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<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
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<title>Leni-Leoti; or, Adventures in the Far West</title>
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<td align="center"><img src="/pga-australia.jpg" width="94" height="84" alt=""></td>
<td align="center" bgcolor="#FFE4E1"><font color="#800000" size="5"><b><a href="http://gutenberg.net.au" target="_blank">Project
Gutenberg Australia</a><br>
</b></font><font color="#800000" size="4"><i>a treasure-trove of literature</i><br>
</font>treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership</td>
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<p align="center"> </p>
<h1>Leni-Leoti; or, Adventures in the Far West</h1>
<h4>by</h4>
<h1>Emerson Bennett</h1>
<hr align="center" width="50%">
<ul>
<li><a href="#1_0_2">CHAPTER I.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_3">CHAPTER II.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_4">CHAPTER III.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_5">CHAPTER IV.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_6">CHAPTER V.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_7">CHAPTER VI.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_8">CHAPTER VII.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_9">CHAPTER VIII.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_11">CHAPTER IX.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_12">CHAPTER X.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_13">CHAPTER XI.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_14">CHAPTER XII.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_15">CHAPTER XIII.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_16">CHAPTER XIV.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_17">CHAPTER XV.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_18">CHAPTER XVI.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_19">CHAPTER XVII.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_20">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_21">CHAPTER XIX.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_22">CHAPTER XX.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_23">CHAPTER XXI.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_24">CHAPTER XXII.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_25">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_26">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_27">CHAPTER XXV.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_28">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></li>
</ul>
<hr align="center" width="50%">
<table align="center" summary="">
<tr>
<td><pre>
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.
</pre>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr align="center" width="50%">
<h3 align="CENTER"><a name="1_0_2">CHAPTER I.</a></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>"O, it will be so delightful when Charles joins us! Do you know what I
have determined on, Frank?"</p>
<p>"Surely not," I answered.</p>
<p>"Do you see that level yonder (pointing down the stream), which sets
off so pleasantly below this, shaded by those tall old trees?"</p>
<p>"Ay, I see, Lilian."</p>
<p>"Well, there I have planned having such a pic-nic, on the day
when—when we—"</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>"Why, Francis, what is the matter? You look so pale! Has anything
happened?"</p>
<p>"Nothing new."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"I did, Lilian."</p>
<p>"Well, what then? You must have no secrets from me now, you know."</p>
<p>I must tell her, I thought, and there can never be a better time than
this.</p>
<p>"Lilian," I began, and my voice trembled as I spoke: "Lilian, I
—"</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Well," she rejoined, playfully, brushing back her dark ringlets with
one of the prettiest white, dimpled hands in the world— mind I say
<i>one</i> 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 <i>ennui</i>. 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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"And he will be ready, I will vouch for him, to reciprocate the tender
feeling."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
<i>mind</i>, and that of the highest order.</p>
<p>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 <i>friends;</i>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"As you like," returned Madame Mortimer, coolly.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>But to return from this digression.</p>
<p>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 <i>may</i> succeed.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Teddy," I began, gravely, "did you love your former master?"</p>
<p>"Me masther!" repeated the Irishman, with a look of curious inquiry,
"and sure, of who is't ye're speaking, your honor?"</p>
<p>"Of Charles Huntly."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Maybe, Teddy, you can serve him more effectually than by a proceeding
so dangerous."</p>
<p>"Sarve him, is't! Och, now, I'd be after knowing that same!"</p>
<p>"I've taken a fancy into my head that he is living."</p>
<p>"Howly St. Pathrick! ye don't say the likes!" exclaimed the Hibernian,
holding up both hands in astonishment. "Ye're joking, sure, your
honor?"</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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—"</p>
<p>"But, Teddy, I had designed taking you along."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"But you spoke of parting, Teddy!"</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Female parting! I do not understand you."</p>
<p>Here Teddy scratched his head, and looked not a little confused.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"And so, Teddy, you have been making love, eh?"</p>
<p>"Divil a bit, your honor."</p>
<p>"How? what?"</p>
<p>"No! ye sae it was all made to me hand, and I've ounly been acting it
out, jist."</p>
<p>"Aha! exactly. And so you think you can part with your <i>belle
ami</i> , eh?"</p>
<p>"And sure, if it's Molly Stubbs you maan by that Lathin, it's mesilf
that can say the farewell handsome, now."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<h3 align="CENTER"><a name="1_0_3">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>
<p>INFORM MY FRIENDS OF MY RESOLVE—THEIR SURPRISE—DEPARTURE
POSTPONED ONE DAY—PREPARATIONS—GENERAL LEAVETAKING—
TRYING INTERVIEW WITH LILIAN, AND FINAL ADIEU.</p>
<p>As I neared the residence of Mrs. Huntly and Lilian, (which had also
been mine for some months) for the purpose of bidding my friends another
long adieu, I heard the merry voice and ringing laugh of Eva Mortimer.
