Bennett, Emerson - Prairie Flower 02

by Leni-Leoti or, Adventures In The Far West (lit)

  CHAPTER XII.

  APPEARANCE OF PRAIRIE FLOWER — HER BEAUTY — HER STRONG RESEMBLANCE TO EVA — STARTLING SUSPICION — MAKE IT KNOWN—HER AGITATION—PROMISED INQUIRY— ABRUPT DEPARTURE—MY FRIEND IN LOVE—INTERRUPTION.

  "Prairie Flower! my dearest friend!" I exclaimed, springing to my feet and clasping her extended hands in both of mine: "Prairie Flower! this is a happy meeting—most happy!" "I am very glad to see you Mr. Leigh ton," she said, with something like a sigh "very, very glad!" and she closed in a tremulous tone, while her dark eyes filled with tears. O, how beautiful she looked, as we stood face to face, her hands clasped in mine! Never had she appeared more lovely! Since our first meeting, time had ripened her to full maturity; and though her sweet countenance was pale and sad, and though something like care and thought could be traced thereon, yet it was so mellowed, so blended with something lofty and noble, that it added a peculiar charm to her appearance which mere physical beauty could not sustain. It was a something that, while you admired, awakened your sympathy, and drew you to her, as toward one you felt it your duty and delight to soothe, cherish, and protect. As I gazed upon her a moment in silence, I became forcibly struck with the resemblance she bore to Eva Mortimer. She was a shade darker, perhaps; but this might be owing to her life in the mountains, and constant exposure to the free, bracing air. There was the same mold of feature, and in her now sad and thoughtful expression, a marked resemblance to that I had seen on the countenance of Eva as she bade me farewell. A sudden thought sent a hot flash over me, and involuntarily I took a step backward and scrutinized her again. Good heavens! could it be possible! No! no! it was too visionary! And yet why too visionary, I said, half aloud. As strange things had happened. Eva had a sister—a twin sister—who was lost at an infantile age — who had been stolen away. There was no existing proof—or at least none to my knowledge—that that sister was dead: no one knew what had become of her. Here was a being of her own age apparently, and of a marked resemblance. Her history she would never touch upon—perhaps did not know. Might Prairie Flower not be that twin sister? The thought, the suspicion, was wild and romantic—but what argument was there against it? The ways of Providence are strange, but not in all cases past finding out. "It must—it must be so!" I ejaculated, completely absorbed with my speculations, and forgetful of everything around me. I was aroused from my reverie, by the voices of both my friend and Prairie Flower. "What is the matter, Frank?" cried Huntly, grasping my arm, shaking me, and gazing upon me with a look of alarm. "Speak to me! speak! that I may know you have your reason!" "Are you ill, sir?" joined in Prairie Flower, with a startled look. "I fear you are ill, Francis! Fatigue has overcome him," she added to Huntly. "Better get him to lie down on the mat, while I run for assistance." "Stay! stay!" I exclaimed, as the latter turned to depart. "I am not ill. I was only—I beg your pardon!—did I act strangely?" "As I never saw you before," replied Huntly. "You stared wildly at Prairie Flower, and spoke incoherently. Tell me! are you in your senses?" "Most certainly I am. I was only thinking of—of—" "Of what, pray?" "Prairie Flower, speak?" I exclaimed, addressing her, as she stood near the entrance, uncertain whether to depart o r not: "Speak! what do you know of your history?" "My history?" she repeated in surprise. "Have I not forbid you—" "Never mind now! I have important reasons for asking." She colored to the eyes, and seemed greatly embarrassed. "What reasons can you have," she rejoined, "for asking this, in this wild manner? You surprise and alarm me!" "A resemblance," I replied, "a strong resemblance you bear to another. Fear not to tell me and my friend what you know, and we promise, if necessary, to keep your secret inviolate." "Ay, do, Prairie Flower!" urged Huntly, vehemently, who now comprehended the whole matter. "Speak, dear Prairie Flower, without reserve! Speak, I pray you! for much depends upon your answer." "Are you both mad?" she said, looking from one to the other, as if doubting our sanity. "No! no!" I returned, "we are not mad, but in our sober senses. A weighty reason, which my friend did not at first, but now understands, and all important to you as well as ourselves and others, induces the inquiry. Come, Sweet Prairie Flower! will you not grant our request?" She hung down her head, tapped the earth with her foot, and seemed confused and agitated. I approached and gently took her hand, and again in a soothing voice entreated her to tell us all she knew, reiterating my promise, that, if necessary, it should never pass to other ears. "Say, sweet being! are you not of our race?