CHAPTER X.
AN UNEXPECTED DECLARATION.
I know it—I feel it—he loves me at last!
The heart-hidden anguish is over and past!
Love brightens his dark eyes, and softens his tone;
He loves me! he loves me—his soul is mine own!
MRS. OSGOOD.
IN among curtains of amber silk, which made the sunlight more sunny still, came the glow of an October afternoon. The rich atmosphere lay slumberously over the books and pictures and luxurious furniture of Dr. Carollyn's library. He was not in; but occupying his easy-chair, drawn up near the pleasant window, reclined his daughter, motionless, with half-shut eyes, lost in a soft reverie:
"With her head at ease reclining,
On the cushion's velvet lining,
On the velvet, violet-lining, with the sunlight gloating o'er."
The little volume of blue and gold in which she had been reading had fallen away from her hand, and lay half-hidden in the fragrant folds of her dress; some strain of Tennyson's delicious music had thrilled her heart with memories more than hopes, for the dreamy luster of her eyes had a light more of tears than smiles. There was a light shadow on the clear, smooth forehead, a slight compression of the beautiful mouth—as if a word might startle that breathless dream into a shower of tears.
"Dear as remembered kisses after death."
this was the line at which she had dropped the poem, and sunk away into the past. The year just gone slipped out of her life and fell into the sea of oblivion with a sparkle—this house, this home, this father, these splendors, these pleasures slid away—she was not Annie Carollyn, rich, lovely, and flattered—but Elizabeth Wright, a sun-burned, forlorn, and starving girl, sinking down in a pitiless desert, with only a pair of strong arms to link her to life—only a long, long kiss of love and despair to hold her flitting soul until relief came. And where were the arms and where the lips that held her then?
"Dear as remembered kisses after death.”
Ah, holy were the memories of that first, last kiss to the maiden—deep down in the most secret chamber of her soul they lay, so sacredly reserved, so sadly precious, that not even her quick-eyed father knew how they were enshrined.
In October Dr. Carollyn had arrived in his native city with his recovered treasure; and it was now the month of gold again. In that year he had grown many years younger. He found profound happiness in the possession of his lost child—peace after years of harrowing misery.
When that great calamity had befallen him in the days of his youth, he had shut up the house in which the brief scenes of his married life had been enacted, and had gone away from his practice and his friends, spending most of his time in restless travel from land to land, coming back occasionally to haunt the deserted house for a few weeks. As the tide of fashion moved up town he was advised to sell his mansion; but he would allow neither occupants, nor other changes than such as were necessary to preserve it from premature decay. The old housekeeper, who had been his mother's, and who welcomed his bride to her home, was left in charge of the furniture as long as she lived. This ancient friend had passed away, leaving every thing to darkness and silence, before the return of the Doctor with his child.
Then came a change. The house was no longer upon a fashionable street, but it was quiet and respectable, and he would have no other. In this house he would begin life again. Sunshine was let into the long-closed rooms—the moldering curtains and carpets were replaced—an air of joy and luxury was given to the desolate mansion—only one room was left untouched and unseen save by the hand and eye of the master. When arrangements were complete, he took his daughter from the hotel where they had stopped, and brought her home—to be its star and queen.
Uncultivated as she necessarily was from her manner of life, his affection received very slight shock from his pride; for her beauty was of that refined and indisputable type to which all people yield obedience, and the grace of her beautiful nature gave a charm to her manners which surpassed the polish of finishing schools. She glided into her new estate as naturally as a swan into the water—she was only in her element.
Dr. Carollyn did not think of sending her from him to study; masters waited upon her at the house; pride and duty did not urge her to study more than her mind craved enlightenment. The interest she took in her books was a safeguard, had she needed any, against her becoming too much engrossed by the flatteries and gayeties of society; but her mind was of that noble order which could be affected by no such trivial dangers. She enjoyed, as youth and beauty should enjoy, the pleasures surrounding her; it was pleasant to be so loved and attended upon; but she was in no manner spoiled by indulgence. A fear of her own deficiencies gave a slight dash of humility to her otherwise rather queenly address; she was sweet, and proud, and fair, and quiet, the wonder and admiration of many. All this time, though not in the least morbid or melancholy, she carried with her a constant regret—a sorrow which shaded her too brilliant lot.
