CHAPTER XVI.
MORNING SALUTATIONS—MY FRIEND GLOOMY— OLD FRIENDS — CORDIAL GREETINGS — MEETING OF CHARLES AND EVA — EMBARRASSMENT OF BOTH — REASSURANCE — PRAIRIE FLOWER DISCUSSED — NATURAL SURMISES — SLIGHT JEALOUSY — GOOD TIDINGS.
When I awoke on the following morning, the bright sun was already streaming through the half closed shutter of my room. Huntly was up and dressed, and standing by my bed. "Come!" he said, as I partially aroused myself to look around: "Come, Frank, the sun is up before you, and breakfast is waiting!" At first I felt a little bewildered, as a person sometimes will in a strange place. But it was only momentary; and remembering where I was, I sprang to the floor, hurried my rude toilet, and accompanied my friend to the larger apartment, where I found the table smoking with hot viands, and Lilian and her mother ready to welcome me with sweet smiles and cordial salutations." "And how did you rest?" inquired Mrs. Huntly. "Well!" I answered. "I slept soundly, I assure you, or I should have made my appearance ere this." "I am glad to hear it, my son, for you needed rest. Lilian and I were not so fortunate; for the unusual events of last night drove all slumber from our eyelids, and we could do nothing but talk of you and Charles." "I fear our presence, then," said I, smiling, "has robbed you of a sweet night's rest?" "Do not be alarmed," returned Lilian, archly. "Your presence has been more beneficial than sleep, I assure you — and never did I behold daylight with more joy." "That you might escape from your reflections, eh! Lilian?" "That I might see you again," she rejoined, with one of her sweetest smiles. "A kiss for that!" cried I gaily. And I took it. The morning meal passed off cheerfully with all save Charles, who appeared somewhat gloomy, at times abstracted, and rarely spoke. "What is the matter, my friend?" inquired I. "One would look to see you cheerful, if not gay; and yet you are silent and thoughtful." "I feel a little depressed in spirits," he answered. "But never mind me. I shall be myself in time. At present I am soberly inclined." "Fatigue, perhaps?" suggested his mother. "My father!" he answered, solemnly. Instantly a dead silence prevailed, and the tears sprang to the eyes of both Mrs. Huntly and Lilian. "But, come," added Charles, after a pause, "do not let me make you sad, my friends! You mourned my father bitterly, long ere I heard of his death. You must remember my cause for grief is recent." "Alas!" sighed Mrs. Huntly, "we all mourn him still, and ever must." Another gloomy silence succeeded. "I saw Teddy this morning," at length pursued Charles, anxious to divert our thoughts from the painful channel into which his remarks had drawn them, "and I dispatched him to Prairie Plower, requesting the presence of herself and friends. She and they will soon be here." "And I," added Lilian, "have seen Eva. It would have done you good to have witnessed her surprise and delight, on hearing the joyful tidings I imparted. I expect her here every moment. Ha! she is here now!" she added, rising; "I know her step;" and hastening to the door, she conducted the object of her remarks and Madame Mortimer into the apartment. I hurriedly arose and advanced to meet them. "O, I am so rejoiced to see you, Francis!" cried Eva, springing forward and extending both hands, which I shook warmly. "This is a joyful surprise indeed!" "And I," said Madame Mortimer, coming up, "I, too, believe me, am most happy to welcome you back, as it were, to the land of the living! We have felt your loss severely — most severely, sir!" and the pressure of her hands, as she said this, convinced me her words were not idly said. "I feel myself most fortunate and happy in having such friends ," I replied, emphasizing the last word; "And, I assure you, I am as rejoiced to meet them as they can be to see me. But, come! let me present you to my long lost friend!" and turning to Huntly, who had risen from his seat, I introduced both mother and daughter together. Huntly bowed low to each, and, with unusual embarrassment for him, said it gave him extreme pleasure to meet with those whom he had seen years before, in a moment of peril, and of whom he had since heard so much from me. I particularly noted the countenance of Eva, who now beheld Charles Huntly for the first time. As I presented her, she turned pale, then crimsoned to the eyes, then took a faltering step forward, as if to meet him, but finally paused and let her eyes sink to the floor, seemingly greatly embarrassed. Not so with Madame Mortimer. With a quick step she instantly advanced toward Charles, who met her half way, seized his proffered hand, and frankly said, in a voice tremulous with emotion: "God bless you, Charles Huntly! I am most happy to behold you. You, sir, a stranger, saved the life of my daughter, at the risk of your own. You have had a fond mother's prayers for your safety and happiness ever since; but until now, I have never had an opportunity of expressing to you my most lasting obligations;" and she turned away her face to conceal the springing tears. "You owe me no obligations," returned my friend, frankly. "If there were any due, they have long since been canceled in your kindness to those I love. I did but my duty; and if the adventure was perilous at the time, it certainly brought its own reward afterward, in a satisfied conscience." Here he rested his eyes upon Eva, with an expression as of uncertainty whether to advance to her side or remain where he was. At the same time Eva looked up, their eyes met, and with a simultaneous movement, each approached and took the other by the hand. "O, sir!" began Eva, in a timid voice, and then paused, while her snowy hand trembled with agitation. Then making a struggle to appear calm, she added: "I— I—am very—very grateful;" and the last word died away in an almost inaudible murmur. What a perplexing predicament for my friend! Before him stood the first being he had ever loved, beyond the love filial and fraternal. She stood before him, face to face, her hand trembling in his, and her voice sounding the sweet words of a grateful heart in his ear. That voice and those words which once would have made him frantic with rapture. Which once would have sent the hot blood to his heart, only that it might again leap in burning streams through his swollen veins. Which once, in short, would have made him the happiest of mortals. How was it now? Time and circumstances work great changes in the human heart, and my friend was changed— at least changed in that impassioned sentiment he had