—are you not a pale-face?" For some time she did not reply, during which she seemed struggling to master her emotions. At length a half inaudible "I am" escaped her lips. "I thought so — I could almost have sworn it!" I returned, triumphantly. "And your parents, Prairie Flower?" She burst into tears, and hid her face in her hands. "Nay, sweet Prairie Flower, be calm!" I added. "Do not let this affect you so seriously. I do not seek to pry into you private affairs, only so far as I fancy the knowledge imparted may benefit yourself. Tell me — did you or do you know your parents?" She shook her head and sobbed aloud. "Believe me, gentle maiden, nothing is farther from my design, than to wound your feelings or recall painful associations. Do you know how you came among the Indians?" "Something I know," she answered. "Will you tell us what you know?" "As you seem so anxious," she said, making an effort to dry her tears; "I will on condition I gain the consent of Chacha-chee-kee-hobah." "And what has he to do with it?" "I have promised to reveal nothing without his consent. And now I think of it," she quickly added, "perhaps I have done wrong in saying what I have." "Give yourself no uneasiness, Prairie Flower; for even he could attach no blame to what you have said. But how came you to promise him this?" "He exacted it of me as my guardian." "Indeed! Then he must know your history?" "He knows more of it than I do." Then I must see him at once. Pray, conduct me to him!" "Nay, sir," she answered, "it were useless. He would tell you nothing. He is old, and singular, and would look upon you as an intruder. I will see him, and see what can be done. He loves me, and I have more influence over him than any other of the tribe. If he refuses to tell me, no earthly power can open his lips, and the secret will go down to the grave with him. But now let me hear something of yourself, and how we all came to meet again in a manner so singular." "One question more, Prairie Flower." "Nay, no more. I will answer nothing farther, till I have consulted the Old-Man-of-the-Mountains." "Be it so, then," I answered; and the conversation changed to matters connected with my present adventure. We were still engaged in recalling past events, when an Indian maiden hurriedly entered the lodge, and said something in her own language to Prairie Flower. "Indeed!" she exclaimed, starting and turning deadly pale. "Gentlemen, excuse me!" and she hastened from the cot. "What can be the meaning of this?" said Huntly. "Some startling news, I judge. Perhaps some one has been taken ill and sent for her." "And so, Frank," returned Huntly the next moment, "you really think Prairle Flower and Eva sisters?" "There is so strong a resemblance, my friend, that, until I have proof to the contrary, I can hardly believe otherwise." "Strange!" he rejoined, musingly: "Strange! very strange! Yet since you have told me something of the history of the Mortimers, I must say the matter looks possible, not to say probable." "At all events," I returned, "there is mystery somewhere, and I shall not rest till it be sifted to the bottom. I hope she may prevail upon the old man to allow her to tell what she knows, even if he add nothing himself." "And should it turn out as we suspect, Frank!" said Huntly with great energy, grasping my arm as he spoke. "Well?" "You know I—that is—" "I understand. You would have her the closest of kin—eh! Charles?" "Say no more. I see you understand me. But then, I —" "Well, say on." "I—that is—you—perhaps she—she does not fancy me!" "What! do you doubt?" "Why, no — yes—I—I cannot say I doubt—but—but she is so strange, Frank I would give the world to have her talk to me with the freedom she does to you." "And if you really love her, Charles, you should give the world to have everything exactly the reverse; in other words, exactly as it is." "What do you mean?" "Why, simply, that she does not love me." "Are you sure of this, Frank?" and Huntly fastened his eyes i
