Bennett, Emerson - Prairie Flower 02 Read online

  Leni-Leoti; or, Adventures in the Far West

  by Emerson Bennett

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  But O, the blooming prairie, Here are God's floral bowers, Of all that he hath make on earth The loveliest. This is the Almighty's garden, And the mountains, stars, and sea, Are naught compared in beauty, With God's garden prairie free.

  CHAPTER I.

  STILL IN OREGON CITY — THE SECRET UNDIVULGED — A DILEMMA — RESOLVE TO MAKE IT KNOWN — A STROLL — INTERRUPTION — EVA MORTIMER — BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE MORTIMERS — RESOLVE TO GO IN SEARCH OF MY FRIEND.

  It was the last day of May, in the year of our Lord 1843. Already the earth felt the genial air of summer, and looked as smiling as a gay maiden in her teens. The blade had covered the ground with a carpet of matchless green, amid which, their lovely faces half concealed, bright flowers of a hundred varieties, peeped modestly forth to render the landscape enchanting, giving their sweet breath to a southern breeze that softly stole over them. The trees in every direction were in full foliage, and already among them could be seen green bunches of embryo fruits. It was in fact a delightful day, a delightful season of the year, and a delightful scene upon which I gazed, with feelings, alas! that had more in them of sadness than joy. I was still in Oregon City; but two months had flown since on the banks of the romantic Willamette I offered my hand, heart, and fortune to Lilian Huntly, and was accepted, only to find the nuptial day prolonged to an indefinite period — the return of my friend and her brother. I did not describe my feelings then to the reader; but, as he or she must have imagined, they were very painful. I had deceived Lilian and her mother, I knew, in leading them to hope, even, for the return of Charles Huntly, and I felt stung to the very soul, as one guilty of a crime. What was I to do? Should I avow all to Lilian and make her wretched by destroying all hope of ever seeing Charles again? or should I still let her remain in blissful ignorance of his fate, and look in vain to the future for the consummation of her ardent wishes? It was a painful dilemma. The first was the most open, upright, and straight-forward manner of settling the matter, most undoubtedly; and conscience and a first impulse urged me to it; but then, a doubt in my own mind that he was really dead — a faint, a very faint hope that he might sometime return to his friends — a loathing to inflict a wound upon the affectionate heart I loved, which time alone could heal, perhaps cause needless suffering to one who had already suffered enough — restrained me; and between a desire to do right, and a fear to do wrong, I did nothing but muse abstractedly, the result of which was, in my own mind, to take a day for thought, and then decide. But the next day found me in the same quandary, and the next, and the next. Thus days rolled on, one after another, and at the end of the month I was as undecided as ever; and though daily basking in the smiles of Lilian, and listening to her artless words of musical sweetness, not even a hint had I ever thrown out regarding what I knew of her brother. Often would she mention him, but always in a way to denote she scarcely had a doubt of seeing him the coming summer; and the thought that she must be disappointed, ever tended to make me sad and melancholy. I had never objected to the indefinite period fixed on for our wedding, for the simple reason that, to object, was only to subject myself to an inquiry into the cause, and this I feared. What was I to do? The question came up night and day, at all times and in all places, and troubled me sorely — so much so, in fact, that I began to fear its effects upon my constitution. At last I resolved to tell her all, and for this purpose invited her one morning to our usual stroll on the banks of the Willamette. The day was fine, and everything around beautiful. We took our way directly to the falls, and paused upon a bluff immediately over the rolling, sparkling waters. This bluff, which is the bank of the stream at Oregon City, varies from twenty to eighty feet in hight, and, running back, forms the level upon which the town was then just beginning to be laid out. The scene was charming, notwithstanding it was in the wilderness. A beautiful forest stretched away on either hand— below us rolled the river, roaring over the falls — and on the opposite side rose similar bluffs, and another pleasant forest. It seemed a place fitted for the communion of lovers; and here Lilian and I had whiled away our happiest hours. Here I had offered my hand to her — here been accepted — and of course the scene could not but recall pleasant associations. Hither then we strayed; and as we paused above