth to see you strong and
well again.”