ntently upon mine, as if to read my soul. "As sure as that the sun shines at noon-day." "And you think she—she —" "Loves another." Huntly turned deadly pale. "Who, Frank? — who?" "Charles Huntly." "Indeed!" he exclaimed, with a rapid change of countenance. "You think this?" "I know it." He took a step backward and looked at me hard a moment—during which his color came and went rapidly, and his breathing became audible — and then said, impressively: "Frank, do not jest with me! To me this matter is of the gravest importance." "I do not jest, Charles; I know your feelings, and you may rest assured I would be the last to jest with them." "And you say she loves me?" "I do." He grasped my hand, the tears sprang into his eyes, and his voice trembled as he rejoined: "Frank, I thank you for these words. I am suffering under deep affliction — my life is clouded—but, if this be true, there is still sunshine—still an oasis in the desert— still something to look forward to." "My words are true, my friend, if that is any consolation." "And how have you discovered this so suddenly?" "I have not. I have known it all along." "Indeed! you never told it me before." "True, and for good reasons." "What reasons, I pray?" "I did not wish to encourage an attachment which may even yet prove hopeless." "What mean you?" "As I told you once before: Prairie Flower may love — nay, does love, mark that! — but may never marry — nay even reject the suit of him she idolizes." "For what cause?" "That she is already wedded to her tribe." "But should she prove to be what we suspect?" "That may alter the case with her; and on the strength of that supposition, and that you have been so mysteriously bought together, and that I find your affections so firmly placed upon her — have I ventured to tell you what I have long known. But remember, Charles, I warn you not to be too sanguine in your expectations!" "Well," answered my friend, "I will hope for the best. It is all very singu lar!" he added, relapsing into a musing mood. "I suppose we had better not start for Oregon to-day?" said I, playfully. "No, not to-day!" he replied; "not to-day! To-morrow, perhaps." "Or peradventure the day following?" "Ay, peradventure." At this moment Teddy, Pierre and Black George appeared at the door to pay their respects to my friend, and I quitted the lodge, bidding them pass in.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  JOIN AN INDIAN CROWD — SILENT RECOGNITION— GREAT MEDICINE ILL—ANXIETY TO SEE HIM — REAPPEARANCE OF PRAIRIE FLOWER—DEVOTION—URGE HER TO QUESTION THE INVALID—SUSPENSE—PRESENT FAILURE — SUBSEQUENT SUCCESS — PRAIRIE FLOWER RESOLVES TO VISIT OREGON— AN EVENING STROLL — THE DEATH WAIL.

  As yet I had not exchanged a word with any of the tribe but Prairie Flower; and as I left the cot, I turned toward a crowd, which was huddled together near the center of the temporary village, their eyes all fixed in a certain direction. I knew by this, and the abrupt departure of Prairie Flower, that something unusual had occurred; and hastening forward, I soon reached them, and, to my surprise, found most of them in tears, and the others looking very solemn. "What has happened, my friends?" inquired I. On hearing my voice, those nearest me turned round and extended their hands in silence. They then separated, so as to allow me a passage through; and as I moved along, I shook a hand of each on either side. They appeared glad to see me, but, at the same time, very sad, from some untoward circumstance, of which I felt anxious to be informed. When I had concluded, I turned to an intelligent youth, and inquired the cause of each and all looking so serious. He silently pointed his finger to the center lodge, and after a solemn pause, uttered: "Great Medicine." "Sick?" He nodded his head. This, then, accounted for the agitation of Prairie Flower; and after what had passed between us regarding her history, it may readily be inferred I felt no little anxiety to ascertain to what extent the old man was indisposed, and whether his case was, or was not, considered immediately dangerous. He was very old I knew, and in all probability would not long survive. Should he die without revealing to Prairie Flower her history, all dependence of proof from her would be cut off, and it would doubtless be a very difficult, if not an impossible endeavor, to indentify her with the lost daughter of Madame Mortimer. On this account, as well as for old acquaintance-sake, I was very anxious to enter the lodge — at the door, or just outside of which, were standing several females, weeping. I made a step forward for this purpose, when an Indian touched me on the shoulder and shook his head, as a sign that I must go no nearer. "I have most important business with the invalid," I said. "Can I not be permitted to see him?" He again shook his head. "But this matter is urgent." "No one must see him," he answered, "but such as he desires to see." "Then let me see Prairie Flower." "She must not now be called. We wait her appearance." "Will she soon be here?" "Cannot say." There was nothing to do, therefore, but wait as patiently as I could. What troubled me the most, was the fear that the old man might die suddenly, and Prairie Flower, in