CHAPTER XXV.
THE ESCAPE—RETURN TO THE FORT—JOY— THE DEAD ALIVE — HOMEWARD BOUND— THE ROUTE—REFLECTIONS—DESTINATION GAINED—HAPPY MEETING.
It is unnecessary for me to dwell upon this rapturous meeting, one of the most joyful I had ever experienced. No one can conceive our feelings, but such as have been placed in like situations. Each party had looked upon the other as dead, and mourned their loss accordingly; and it was with tears of gratitude for our deliverance from an awful fate, that we narrated to each other the manner of escape. That of Charles and Evaline was briefly as follows: At the time they discovered the fire, they were some four miles in our rear, and at least two behind the hindmost of the party. Made aware of their danger, they sought to avert it by flight; and as the hill behind them was the nearest elevated point, they had striven to gain it in advance of the flames. In this they had been disappointed. The fire, driven by a strong breeze of its own creating, rushed forward with such frightful velocity, that when within a mile or so of the desirable point, they found, to their dismay and horror, all hope of escape in that quarter cut off. "Imagine my feelings," said Huntly, as he told me the tale, "when, all hope of escape over, I threw my arm around the waist of Evaline, and pointing to the flames, which, driven forward by a strong breeze, had already passed the hill to the westward and were fast sweeping around to enclose it with a fiery wall—when, I say, viewing all this, with the calmness of utter despair, I whispered: "'At least, dear Evaline, we will die together.' "'Rather say live together,' she exclaimed, 'if you have any means of striking fire.' "'Only a pistol,' I replied. "'That will do,' she answered. 'Quick! let us dismount, tear up the grass around us, and fire it.' "In an instant," pursued Huntly, "I comprehended all; and springing from my horse, with hope renewed, labored as a man may, when his own life and that of another more valuable are depending on his exertions. In two minutes a small spot was cleared, and placing my pistol within a bunch of torn up grass, I fired. The flash ignited it, and a bright flame shooting upward, cau ght on all sides, and sped away on its work of death, leaving a blackened circle, within which we stepped and remained unharmed, As soon as the fire had passed, we remounted and dashed over the heated earth to the hill before us, where, like yourselves, we passed a terrible night of agonized suspense. Not having seen any signs of you or the rest of the party during the day, we finally came to the melancholy conclusion that all were lost, and at daybreak this morning set off for the Indian village with the heart-rending intelligence. Some twenty of the tribe at once volunteered to go back with us, and on this sad journey we had already set out, when, to our unspeakable joy, we espied you galloping over the plain, and hastened to meet you." "Strange!" said I, in reply, "that I should have overlooked a means of escape so simple as firing the prairie! It would have saved a world of trouble; but from the first I lost my presence of mind, and thought of nothing but escape by flight. Alas! for our companions! Have you seen any of them, Charles?" "Not one," he answered with a sigh. "Then I fear all have perished!" "What are we to do under the circumstances?" he inquired. "Why, I think we had better set out for Fort Laramie at once; for our friends there, even now, are doubtless becoming exceedingly uneasy at our long absence." "And leave the bones of our late companions to bleach on the open prairie, Frank?" "No! We must get the Indians to hunt up their bodies and give them decent burial." This plan was finally adopted; and in the course of a couple of hours we had again parted with the Wahsochees, and were on our return to the fort. The journey proved a tedious one, for all were sad and silent with gloomy thoughts. Traveling some thirty miles we encamped, and resuming our route the next morning, reached the fort in the afternoon of the same day. As we rode into the area, the inmates all rushed out to greet and welcome us, and among them came Mrs. Huntly and Madame Mortimer, almost frantic with joy. At first we were at a loss to comprehend the cause of this strong ebulition of feeling; but did not long remain in ignorance; for the next moment descrying two of our late companions in the crowd, the whole truth flashed upon us. "Oh, my children! my children!" exclaimed Mrs. Huntly; and overcome with her feelings, she could only first clasp one and then the other to her heart in silence. "My daughters! and do I indeed see you alive again?" cried Madame Mortimer, pressing Eva and Evaline to her panting breast. "Oh! could you but know a mother's agony for the last twenty-four hours, during which she has mourned you as dead, you would never leave her again." But not to dwell upon this affectionate meeting, it will only be necessary to state, that two of the party whom we supposed dead, had escaped, by flying from the field and taking refuge on the ridge to the north. Here they had paused for a few minutes, to gaze upon the sublime scene of the burning plain; and then, believing all save themselves had perished, had made the best of their way back to the fort and so reported. No wonder, then, there was surprise, and joy, and unusual commotion, on beholding in us the dead alive, the lost ones found. The second day following our return, we again set out on our homeward journey, in company with a small party of emigrants who had recently crossed over the mountains from California. For several days my friends and myself were unusually thoughtful and serious; but as we neared the confines of civilization, and felt we were about to quit the wilderness, with all its hardships and perils, to mingle with scenes more suited to our tastes, our spirits gradually grew buoyant with the seemingly unalloyed happiness of youthful days. Never