Dr. Carollyn guessed something of this; but since the source of this sorrow was one which could never interfere with himself, and since it made her so indifferent to the adulations of the young men of their circle, since it did not seriously interfere with her health and spirits, but only promised to keep her the more entirely his, that selfish instinct of jealousy caused him to no longer regret its existence.
A ray of sunshine creeping aslant the slumberous atmosphere, fixed itself in the purple braids of the young girl's hair like a golden arrow. But she knew not how the cunning hand of the sun was bewitching her—she wist not how beautiful was the lustrous repose of her face, and the silken gleam of her garments—her soul was far away. The faint tinkle of a bell sounded through the quiet house, the outer door was opened and closed; she did not hear any thing; she did not even stir when the noiseless door of the library swung back and the quiet footman entered with a card.
"Shall I tell him you are at home, Miss Carollyn?"
She started and glanced up, taking the card which he handed her with a little surprise at his doubting air. His knowledge of the proprieties did not extend to a recognition of the name upon the pasteboard—it might be that of the Embassador of Spain—he did not know—the gentleman who gave it looked passable, certainly. Mechanically, for she had not shaken off the spell which the poem had wrought on her, she read:
"GOLDEN ARROW."
Confused by the unknown name, the footman had failed to close the door into the apartment which he entered, and the audacious stranger, in the hall, had obeyed an irresistible impulse to approach the end of the hall, and look after the fate of his card. He had a full view of the maiden dreaming in the "violet-lined" chair; had noted the rich clearness of her rounded cheek, the glossy smoothness of her hair, the tremulous, sorrowful depression of the dark eyelashes and red lips; had absorbed with an eager glance the grace of her drapery, the elegance of her surroundings—and now, he watched her, startled from her reverie, listlessly look at the card, turn red and pale, and throw a wild, bewildered look toward the entrance where he stood.
"Let him come in," she said, rising to her feet.
The footman bowed, and retiring, sent the visitor in. As he came forward, she stood, slightly leaning forward, pale as death, doubt, fear and startled surprise in face and attitude, and a look of bewilderment over all.
A moment the two stood looking full into each other's eyes; then the stranger smiled, and she cried:
"Nat!"
A mutual impulse, such as thrills from breast to breast of man and woman like an electric shock, moved them both. He held out his arms appealingly, but not sooner than she sprung forward to be clasped in them. They were alive, face to face, heart to heart—that was enough.
For a few moments this blissful truth was all they cared to realize. Presently they stood apart, wondering at their own impulses, their own joy. If Elizabeth—we must call her Elizabeth to the end of the chapter—had been beautiful before, she was radiant now. Her clear, dark complexion and expressive features were made for just such light and color as filled them now. Her lover gazed upon her in rapture, and her own timid glance sought to repay his admiration in kind.
This was indeed Nat Wolfe, the hunter of the plain, towering in frame, erect in carriage, dashing and chivalrous in manner—this his frank smile and kindling eye; but the roughness of his wild life was smoothed away. The gleaming rifle, frightful knife and hunter's frock were exchanged for a civilized dress, at which the scrupulous footman at the door could not have carped. Only one peculiarity of his adventurous life was retained—he wore that long, bright hair of his as loosely as ever. It streamed about his neck in a fashion unknown to Broadway; but it accorded so well with his unusual hight and manly bearing that it gave him the dignity of the famous men of old.
Suddenly Elizabeth said, with a return of the doubting air:
"Are you really alive, Nat?"
"I hope so," he answered, laughing, but very earnest, "since I am so blessed. If you do not believe it, sit here, will you, by my side, and let me tell you just how it is that I have come, a sound spirit in a sound body, to inquire after the welfare of the little girl whom I found once on the great prairie."
They sat side by side upon the sofa, hand clasped in hand.