once felt for the object before him. He was not cold and indifferent— not insensible to her lovely charms and noble virtues. No! he was affected— deeply affected—affected to tears by her look and language. He loved her still— but with a modified love. The love of a brother for a sister. The love which is founded on esteem, for the high and noble qualities possessed by another, without regard to mere personalities. There was no ardency — no passion. No! all this was gone — transferred to another. Prairie Flower alone held the heart of Charles Huntly. "Miss Mortimer," replied my friend — "or rather let me call you Eva — I am most happy to meet you, and feel it is I, rather than you, who ought to be grateful, for having been permitted to do an act which has already repaid me ten-fold. I am one who hold that every virtuous deed bears with it its own reward. Pray, be seated, and we will talk farther!" "Ay," chimed in Madame Mortimer, "and you shall give us, Charles, some of your own adventures. Since you came to the Far West, you have, if I am rightly informed, experienced much of the romantic." "I have seen a little of romance, I believe," replied Huntly, as, pointing his friends to seats, he took another between them. "Lilian," pursued Madame Mortimer, "has already told me something, and I am anxious to hear more. She says you are indebted to a beautiful Indian maiden for both life and liberty—certainly a heavy obligation on your part." "I feel it such," rejoined Huntly, changing color. "And who is this Indian girl? and to what tribe does she belong? The daughter of some great chief, I suppose?—for in all novels, you know, the heroine must be some great personage, either acknowledged or incog." "But you forget, madam," returned Huntly smiling, "that the heroine in this case, as you are pleased to term Prairie Flower, is an individual in real life; whereas in novels, the heroine alone exists in the imagination of the author, and can be whatever he may see proper to make her. Therefore you should not be surprised, should she turn out some humble individual." "Well," answered Madame Mortimer, all romance is much alike, whether imaginary or real; for the novelist, if true to his calling, must draw his scenes from real life; and hence I may be permit
ted to suppose the heroine, in this case, a person of some consequence." "And so she may be for what we know to the contrary," said I, joining in. "And do you not know who she is, then?" asked Madame Mortimer. "We know nothing positive." "Is she not the daughter of a chief?" "No." "Is she beautiful?" asked Eva, giving me a peculiar look. "Very beautiful," replied I, glancing at my friend, who colored and seemed a little confused. Both Eva and her mother caught the expression of Huntly's countenance, and the latter said: "Then perhaps Charles has lost his heart with her?" Eva turned to him quickly, with a searching glance, and immediately added: "I believe he has — for he changes color at the mere mention of her name;" and her own features, as she spoke, grew a shade paler. "One has his heart that is nearer at hand," observed Lilian, who with her mother, had been standing a silent spectator of what had passed. "I pray you drop this jesting!" said Huntly, with an effort to appear careless and unconcerned. "Nay, but I must know more of this singular personage," pursued Madame Mortimer; "for I feel deeply interested in her. A girl that could and would do what she has done, can be no ordinary being." "So think I," added Mrs. Huntly. "And so you will find her," I rejoined. "I am dying to see her," said Lilian. "She must have taken great interest in the fate of Charles, to seek him out in captivity," observed Madame Mortimer. "Is it not so, Francis?" "Her motto of life is to do all the good she can," I answered rather evasively. "She would take an interest in any one who chanced to be in trouble." "God bless her, then, for a true heart!" was the response. "But how came she to think of visiting Oregon?" asked Eva. "We persuaded her to accompany us home," I replied. "As she once saved both our lives, and afterward ransomed Charles from slavery, not forgetting that night, which you all remember, when she gave us timely warning of danger, whereby much bloodshed was averted, I thought you would like to see and thank her." "And you were right," said Lilian, "O, Eva, we will love her as a sister, will we not?" "Certainly," answered Eva, rather abstractedly, and evidently not so well pleased with the idea of her being present as the other. "Certainly, we will love her as a sister." Could a faint, a very faint spark of jealousy have begun to blaze in her breast? I observed her closely, and drew my own conclusions. Let the reader draw his. Meantime Huntly had remained seated, apparently indifferent to everything said. Was he indifferent? Again let the reader, who knows something of the state of his heart, be his own judge. We who are in the secret can think what we please. And why did Eva suddenly become so thoughtful and abstracted? Was she thinking of Prairie Flower? and did she fear a rival in an Indian maiden? — for I had never intimated she was other than an Indian. Again let the reader decide. My design, as previously stated, was to bring all parties together, and leave matters to take their own course; and I now felt anxious for all the actors to be on the stage, that I might witness the denouement. For some time the conversation went on, gradually changing from Prairie Flower to my friend, who was called upon to narrate some of his adventures. Anxious to entertain those present, and divert his thoughts from other subjects, he began the recital of a thrilling scene, in which he was an inactive, though not unconcerned spectator, and had already reached the most exciting part, holding his listeners breathless with interest, when Teddy entered the apartment in haste, exclaiming: "Your honor—" Then pausing as he saw who were present, and making a low bow — "Beg pardon, ladies! My most obedient respicts to all o' yees, by token I've saan yees afore." "Well, well, Teddy—have they come?" inquired I impatiently. "Troth, and they has, your honor! and that's jist what I's a-going to say whin the likes o' so many beauthiful females put me out a bit." "And where are they now, Teddy?" "Jist round the corner, as ye may say." "Remain here, and I will soon set Prairie Flower before you," said I, addressing the others, who were now all excitement to behold my fair friend. And I hurried from the cot, followed by Teddy.
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