Another time this would have been music to my ears; but now my spirits
were greatly depressed, and I was not in a mood to appreciate it. The
cabin—it would scarcely bear a more exalted title—seemed
surrounded with an air of gloom. It was as good as any, better than most,
which formed the village of Oregon City; but yet, what a place to be the
abode of those who had been used all their lives to the luxurious mansion
of wealth!—and I could not avoid making a comparison between the
condition of the tenants now, and when I had approached to bid them
farewell some three years before— nor of thinking with what
Christian-like resignation they had borne, and still bore, their
misfortunes. Their present dwelling was built of unhewn logs, whose
crevices were filled with clay, had a thatched roof, puncheon floors, and
three apartments. One of these had been assigned to Teddy and myself,
another to Lilian and her mother, and the third answered the treble uses
of parlor, sittingroom and kitchen. A few beds and bedding, a table, one
or two chairs, together with a few benches, and the most common
househould utensils, comprised the principal furniture. And this was the
abode of the lovely and once wealthy heiress, Lilian Huntly! And she
could seem contented here! What a happy spirit, to adapt itself to all
circumstances— to blend itself, if I may so express it, with every
fortune!</p>
<p>With this reflection I crossed the threshhold, and beheld Lilian and
Eva in gay conversation, and Mrs. Huntly seated by the table, perusing a
book. Both the young ladies turned to me as I entered, and Eva at once
exclaimed:</p>
<p>"So, Mr. Francis, you have just come in time—we have it all
settled."</p>
<p>"May I inquire what?" returned I, gravely.</p>
<p>"May you inquire what?" she repeated, with a playful curl of the lip.
"Did you ever see such a starch, ministerial look, Lilian?—as grave
is he as a sexton. Why, one would suppose all his friends were dead, and
he had come to invite us to the funeral. Heigh-ho! if ever I get a lover,
he shall wear no such look as that; if he do, it will be at the risk of
having his hair combed and powdered, I assure you."</p>
<p>"But I have reason for looking grave," I replied.</p>
<p>"Eh! what!" cried Eva, changing instantly her whole expression and
manner "Surely you have no bad news for us?" and she approached and laid
her hand upon my arm, with a troubled look, while Lilian sunk down upon a
seat, as if she had some sad foreboding, and Mrs. Huntly turned her eyes
upon me inquiringly.</p>
<p>"Give yourselves no alarm," I hastened to reply. "I have only come to
say, we must separate for a time."</p>
<p>"Indeed!" exclaimed Eva, looking serious.</p>
<p>"You have heard tidings of Charles?" added Mrs. Huntly.</p>
<p>I glanced at Lilian, but she said not a word, though all color had
forsaken her features.</p>
<p>"No, I have not heard from Charles," I rejoined, in answer to Mrs.