shall I forget the singular feelings we experienced—I speak of Huntly and myself—as we rode into the small town of Independence, Missouri, and recalled the many striking events of the long period which had intervened since last we beheld the place. Then giddy with the wildness of youth—alone—free from restraint— with no tie stronger than the filial, binding us to any one particular spot—we were just setting forth upon a new world of adventure! Now, sobered by painful experience, and in company with those we loved, we were retracing our steps, perfectly satisfied there was "no place like home," and no scenes so dear to us as those of our native land. We had seen danger in every form, suffered all that we could suffer and live, had had our souls tried by the sternest tests, been miraculously preserved through all, blessed beyond our deserts, and now felt contented to leave the field forever, to such as might fancy it, and retire to the sweet seclusion of domestic life. The countenance of Evaline, as day by day we progressed toward the East, gradually brightened with a sweeter happiness than she had ever known—the happiness of being with her mother and sister—of knowing she was not a nameless being, cast astray by some untoward freak of fortune— of feeling she loved and was in turn beloved. She was now entering a world where everything, opening up new and strange, filled her with wonder, excited her curiosity, and kept her in a continual state of pleased excitement. Eva was happy in the company of one who could appreciate her noble qualities, and lend her those affectionate and tender sympathies which the ardent soul ever craves, and without which it languishes, and droops, and feels there is a mighty void within. Lilian was happy, and my vanity sometimes whispered me a reason therefor. In sooth, by the time we reached St. Louis, there was not a sad heart in the party—unless, in a reflective mood, a dark shadow from the past might chance to sweep across it for a moment—only, as it were, to make it seem more bright in the glorious sunshine of the present. With what emotions of wonder and joy did Evaline view those mighty leviathans, that, by the genius and mechanism of man, are made to play upon the mighty rivers of the Great West, and bear him on his journey as he passes to and fro to all portions of the habitable globe! And then the delight we all felt, as we glided down the turbid waters of the great Mississippi, and steered up the beautiful Ohio, past villages, and towns, and cities, where the pleasing hum of civilization, in every breast save one, awoke sweet memories of former days, and made our hearts bound with pleasing anticipations of what was yet to come. On, on we swept up the Ohio, past the flourishing cities of Louisville and Cincinnati, (making only a short stay at each) to that of Pittsburgh, where our steamer was exchanged for another, that for the stage,
to bear us over the romantic Alleghanies, and that in turn for the rushing car, to land us in Baltimore, again in Philadelphia, and lastly in that great emporium of the western continent, New York. And so on, on—ever changing, continually progressing— toward the golden haven of our desires—which, Heaven be praised! we at last reached in safety. During the latter part of the journey, my feelings became very sad. I was nearing the home of my youth—the abode of my dearly-loved parents—after many long years of painful and eventful separation. What changes might not have occurred in the interval! Changes, peradventure, to rend my heart with anguish. My parents— my affectionate mother—my kind and indulgent father—how I trembled to think of them! What if, as in the case of my friends, one or both had been called from the scenes of earth, and were now sleeping their last sleep in the moldering church-yard—never to bless me more with the soft light of their benign eyes! Oh! what a heart-sickening feeling, of almost utter desoiation, the very thought of it produced! until I forced myself to think no more, lest I should lack physical strength to bear me on to the knowledge I longed yet dreaded to gain. Pressing invitations from us, and I scarcely need add a more eloquent persuasion from the soft, dark eyes of another, had induced Elmer Fitzgerald to extend his journey a few hundred miles beyond his original intention. Arrived in the city, we all took rooms at a hotel, until such time as we could notify our friends of our presence—or rather, until I could see my parents, if living, in advance of the others. With a heart palpitating with hope and fear, I hurried into a carriage, and ordering the driver not to spare his horses, leaned back on my seat, and gave myself up to the most intense and painful meditations— occasionally listening to the rumbling of the swift whirling wheels, and wondering when they would cease their motion at their present destination — or gazing from the window at the thousand objects flitting past me, with that vague look of the occupied mind, which takes in each thing distinctly, and yet seems to see nothing whatever. "Crack went the whip, round went the wheels," and on we sped at the same rapid pace. At length my attention was arrested by objects familiar from my boyhood, and my heart seemed to creep to my throat, for I knew I was close upon the mansion of my father. A few moments of breathless suspense, and the carriage stopped suddenly, the door swung open, and, leaping out, I rushed up the steps and into the dwelling of my parents. Two minutes later, unannounced, I stood in the presence of both, but saw I was not recognized. "Mother! father!" I cried, "have you forgotten your long absent son?" There was a brief moment of speechless, joyful amazement, and the next I was in my mother's arms, while my father stood by, pressing my hand and weeping as a child.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A GORGEOUS SCENE—THE MYSTERY SOLVED— FORTUNE PROPITIOUS — HAPPINESS — THE FINALE.