the bright river, Lilian exclaimed, with a look of joy: "O, it will be so delightful when Charles joins us! Do you know what I have determined on, Frank?" "Surely not," I answered. "Do you see that level yonder (pointing down the stream), which sets off so pleasantly below this, shaded by those tall old trees?" "Ay, I see, Lilian." "Well, there I have planned having such a pic-nic, on the day when—when we—" She paused, and blushed, and glanced timidly at me, as if expecting I would complete the sentence. I did not, for my mind was busy with sad thoughts. Now, thought I, is the time to tell her all. But how should I begin to pain her! I was uneasy, and felt miserable, and doubtless looked as I felt, for the next moment she added, in some alarm: "Why, Francis, what is the matter? You look so pale! Has anything happened?" "Nothing new." "What then? You always look so pained when I allude to brother Charles! Surely there must be some cause! Have you kept anything hidden from me? Speak, Francis! — you left him well, did you not?" and she grasped my arm, and looked earnestly in my face. "I did, Lilian." "Well, what then? You must have no secrets from me now, you know." I must tell her, I thought, and there can never be a better time than this. "Lilian," I began, and my voice trembled as I spoke: "Lilian, I —" "What ho! my lovers, are you here?" shouted a merry voice. "I thought I should find you here;" and the next moment we were joined by the gay, light-hearted Eva Mortimer. "In the name of humanity," she said, as she came bounding up to us, "what makes you both look so pale? Not making love again, I hope;" and she ended with a ringing laugh which, however pleasant it might have sounded at another time, now jarred most discordantly with the feelings of both. "No, not exactly making love, Miss Mortimer," I answered, turning to her with a forced smile, and, if truth must be owned, rather rejoiced than otherwise that she had broken off what must have proved a painful interview. "Well," she rejoined, playfully, brushing back her dark ringlets with one of the prettiest white, dimpled hands in the world— mind I say one of the prettiest, reader, for of course I considered Lilian's equal, if not superior: "Well, I am glad to hear that, for I feared, from your sober looks, you were either getting into a lover's quarrel, or going over a nameless scene that was enacted here some weeks ago;" and she looked meaningly, first at Lilian, who colored deeply, and then at me, who I fancied stood it like a philosopher. "Come," she added, in the same gay tone, "I have use for you both all day. We— that is I, and my good mother, and yours, Lilian, and some others — have decided on going to see a beautiful lake, which, we are told, ornaments a certain fern bluff that you see away yonder, some half mile back of this magnificent city. City indeed!" she continued,
with a curl of the lip. "Why, it might be stolen from the suburbs of Boston, or any other place of note, and never be missed. But mother would come in spite of me, and when she takes a notion in her head she must carry it out. She wishes herself back now, and I join her with all my heart; but, heigh-ho! I suppose I shall have to spend my days here, for I see no means of getting away. But I will tease her, though — I am pledged to that—and that will be some comfort, and save me dying of ennui. Oregon City! Umph! I thought it would turn out to be woods before I came, and I told her so—but she would not believe me. Come, Mr. Leighton, don't be standing there looking so sober! nor you, my bonny Lilian. I am going to have you along, and if I don't make you laugh, why, I will turn in and cry myself. Only to think of being here without a lover! It don't matter with you, Lilian, for you have got one; but think of me, in pity do! Nobody here but some thick-headed rustics that don't know how to make love. I wish your brother would come, Lilian — I am dying to see him. He saved my life, you know, and so I am bound, by all the rules of novels, to fall in love with him out of pure gratitude." "You will not need gratitude, I fancy," added I, with a sigh at the thought of him, "Should you ever be fortunate enough to see him; for he is a noble fellow, and one I think to your liking." "Ah!" she replied, "you need not tell me he is a noble fellow—for none but such would have risked his life as he did for a stranger. I have been in love with him ever since I heard about it, though I had long ago given up all hope of ever seeing him." "And he will be ready, I will vouch for him, to reciprocate the tender feeling." "Do you think so?" she said, slightly blushing, and her eyes sparkling. "O, that will be so romantic! and I love romance dearly. I will have him down upon his knees at every frown, and will frown twenty times a day, just to have him down on his knees. Now