Huntly; "but presume I shall ere I return."</p>
<p>"Good heavens! then you are going far?" cried Eva, in
astonishment.</p>
<p>"I contemplate making a journey to the east, and may meet Charles on
the way, in which case I shall return at once— otherwise, I may be
absent the summer."</p>
<p>"Why, Francis, what has made you resolve thus so suddenly?" inquired
Mrs. Huntly. "How are we to do without you? I thought—(she paused
and glanced toward Lilian, who had turned her head aside and seemed
deeply affected,)—that—that you intended to pass the summer
with us."</p>
<p>"Cruel man," said Eva, in a whisper, "how can you leave the sweetest
being on earth? O, you men!" And then she continued aloud: "I wish we
were all going with you. Can you not take us all along?"</p>
<p>"Why, I fear it would not be safe."</p>
<p>"As safe as it is here, I am certain. Surely we could not be more than
killed if we went, and who knows but some of these Indians, that are in
the habit of visiting our great city here, may take a notion we have
lived long enough, and so murder us all, or marry us, which would be the
same thing! But whoever knew a gentleman gallant enough to do what was
asked of him? Ah! I see—you don't even listen now—your
thoughts are all with somebody else—and so I will retire. Let me
know when it is over, as I wish to bid you adieu;" and she darted out of
the room.</p>
<p>Mrs. Huntly was on the point of interrogating me farther, but
perceiving by a sign from Lilian that the latter wished to see me alone,
she made some excuse, and went into an adjoining apartment. The moment
she had disappeared, Lilian sprang up and flew into my arms.</p>
<p>"Is this true, Francis?" she exclaimed. "Are you really going to leave
us?"</p>
<p>"I fear I must for a time," I said, in a not very firm voice.</p>
<p>"A long time then," sighed the fair girl; "a long time, if you are
going east. O, Francis, I did not think we should part so soon! What have
you heard? Something, surely—for you have never intimated this
before—and you would not deceive one who loves you!"</p>
<p>This was said so touchingly, with such <i>naivete,</i> that for a time
I only replied by pressing her more closely to my heart, and imprinting a
kiss upon her ruby lips.</p>
<p>"I cannot tell my Lilian everything," I at length made answer.
"Suffice, that I have important reasons for going; and sometime, God
willing, you shall know all. My resolution to leave was formed to-day,
and to-day we must part."</p>
<p>"To-day?" she gasped, and I felt her whole form quiver like a reed
shaken by the wind. "O, no! not to-day, Francis! that would be too
much—too sudden! You must not go to-day!"</p>
<p>"Why not, dearest? I shall return one day sooner for it doubtless; and
it will be as hard to part to-morrow as to-day."</p>
<p>"But it is so sudden—so unexpected," she pleaded. "Delay till
to-morrow Francis!"</p>
<p>"Well, anything to please you," and I stamped the promise with the
seal of love "Be cheerful as you can in my absence Lilian, and when I
return with your brother—"</p>
<p>"O, then you are going to find him!" she exclaimed, interrupting me.
"That return will be joyful indeed! Poor Charles! If you do not meet him
on the way, most likely you will in Boston. Cheer him all you can,
Francis, and tell him we are as happy as circumstances will allow us to
be."</p>
<p>"Beg pardon, your honor," said the voice of Teddy at this moment,
startling Lilian, like a frightened roe, from my arms. "Beg pardon for
interrupting yees— but the baast ye buyed this while ago, is not
inywhere to my knowing."</p>
<p>"Never mind, Teddy, go and hunt it. It must be about, unless the
Indians have stolen it, in which case I must get another. Hunt for
it—I shall not leave to-day."</p>
<p>"Troth, thin, I'll 'av another parthing mesilf, jist," returned Teddy,
as he disappeared with a pleased look.</p>
<p>At this moment Mrs. Huntly, hearing another voice, reappeared, and my
<i>tete-a-tete</i> with Lilian was for the present broken off. The former
had a great many questions to ask me—why I had decided leaving so
suddenly—when I expected to reach Boston, and the like—so
that I had no little difficulty in replying in a way not to commit
myself. Then she had letters to write to her friends; and Lilian had
letters to prepare also; and the news of my departure having circulated
quickly through the village, numbers called to see me, to send messages
and letters to their native land—so that with listening to their
requests, to an extra amount of advice as to the proper mode of
conducting myself under all circumstances, and attending to my own
affairs, I was kept busy all day, without the opportunity of another
private interview with Lilian.</p>
<p>A fine horse, which I had purchased a few days before of an Indian,
was lost— the owner I suppose, or some of his friends, thinking it
best to recover the animal without troubling me in the matter at all,
Consequently, another beast was to be procured; and as this was for
Teddy, I allowed him to make his own selection— the one I had
ridden hither still being in my possession.</p>
<p>At last, everything being prepared, I retired to my couch, heartily
fatigued with my day's work. But thought was too busy to allow me much
sleep; and I question if at least <i>one</i> other did not pass a
restless night from the same cause; for on appearing in the morning, I
noticed the features of Lilian were very pale, and her eyes red as if
from recent weeping. But she seemed firm, ready to endure the separation,
and uttered not a single word of complaint. I could have loved her for
this, if for nothing else—her conduct was so womanly and sensible.