her agitation, neglect to question him till too late. For an hour I paced to and fro, in a very uneasy mood, revolving these things in my mind, when the latter made her appearance outside the lodge, where she was instantly surrounded by those nearest in waiting, all eager for her intelligence. Having spoken a few words with them, they all moved slowly away with sorrowful looks, and Prairie Flower approached to where I was standing. The Indians, though as anxious as myself to gain her tidings, moved not from their places, but waited in respectful silence for her to open the conversation. I, however, not being bred in the same school with them, could not exercise the same patience; and taking a few steps forward, I said: "Great Medicine is ill, Prairie Flower?" "He is," she answered in a tremulous voice. "Very ill? dangerously ill?" I inquired. "I fear he is." The Indians behind me, on hearing this, uttered several deep groans, but said not a word. "Can he survive, Prairie Flower?" "I think not," she answered, mournfully shaking her head. "Any particular disease?" "Old age and debility. He is very old, and has not been well for some time. A few minutes before I was called, he was taken very ill. I fear his time to go is at hand. Friends," she added, addressing her tribe, "you are about to lose one you love and reverence. Let us commend his soul to the Great Spirit;" thereupon each and all kneeled upon the earth in prayer. When this was over, I turned to Prairie Flower again. "Pardon me, fair being!" I said, "at this solemn time, for intruding worldly thoughts upon your attention. But the Old-man-of-the-Mountains is about to depart, in all probability, to join his fathers and friends in another state. You think he holds the key to your history. If you have not already, would it not be well for you to bid him unlock the memories of the past, so far as relates to yourself?" "True," she answered, with a start; "I had forgotten that. I fear it is too late; for already his voice falters, and he seems standing midway between time and eternity, and slowly receding toward the shadowy land of spirits." "Fly!" I urged: "Fly, Prairie Flower! and do your best, ere all is over!" "I will," she said; and at once hastened back to the lodge. For another hour I paced to and fro impatiently, ever and anon turning my eyes upon the hut where the old man was breathing his last. At length Prairie Flower reappeared, and with her three Indian maidens, all weeping and seeming very much dejected. On leaving the lodge, each went separate ways through the village, Prairie Flower approaching me direct. "To prayer!" she said, addressing her friends, who still remained as she had left them. All again kneeled as before. When they rose to their feet, I addressed her: "What news, Prairie Flower?" "He is sinking very fast," she answered, sadly. "Did you gain any information?" "No! I addressed him on the subject, but he only looked at me vaguely, and did not seem to comprehend what I said." "Alas! I fear it is too late, Prairie Flower!" "I fear so," she rejoined. "But he may revive a little; and if he do, I will question him again." With this she returned to the lodge of the invalid, while I proceeded to join my friend, and inform him what had occurred. I found Huntly as I had left him, in company with my compagnons d'voyage , all engaged in an animated conversation. "Well," he said, as I entered, "what news, Frank? Something has happened, I know by your sober looks." I proceeded to detail what had transpired, and the fears I entertained. "This is unfortunate," he said, when I had done; "most unfortunate." The sun was some half an hour above the hills, w
hen Prairie Flower again joined us in haste. Pierre, Teddy and Black George had left some time before, so that no one was in the cot but myself and friend, and we were so deeply engaged in discussing the various matters which had transpired, as not to be aware of her close proximity till she spoke: "Where is this person," she asked, 'whom I resemble?" "I left her in Oregon City," I replied. "That is far away," she rejoined, musingly. "But what success, Prairie Flower?" "Better than I expected." "Indeed! You give us joy." "As I observed he might do, when I quitted you," she answered, "the old man again revived, when I immediately put the question as to what he knew of my history. He seemed much surprised, and inquired my reasons for asking. I hurriedly informed him of your conjectures. He listened attentively, and seemed ill at ease. He had promised, he said, in reply, never to divulge, during his natural life, who I was, nor anything connected with my earliest years." "Ha! then he knows your history himself?" "Nay, do not interrupt me." "I