that will be making love to some purpose, eh?" and giving vent to a ringing laugh, she added, taking my arm: "Come, don't let us keep the good people waiting, or they may get off the notion, and I would not miss seeing the lake for a costly ruby." My design of telling a sad tale was thus broken off, and, as I said before, I was not sorry for it. Arm in arm with the two, I returned to what was denominated the village, Eva the while chatting away gaily, flying from one thing to another, but ever adroitly returning to Charles Huntly, showing that he now occupied no small share of her thoughts. From the specimen given, it will be seen that Eva Mortimer was a very different being from Lilian Huntly; and as she is destined to figure more conspicuously in these pages than the previous ones, I consider the present a good opportunity to describe her. In person, Eva Mortimer was slightly above medium, with a form well developed, and a bust of rare beauty. Her complexion was clear and dark, though scarcely sufficient to entitle her to the appellation of brunette. Her soft, hazel eyes, shaded by silken lashes, were very expressive, and could look love languishingly, or sparkle with the poetry of mirth, anger, or any of the passions of impulse. Her features were regular and very prepossessing, with a nose slightly acquiline, and mouth and lips as tempting as one would care to look upon. Her disposition accorded with her looks. At heart she was open and generous, with a desire to please and be pleased, let fortune smile or frown. Her spirits were almost ever buoyant, and it required a strong cause to depress them. Very different from some, she could not easily be brought to consider this bright earth as only a grave yard, and herself a mournful inhabitant, ever stalking among tombs. She did not believe in storm, and cloud, and dreariness, so much as in an open sky, sunshine, cheerfulness and joy. It would have required great depth of reasoning to convince her that God had placed man here expressly to mope out his days in gloom and sorrow, either real or imaginary. She did not fancy the dark side of the picture; and full of the poetry of an ardent temperament, there was to her in the sunshine, the breeze, the leaf, the blade, the flower, the mount, the vale, the storm, and, in fact, in everything of nature, something to excite joy rather than sadness. Whatever her fortune, she took care to make the best of it and not repine. She was lively even to gayety, and could rattle on for hours in a light, frolicsome strain, calculated to mislead such as look not below the mere surface; but those who judged Eva Mortimer by this, judged wrongly; for beneath was a heart as warm, as earnest, as pure, as true, as ever beat in the breast of woman. This was the drift, the foam, that floated along on the strong current of a noble mind. Had you seen and listened to her in her merry moods, you would have thought, perhaps, she had no mind above trifles, or beyond the mere present; that she was vain and coquettish to a fault; that she would take no delight in serious meditation; and yet you could not easily have erred more in judgment. I have seen her alone, in the night, gazing at the stars for hours, when she thought no human eye beheld her. I have watched her musing over a flower, while leaf by leaf she dissected it, as if to lay bare its mysteries — over the pebbles which she had gathered in some ramble—over a leaf, a blade of grass, and, in fact, over whatever had chanced in her path—in a way to show her possessed of mind, and that of the highest order. There were but few in her present locality who really knew Eva Mortimer; and none who seemed to appreciate her as did Lilian. In their short acquaintance, these two bright beings had become friends; not the cold, unmeaning term of the world — but friends sincere and true, and bound by a tie beyond the power of death itself to sever. Like the magnet and the needle had they come together, to be held by attractions peculiar to themselves. To each other their hearts were ever open, and the joys and sorrows of the one, were the joys and sorrows of the other. They talked together, walked together, read together, (each had brought a few choice books,) sang together, and both ever seemed happier on all occasions for the other's presence. They were nearly of the same age, of different temperaments, and united like the different strings of a harp, to bring forth nothing but music. In short, they loved each other—not with the evanescent love of fiery passion, which burns and freezes alternately — but with that deeper and truer love which springs from admiration of, and dependence on, in a measure, the qualities we do not possess ourselves. It was a holy love—the love of two fair maidens just budding into womanhood. Am I getting tedious, reader—presuming too much upon your