She did not feel the less, that she did not show it more, I knew. She was
about to part with one she had loved from childhood— one to whom
her heart and hand were given — and this in a strange, wild
country, for a long separation, full of peril to both, with no certainty
of ever seeing him again. It could not but be painful to her in any
situation—doubly so in the one she was placed — and I fancy I
appreciated her noble firmness as it deserved.</p>
<p>The countenances of Mrs. Huntly, Madame Mortimer, Eva, and many
others, all were grave; and I read in their looks unfeigned sorrow at my
close-coming departure. The morning meal was partaken in silence, as all
were too sad and full of deep thought for unnecessary
conversation.— Ere it was finished, my friends had all collected to
bid me farewell and God speed; and the announcement by Teddy that the
horses were ready, was the signal for me to begin the parting scene.
Commencing with those I cared least about, I shook each heartily by the
hand, and passed from one to the other as rapidly as possible.</p>
<p>"Francis Leighton," said Madame Mortimer, when I came to her, and her
hand pressed mine warmly, and her voice trembled as she spoke, "remember
that to you and your friend my daughter owes her life, and I a debt of
gratitude that may never be canceled. If my prayers for your safe and
happy return be of any avail, you have them. God bless you, sir! and
remember, that whatever may happen in this changing world, in me, while
living, you have a warm friend; and (approaching and whispering in my
ear) so has Lilian and her mother. While I have aught, they shall never
want. Farewell, my friend, farewell—but I hope only for a
time."</p>
<p>It may not surprise the reader, if I say the pressure of my fingers
was none the less for this information, nor my heart any heavier, unless
it was by the additional weight of tears of joy.</p>
<p>Madame Mortimer stepped aside, and I turned to Eva. There was no
merriment in her look—nothing light upon her tongue.</p>
<p>"You have heard the words of mother," she said, impressively. "They
are not meaningless. To you and your friend I am indebted for my life. My
conversation at times may have seemed light and trifling; but
notwitstanding, Francis, I would have you believe, there is a
<i>heart</i> beneath all that does not overlook the merits of its
friends, nor feel lightly for their welfare. When you see your friend,
tell him that he is prayed for daily, by one who, though she never saw,
can never cease to remember him. Adieu! and may God bear you safely
through all peril!" and she turned away, as if to hide a tear.</p>
<p>"Francis," said Mrs. Huntly, striving to command her voice, which
trembled not a little, as she held both my hands in hers: "Francis, it is
hard—very, very hard—to part with you. But I suppose I must,
and hope it is all for the best. I have had so much trouble within a few
years—have seen so many of those I once supposed my friends forsake
me—that it really becomes grievous to part with any of the few I
have tried and not found wanting. But go, Francis, and God protect you!
Should you be fortunate enough to meet with dear Charles (here her voice
faltered to a pause, and she was forced to dash away the tears dimning
her eyes),—tell— tell him all. Break the matter gently, if he
does not already know it—and—and comfort him the best way you
can. My love, my deepest, undying love to your parents and all my
friends. There— there—I can say no more—no more. Go,
Francis, and God's blessing and mine attend you! Good-by! farewell!" and
shaking my hands warmly, with her head averted, she dropped them and
disappeared into another apartment, seemingly too much affected to tarry
longer in my presence.</p>
<p>With a proper delicacy, for which I gave them ample credit, one after
another departed, until I was left alone with Lilian.</p>
<p>While these several partings were taking place, she had remained
seated, watching the whole proceedings, with what feelings, I leave
lovers to judge. I now turned to her, and felt the grand trial was at
hand, and my heart seemed in my very throat. Her sweet countenance was
pale and death-like, her very lips were white, and her eyes full of
tears. There was no shyness—no trembling—no apparent
excitement. She seemed, as her heavenly blue eyes fixed upon mine, rather
a beautiful figure, cut from the purest marble, cold and motionless, than
a living, breathing human being. But oh! what thoughts, what agonies were
rending that soul within, mastered only by a most powerful will! With a
step none of the firmest, I approached and took a seat by her side, and
laid my hand upon hers.</p>