crave pardon! Go on." "Yes," continued Prairie Flower, "he said he knew much concerning me, but did not know all; that something had whispered him this information might be valuable to me at some future time; and that he had recorded it on a roll of parchment, which he had purchased of a trader for the purpose. This parchment, he said, was concealed under a stone in a certain place, which none but such as to whom he might reveal the secret, would ever be able to find. He farther said, that if in truth I had a sister and mother living, I had better perhaps seek them out, and should they recognize and claim me, I could then do as I saw proper, either cling to them or my tribe; that although I had been reared for the most part among Indians, and had adopted their habits and customs, still I was not of their race—not of their blood—and he could therefore see nothing unnatural or improper in my desiring to form acquaintance with my own kin. But, he added, lest I should meet with disappointment—in my kin, or those I supposed to be such, not claiming me on what I and they might know—he thought it better I should remain ignorant of myself, until I had seen them face to face, when, should all turn out as I desired, it would be time enough to produce proof; and that if I would promise to go in quest of them before perusing, or allowing another to peruse, the parchment in question, he would make its locality known." "What a singular request!" said I. "True," replied Prairie Flower; "but as I have said before, Great Medicine is a very singular being, and an enigma to all." "And did you agree to his proposition?" "I did, though somewhat reluctantly. But I knew if I did not, that the secret would die with him, and of this I could not bear to think." "And so he told you all?" "He did." "And where is the parchment concealed?" "Nay," she answered, shaking her head, "I do not know as I am at liberty to tell." "I beg your pardon, Prairie Flower! I certainly had no right to question. But you will accompany us to Oregon City?" "That is what I came to speak about," she replied, timidly. "You really think your conjectures are right?" "We do," answered Huntly. "Everything tends to convince us so. At first, what was only a vague suspicion with us, has since grown almost to a certainty. Come, go with us, sweet Prairie Flower! Say you will go, and I shall be happy." Prairie Flower changed color as Huntly spoke, and turned aside her head. "And you will allow me a few companions?" she timidly inquired. "As many as you please," returned Huntly, "so you will consent to go." "But when do you start?" "We will wait your time." "My duty," she said, solemnly, "is henceforth by the side of Cha-cha-cheekee-hobah, till he take his departure to the land of eternal rest—then to follow his remains to the grave—which done, I shall soon be ready to join you. Adieu, for the present! I must return to him now." Saying which, she quitted the lodge. "At last," said Huntly, turning to me: "At last, Frank, I have hope. Let us forth and take the evening air—for strange thoughts are crowding my breast." Arm in arm we strolled through the little village, where the solemn faces of all we met bespoke the gloom of mourning for one universally beloved, and took our way down to the little streamlet, which, all unconscious of mortal change, ran murmuring on as it had done perchance for ages. All nature reposed in her most charming beauty of quietude. The sun was just beginning to sink behind the lofty mountains to the westward, and the last flood-light of day made golden the tiny waves of the water, and began to hasten the long shadows, precursors of diurnal night, and that night of death which knows no waking. The very air seemed solemn, it was so still. Scarce a breath moved; and the leaflets hung down their heads as if in sorrow. The feathered warblers, which had made music all day, were winding up their tunes with what seemed a melancholy cadence. A few night-watchers had just began to give each other calls in timid tones, as if half afraid their voices were trespassing upon a scene too sacred. It was just calm enough, and mi ld enough, and lovely enough, and solemn enough, to awaken meditative thought—that thought in which all the unutterable poetry of our nature becomes infused. When the outward sense bids the inner tongue speak to us in language which the enraptured soul only comprehends. When we feel a melancholy happiness, and a desire to steal away from everything living, and in solitude commune with ourselves and our God. When the natural voice jars discordantly with the finer and more elevated tones of our being, proceeding from the spirit-harp, touched by the unseen hand of the All pervading Deity. When, in short, we feel drawn by an unexplainable sympathy to a lonely meditation on things high and holy, beyond the matter-of-fact events of every day experience. Did you never feel thus, reader? Did you never steal away from your daily cares, your business, your friends — from everything common and evanescent—to hold a quiet communion with your nobler thoughts?