indulgence—keeping you too long from the more exciting part of my story? Well, then, I will press forward; for much is to be said and done ere my task be finished. Of the early history of Eva Mortimer, I at this time knew but little, and this I had gleaned from Lilian. Her mother, a woman between forty and fifty years of age, was a native of England, of wealthy parentage, but not of noble birth. Some twenty-five years before the date of these events, she had clandestinely married a French exile, apparently without name or fortune, rather for the love of romance, and because she was strongly opposed by her friends, than for any real affection which she felt toward the individual himself. This proceeding had so incensed her parents, that they had cast her off; but unlike most parents in such cases, unwilling she should suffer too much, had offered her a life annuity above want, on condition she quitted the country immediately and returned to it no more. To this she had readily assented, and shortly after, with her husband, had embarked for America, and had finally settled at Quebec, in Canada, where for several years they had continued to live together, though not, it must be confessed, in the most harmonious manner. Being rather head-strong and self-willed, and withal possessed of an independence, Madame Mortimer sought to have everything her own way, and had not scrupled occasionally to make her husband feel he was her debtor for every luxury he enjoyed. Of a proud spirit, and a temper somewhat irritable, he had not displayed any too much Christian humility, meekness and resignation, and many a bitter quarrel had been the consequence. Time rolled on, and at the end of five years she had given birth to female twins. Both had been hoping for a male heir; and consequently this event, instead of mending, had rather served to widen the breach. Quarrel succeeded quarrel, and as love was wanting to harmonize two opposing spirits, it was at last found necessary to separate. Two years had passed meantime, when one morning Mortimer came into the presence of his wife, with a letter in his hand,
and abruptly announced his intention of leaving her. "As you like," returned Madame Mortimer, coolly. Mortimer turned and left her, nor had she ever beheld him since. The night following, the twin sister of Eva disappeared, and the most diligent inquiries, together with the offer of a large reward, had failed in restoring her to her anxious mother. The effect of this upon Madame Mortimer proved very severe — for she loved both her children dearly—and a nervous fever was the result, which nearly cost her her life. Soon after this she received news of her father's death, and that, having repented his rashness, he had left her a rich legacy, with permission to return to England. To England, therefore, she went, and there had remained, superintending the education of Eva, until a desire of travel had brought her once more to this country, whither she had come in company with her daughter and a wealthy American lady, whose acquaintance had been made across the water, and who subsequently introduced her into New-York society, simply as Madame Mortimer, without a word of explanation, this being at her own earnest request. Thus it was, as I have before mentioned, none who met her in society had been able to learn who she was or whence she came, and this had doubtless added to her popularity. This was all I had been able to gather from Lilian, and all, in fact, she knew; and this had been picked up at different times, from remarks that had escaped the lips of Eva in her more communicative moods. In person, Madame Mortimer was large, with a full, handsome countenance, expressive black eyes, and a bearing dignified and queen-like. At heart she was kind and affectionate; and doubtless, had she been properly mated, would have made an exemplary wife. Her passions, when excited, were strong to violence, with a temper haughty and unyielding to an equal, but subdued and mild to an inferior. She loved passionately, and hated madly. With her, as a general thing, there was no medium. She liked or disliked, and carried both to extremes. She was a woman of strong mind, much given to thought and reflection, an acute observer of everything around her, and just sufficiently eccentric to throw the freshness of originality over all she said or did. She would do what she thought was proper, without regard to the opinion of others, or what the world would say. She had resolved on a journey to Oregon, not for any particular purpose, but merely to carry out a whim, and see the country. She had done both, was dissatisfied with her present locality, and now designed returning to the States the first favorable opportunity. But to return from this digression. Of the fate of her brother, Lilian still remained ignorant; for after