<p>"Lilian," I said, in a scarcely articulate voice: "Lilian, the time
has come to—to—part."</p>
<p>She did not reply in words—she could not; but she sprang to her
feet, her ivory arms encircled my neck, and her feelings found vent in
tears upon my heaving breast.</p>
<p>Smile, if you will, reader—you who have passed the romantic
bounds of a first pure and holy passion, and become identified with the
cares and dross of a money-getting, matter-of-fact,
dollar-and-cent-life— smile if you will, as your eye chances upon
this simple passage, and curl your lip in proud disdain of what you now
consider foolish days of love-sick sentimentality; but remember, withal,
that in your long career of painful experience, you can refer to no
period when you felt more happiness more unadulterated joy, than that
when the being of your first ambition and love lay trustingly in your
arms. It is a point in the life of each and all, who have experienced it
(and to none other are these words addressed), which can never be erased
from the tablet of memory; and though in after years we may affect to
deride it as silly and sentimental, it will come upon us in our
reflective moments like a warm sunshine suddenly bursting upon a late
cold and gloomy landscape and insensibly, as it were, our spirits will be
borne away, to live over again, though briefly, the happiest moments of
our existence. The man who has passed the prime and vigor of manhood
without ever having felt this—without this to look back to—I
pity; for he has missed the purest enjoyment offered to mortal; and his
whole path of life must have been through a sterile desert, without one
garrer blade or flower to relieve its barrer aspect.</p>
<p>For some moments the heart of Lilian beat rapidly against mine, and
her tear flowed hot and fast. I did not attempt to restrain the latter,
for I knew they would bring relief to an overcharged soul, and I rejoiced
that she could weep. At length they ceased, and Lilian spoke.</p>
<p>"I will not detain you longer, dear Francis. Between you and I who
know each other so well, words are idle and unmeaning, or at least,
unexpressive of our feelings. Avoid danger for your own sake, and for the
sake of her who loved you; and do not forget that she will count the
days, the hours, ay, the <i>minutes</i>, of your absence."</p>
<p>"I will not, dearest Lilian," I exclaimed, straining her to my breast,
and pressing my lips again and again to hers. "I will not forget what you
have told me. I will not forget there lives an angel to make happy my
return, and God send my return may make her happy also! Adieu,
dearest— take heart—do not despond—and Heaven grant our
meeting may be soon There, God bless you! and holy angels guard you!" and
taking a farewell salute, I gently seated her as before, and rushed from
the cottage.</p>
<p>Two fiery horses stood saddled and bridled at the door, pawing the
earth impatiently. Everything was ready for a start; and snatching the
bridle of one from the hand of Teddy, I vaulted into the saddle. The next
moment I was dashing away through the forest at a dangerous speed, but
one that could scarcely keep pace with my thoughts.</p>
<h3 align="CENTER"><a name="1_0_4">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>
<p>A RECKLESS RIDE—LUDICROUS APPEARANCE OF TEDDY—KILL A
BUCK—INDIANS— FRIENDLY SIGNS—CLOSE QUARTERS—A
TALK—GIVE THEM TOBACCO—TREACHERY— DEATH OF THE
TRAITOR—PURSUE OUR COURSE.</p>
<p>With the mind completely engrossed, the body often acts mechanically,
or by instinct, and performs, without our knowledge at the time, exactly
what reason would have dictated; and when some trifling circumstance
recalls us to ourself, we arouse as from a dream, and are surprised at
what has been accomplished during our brief alienation.</p>
<p>So was it with myself in the present instance. On, on I sped as if
riding for life, my hand firmly upon the rein, guiding unerringly my
high-mettled beast, and yet unconscious of anything external, with
thoughts wild and painful rushing through my brain. How long or far I had
ridden thus, I do not exactly know; though miles now lay between me and
Oregon city; nor how much longer I should have continued at the same
break-neck speed, had my horse not stumbled and thus broken the monotony
of a steady ride, by unseating and nearly throwing me over his head.</p>
<p>Recovering my position, and reining my steed to a halt, I found him
covered with foam, and very much blown from his late run; and that I was
upon a narrow upland prairie, which stretched away before me for several
miles, fringed on either hand, at no great distance, with a beautiful
wood.</p>
<p>"Where am I!" was my first involuntary exclamation—"how did I