—and then trace those thoughts, as it were, to their primeval source—the eternal fount of the Great All-Good? And are not such sweet thoughts, and sweet moments of happy rest, in a life more or less filled with turmoil and pain? For myself, I answer yes; for I look upon them as foretastings of a state of blissful and eternal beatitude, when the changing circumstances of this life shall trouble us no more forever. Thus I felt, and thus my friend, on the present occasion. Deep thought with both was too busy for words, and we gained the rivulet in silence. Some fifty yards above us was a large, flat rock, overhanging the gurgling waters. Toward this Huntly silently pointed; and obeying the gesture, I accompanied him thither. Seated at length upon it, our eyes simultaneously fixed upon the rapid current laving its base, and our ears drank in its music, while the sunlight gradually departed the stream, the deepening shadows of night stretched over us, growing more and more somber, and the stars here and there began to peep out in the heavens, and shine brighter and more bright, till the firmament above appeared blazoned with thousands on thousands of shining worlds, the armorial bearings of the Great Omnipotent. Still we sat in silence—now soaring in thought to another existence—now dwelling upon the wonders of nature as a complicated whole, or equally complicated, inexplicable part—and anon reviewing the past, touching upon the present, and leaping forward in imagination to the future-- that future, to the young, of golden hopes and bright anticipations, destined for the most part never to be realized. Thus we mutely sat, for an hour or more, when Huntly broke the silence. "Frank," he said, "what a charm, what a solemn charm there seems in everthing to-night! I have been musing, as it were, upon everything. I have been back to my boyhood days, when I was wild, giddy, reckless, and frolicsome. When I had no thought beyond the sport of the hour, and no ambition but to make a jest of my fellow beings. I have traced up our youthful sports (for you and I were almost one, you know,) to that sudden resolve which parted me for the last time from my beloved father." Here his voice faltered to a pause, and for some moments he remained silent, with his face bowed upon his hands. Then raising his head, he dashed away a few tears and resumed: "I have recalled event after event to the present time, and find, in my reckless career, that I have much, too much, to regret. But I believe in an overruling, mysterious Power, and that there has been a purpose in all beyond my own simple inclinations. Adversity, I feel, has been for the best, by working in me a great change. Yes, Frank, I am a changed being. From boyhood I have passed to manhood, and from the idle follies of youth, t
o the wiser and more sober thoughts of maturer age. "Once I was all for adventure and change—but now the case is different. I have seen enough, and am satisfied. Let me once more be comfortably situated, with a home and friends, means to gain an honest living, and, Frank, one, one sweet being to cheer me with her smiles over the otherwise toilsome path of life— and I shall rest content." "A great change this, in Charles Huntly, most certainly," I said; "a great change indeed! But perhaps no more than in myself; for I, too, am tired of adventure, and ardently long for those very joys, (joys now, Charles, though once it was not so,) of which you speak." "Hark!" exclaimed my friend at this moment. "What sound is that?" A long, loud, mournful wail came borne upon the air. "Alas!" said I, "it speaks a soul departed!" "Let us return," said Huntly, with a sigh; and forthwith we set out for the village. "On our way thither, we several times heard the same melancholy sound; and as we entered the precincts of the little settlement, we beheld somber figures moving to and fro, bearing lighted torches. As we drew near the center lodge, I discovered Prairie Flower, in company with several of her own sex, moaning with grief. She espied us as we came up, and, separating from her companions, approached and extended a hand to each. "Alas! my friends," she sighed, "I need your sympathy. He who has been to me a guardian — a father — is now no more." Her voice faltered as she spoke, and withdrawing her hands from ours, she covered her eyes and wept aloud.