Reader! I am abou t to close—about to present to you the last scene of scenes I shall ever give of this my drama of life. I am about to bid you farewell, perchance forever. May I not trust we part as friends?—as boon companions, who have together made a long pilgrimage, with an ever cordial attachment and friendly understanding? From the land of my nativity, you have followed me through a period of years, over the wilderness of the far, Far West, back again to my native land. You have seen me in prosperity and adversity—in sickness and health—in moments of ease and safety—in moments of hardship and peril—in the calmness of quiet meditation, and amid the turmoil, and strife, and din of battle. From first to last, I have been ever present to you— made you my confident—laid bare to your gaze the secret workings of my ardent spirit. May I not trust I have had your sympathy? that you have felt an interest in my fate, and also in the fate of those with whom my fortune has been so closely connected? Yes! I will trust we part as friends—that when you have perused the last page of this, my humble scroll, you will not cast it aside, as altogether worthless—that you will long after spare me and my friends a single thought of pleasing remembrance. I cannot see you— cannot hear your answer—and yet something whispers me it is as I desire — that we shall not separate but with mutual regrets. Be this as it may, the farewell must be said—the solemn farewell— "That word which must be and hath been— That sound which makes us linger." It was a brilliant scene. In a large saloon, made gorgeous with all the luxuries wealth could procure from all parts of the habitable globe—with soft carpets from Turkey, antique vases from China, old paintings from Germany, and statues from Florence—with long hanging mirrors, that doubled the splendors of the scene—with chairs, and sofas, and ottomans, cushioned with the softest and most costly of velvets— with everything, in short, to please, dazzle, and fascinate the eye—over which streamed a soft, bewitching, alabaster light—where strains of melodious music stole sweetly upon the enraptured sense of the hearer; in such a gorgeous apart ment as this, I say, were collected bright faces, sparkling eyes, snowy arms, and lovely forms—set off with vestures of broadcloths, and silks, and satins, and ornamented with chains of gold, and jewels of diamond, and ruby, and pearl, and sap phire. Ay! in such a place as this—in the mansion of my father—were assembled the elite of Boston, to witness the nuptials of Evaline and Charles, Eva and Elmer, Lilian and myself. Need I dwell upon the scene? Need I say it was as happy as gorgeous? Need I add, that the fair maidens, led to the altar, looked more sweet and lovely than any had ever before seen them? No! it is unnecessary for me to enter into detail here, for the quick perception of the reader will divine all I would say. Enough, that the rough scenes of the wilderness, through which we had passed, could not be more strongly contrasted than on this never-to-be-forgotten occasion of unalloyed happiness. The solemn nuptial rite was followed with congratulations — with music, and dancing, and festivities—and it was long past the noon of night, ere the well pleased guests departed, and a small circle of happy friends were left to themselves. When all had at last become quiet, and none were present but the newly married and their nearest and dearest relatives: "Now," said Madame Mortimer, with a bland smile, "to add pleasure to pleasure— to make the happy happier — I have a joyful surprise for you all." "Permit me to doubt," said I, "if aught any one can say, can in any degree add to the happiness of those here present. I look upon the thing as impossible. However, I may be too confident; but, at least, I speak for myself." "And yet," pursued the other, smiling archly, "would it not add pleasure even to you, Francis, were I to tell you a dark mystery has been cleared up, and a wrong matter set right?" "What mean you?" asked I, while the rest turned to her with eager curiosity. "What would you think, should I now proceed to prove to you, my friends, that the person you have long known as Madame Mortimer, is from this time forth to be known as Marchioness of Lombardy?" "How? what? speak!" exclaimed one and all in a breath. "Ay, such is the fact. Since my return, I have received letters from England and France, stating that my late husband— for he is now dead — was none other than the Marquis of Lombardy, who was banished from France for some state intrigue, and afterward restored to favor. Fearing, before his death, that some future revolution might again endanger his property, he managed to dispose of sufficient to purchase a large estate in England, which he has generously bequeathed to me and my heirs forever. Accompanying his will, which I have now in my possession, is a long letter, in which he asks forgiveness for the wrong he had formerly done me in separation, and wherein he states as a reason for never mentioning his title, that at some future time he had designed taking me by surprise; but that the news of the restoration of himself and fortune, coming at a moment when his worst passions were excited, he had left me in an abrupt manner, taking Evaline with him, whom, he sorrowfully adds, was afterward lost or murdered: that of this foul deed he had always suspected a near relation of his — a villain who brought him the intelligence of his fortune being restored — and that in consequence he had taken what precautions he could, to put his property, in case of his sudden decease, entirely beyond the other's reach. This, my friends, is all I will tell you to-night; but to-morrow you shall have proofs of all I have said. And now, my daughters, that you are happily w
edded, I give you this estate as a marriage portion." I will not dwell upon the emotions of joyful surprise which this revelation excited in the hearts of those who heard it. Suffice, that it did add pleasure to pleasure, and made the happy happier. A sentence more, and I have done. The words of the Marchioness of Lombardy were subsequently verified in every particular, and Charles Huntly, and Elmer Fitzgerald, have had no cause, thus far, even in a pecuniary point of view, to regret the choice they made in the wilderness of the Far West. Propitious fortune now smiles upon all, and all are happy. Thus is it ever. To-day we rise—to-morrow fall — to rise again perchance the next. Prosperity and adversity are ever so closely linked, that the most trivial event may make or mar our happiness. The Past we know — the Present we see — but who shall say aught of the Future. So ends the scene.
Bennett, Emerson - Prairie Flower 02 Page 20