get here with a whole neck? and where is Teddy?"</p>
<p>The last question found a more ready answer than either of the
preceding, in a shout from the veritable Teddy O'Lagherty himself. I
looked behind and beheld him coming as if on a race with death for the
last half hour of his existence. His appearance was not a little
ludicrous. His body was bent forward at an angle of fortyfive degrees, so
as to allow him to grasp the mane of the beast,—his only
hope— his feet having slipped from the stirrups which were dangling
against the animal's flanks, and serving the purpose of spurs—
while his hat, for security, being held in his teeth, smothered the
shouts he was making to attract my attention. Add to this, that the horse
had no guide but his own will, that at every spring Teddy bounced from
the saddle to the imminent danger of his neck, and greatly to the aid of
his digestive organs, and an idea of the discomfiture of the poor fellow
may be formed, as his horse dashed up along side of mine, and came to a
dead halt.</p>
<p>It is said there is but one short step from the sublime to the
ridiculous, and I certainly felt the force of the proverb on the present
occasion. I had been half mad with distracting thoughts; but everything
was now forgotten, and I burst forth in a roar of laughter, such as I am
certain had never startled those solitudes before.</p>
<p>"Be howly jabers!" cried Teddy, regaining an upright position, with a
face the hue of a boiled lobster, "is ye mad now, ye divil—beg
pardon!—your honor I maan. Howly jabers! what a ride! Och! I'm done
for—claan murthered intirely—all pumice from me toes upward,
barring me body and head-piece, jist."</p>
<p>"Why, Teddy," returned I, as soon as I could get calm enough to
command my voice, "what new feature of horsemanship is this you have
adopted? I am sure you would make your fortune in any circus, with such a
heroic display of your animal capacities."</p>
<p>"Ah! ye may laugh and be d—plased to yees; but it's me mother's
own son as feels more as crying, so it is. Fortune, is it, ye mintioned!
Be howly St. Patrick's birthday in the morning! it's not mesilf that'ud
do the likes agin for twinty on 'em. Och! I'm killed intirely—all
barring the braathing, as lingers still."</p>
<p>"Well, well, Teddy, I trust you will not have to repeat it," pursued I
laughing. "But come—where do you think we are?"</p>
<p>"Think, is it? Ye ask me to think? Sure, divil of a think I 'av in me
now. I lift it all on the road, that was no road at all, but the worst
traveled counthry I iver put eyes on. We may be among the Hindoo heathen,
for all me knows conthrawise; for not a blissed thing did I sae on the
journey, but r-rocks, traas and stumps, and the divil knows what all, and
thim a going so fast I's could'nt git time to say good-by to 'em."</p>
<p>To the best of my judgment, we had come about five miles, in a
direction due east. Far in the distance before me, I now beheld the
lofty, snow-crowned peak of Mount Hood; and toward this, without farther
delay, we bent our steps, at a pace strongly contrasting the speed which
had borne us hither.</p>
<p>"Why did you not call to me, when you saw me riding at a rate so
fearful?" I inquired, as I rode along at a brisk trot.</p>
<p>"Call, is it?" replied Teddy. "Faith! jist ax me lungs if I did'nt
call, till me breath quit coming for the strain upon'em."</p>
<p>"And so you could not make me hear, eh?"</p>
<p>"Make the dead hear! Och! I might as well 'av called to a graveyard,
barring the looks of the thing. Was ye mad, your honor?"</p>
<p>"O no, Teddy; only a little excited at parting with my friends."</p>
<p>"Ah! thim same parthings is mighty har-r-d, now, so they is," rejoined
Teddy, with a sigh.</p>
<p>"So you can speak from experience, eh?"</p>
<p>"Be me troth, can I, now; and so can Molly Stubbs, the swaat crathur,
that she is."</p>
<p>"Did it break her heart, Teddy?"</p>
<p>"It's not asy for me to say, your honor; but it broke her gridiron,
and the ounly one she had at that, poor dear!"</p>
<p>"Her gridiron!" I exclaimed, struggling to repress my risible
faculties, and keep a grave face, for I saw Teddy was in sober earnest,
and apparently totally unaware there was anything ludicrous in his
remark. "How did it affect the gridiron, Teddy?"</p>
<p>"Why, ye sae now, she was jist holding it betwaan her two fingers, and
fixing for a fry maybe, whin up I comes, and tapping her under the chin,
by raason of our ould acquaintance, I sez:</p>
<p>"'It's a blissed day I saw ye first, my darling.'</p>
<p>"'That it was, Misther O'Lagherty,' see she.</p>
<p>"'I wish that first maating could last foriver,' sez I.</p>