the interruption of Eva, I could never summon enough moral courage to again attempt the sad narration. As time rolled on, I became more and more depressed in spirits, and more perplexed as to the course I should pursue. It was not impossible, I began to reason, that Charles Huntly might be living; and the more I pondered on this, the more I was inclined to believe it the case. He had been lost mysteriously, in a part of the world notoriously infested with robbers and Indians. If captured by the former, there was no argument against the supposition that he had been plundered and sold into slavery. If by the latter, might he not have been adopted by some tribe, and now be a prisoner? In either case, was I not in duty bound to go in quest of him, and, if found, to rescue him from a horrible doom, either by ransom or force? At all events, I said to myself, I can but fail, and may succeed. On leaving home, I had supplied myself with a large amount of gold to meet all contingencies, and but little of this had been expended. I could, perhaps, engage a party, for a reasonable sum, to accompany me; and this, after duly weighing all the circumstances, I had decided to attempt on the morning I have chosen for the opening of this chapter. I would let Lilian and the others suppose I had gone home, and that I should probably return with Charles Huntly. Having settled the matter in my own mind, I resolved on immediate action, and for this purpose called Teddy aside to communicate my intention. "Teddy," I began, gravely, "did you love your former master?" "Me masther!" repeated the Irishman, with a look of curious inquiry, "and sure, of who is't ye're speaking, your honor?" "Of Charles Huntly." "Did I love him, is't? Faith, and does a snapping turtle love to bite, or a drunkard to drink, that ye ax me that now?—Love him? Troth, and was he living, I'd go to the ind of the world and jump off jist to plase him, and so I would." "Maybe, Teddy, you can serve him more effectually than by a proceeding so dangerous." "Sarve him, is't! Och, now, I'd be after knowing that same!" "I've taken a fancy into my head that he is living." "Howly St. Pathrick! ye don't say the likes!" exclaimed the Hibernian, holding up both hands in astonishment. "Ye're joking, sure, your honor?" "No, Teddy, I am serious as a judge. I have always had some faint doubts of his death, and now these doubts have grown strong enough to induce me to set off in search of him;" and I proceeded to give my reasons. "Ah, sure," said Teddy, as I concluded, "This is a happy day for me mother's son, if nothing comes on't but parting wid— wid—" "But, Teddy, I had designed taking you along." "And sure, Misther Leighton, is'nt it going I is wid ye, now? D'ye think I'd be afther staving behind, like a spalpeen, and ye away afther Misther Huntly, pace to his ashes, barring that he's got no ashes at all, at all, but is raal flish and blood like your own bonny self, that's one of the kindest gintlemen as iver wore out shoemaker's fixings, and made the tailor blush wid modesty for the ixcillent fit of his coat?" "But you spoke of parting, Teddy!" "Ah, troth, and ye a gallant yourself, your honor, and not sae it was a wee bit of a female parthing I's mintioning, jist?" "Female parting! I do not understand you." Here Teddy scratched his head, and looked not a little confused. "Why, ye sae, your honor," he replied, hesitatingly, "ye sae the womens (Heaven bliss their darling sowls!) is all loveable crathurs, and it's mesilf that likes to maat 'em whereiver I goes; but somehow, your honor, a chap's like to be thinking of one, more in particular by raason of his nathur; and that's the case wid mesilf now, and Molly Stubbs that lives yonder, barring that it's hardly living at all that she is in this wild counthry." The truth flashed upon me at once. One of the settlers, who had come here in advance of my friends, had a large, buxom, rosy-cheeked daughter of eighteen, who went by the euphonious appellation of Molly Stubbs—sometimes, Big Molly— and I now remembered having seen Teddy idling about the premises, though at the time, without a suspicion of the real cause. "And so, Teddy, you have been making love, eh?" "Divil a bit, your honor." "How? what?" "No! ye sae it was all made to me hand, and I've ounly been acting it out, jist." "Aha! exactly. And so you think you can part with your belle ami , eh?" "And sure, if it's Molly Stubbs you maan by that Lathin, it's mesilf that can say the farewell handsome, now." "Well, make your parting short, and then see to having the horses got ready, for in less than three hours we must be in our saddles." With this I turned away, and with slow steps, and a heart by no means the lightest, sought the residence of Lilian to communicate the unpleasant intelligence, that in a few minutes we must part, perhaps to meet no more.