"On that awful night in which I wakened in the heart of the forest to find myself surrounded by a sea of fire, my first impulse was to alarm my companion. I groped about in the suffocating smoke; but I am since convinced, by comparing notes with Joe, that, confused and blinded as I was, I worked in the wrong direction. I was probably the one who was first awake, as he says he is certain he reached the spot where I ought to have been before making efforts for his own escape. Failing in all attempts to join him, and at times half insensible from the oppressive smoke, I made a desperate effort to preserve strength and reason for an escape from the frightful ocean of flame which roared and surged around, above, everywhere, except down in the hell of heat and vapor through which I crawled. The same idea which came to Buckskin Joe, of attempting to reach the gorge, occurred to me; but I was now so bewildered by the search for him, that I no longer was certain in which direction it lay.
"I crept along on my hands and knees, feeling the heat each moment more intolerable. I struggled for breath, until I finally sunk, and lay helpless, my eyes upturned to that strange, fearful, yet gorgeous vision of leaping and flickering fire in the tree-tops, surging in the wind, against a black, starless sky. I yielded to the dangerous enchantment of the light; a deadly languor and drowsiness crept over me—at that perilous moment you seemed to call me, dear Elizabeth, and gave me superhuman energy. I struggled against death—against fate; I would not yield—I would not die! Once more I crawled along; thank God, a breath of air, cool, sweet, delicious, struck my face; the next instant the bed of grass and pine-tassels beneath me gave way, and I fell into darkness and insensibility.
"How long I remained unconscious I could never tell. When I recovered a memory of my situation, I felt about me in the darkness, and was convinced that I had dropped through the opening of a cave on to the earth and rocks within. It might be that I was immured in some cavern from which there was no outlet—that I had escaped death by fire to find here a more lingering but not less certain destruction. No matter; to have escaped from that terrible torment above me was enough for the present. After I had fully recovered my presence of mind, I recollected that I had a match-box in my pocket, well supplied; I lighted one of the frail tapers, and by its brief flare had an instant view of a wide and wonderful cave, stretching away into unfathomed darkness, and glittering here and there with fanciful stalactites. It was a weird place in which to be entombed.
"Groping at my feet I scraped together the dry leaves and sticks I had brought down in my fall, and lighted them; before they burned entirely out, I had gathered by the light they gave, quite an armful of fuel, which, from time to time, had apparently fallen through from the fissure above. With these I built a fire, in the hope that its flame would enable me to detect some opening, by which I might trace a path out of this perilous place. The flames arose brightly, throwing crimson gleams athwart the gloom, revealing marvelous crystals flashing from columns which seemed built of ice and marble, and shining against what looked like cascades fixed in the very act of pouring from the hights above.
"Anxious as I was, and bent only on finding an outlet, I could not withhold a curious and admiring gaze from the splendid shapes half revealed in the flickering light. The roof was fringed with glittering crystals; but, though I saw the openings of many chambers, caverns within caverns, stretching into darkness where I dared not venture, I saw no gleam of the day which I knew must be shining over the blessed world outside.
"When all the fuel I could gather was nearly exhausted, I made a splendid discovery. I found a good pine-knot, which would burn for an hour or two, and might light me either further into the hopeless intricacies of a living tomb, or out into safety. I lighted this welcome torch and immediately started upon an exploring expedition, such as I had never before undertaken. I could only trust to fate at the best. Out of all the passages inviting me there were many chances that I should take the wrong one, when probably only one was right. Eagerly I pushed forward along what appeared to be the main hall of this majestic cave. For at least a half mile my path was clear; then I heard the sound of running water, and presently came to a stream which I thought completely blocked the narrowing way between lofty rocks; but I ventured upon a rough and slippery path, and by much climbing, passed the worst of it, and came out again to a wide, subterraneous chamber.
"Here I was astonished to observe traces of human labor and handicraft. I came upon various tools, which seemed intended for mining purposes, and were made of hardened copper. As they were not like those in use by our own miners, I was forced to the conclusion that I had stumbled upon some of the relics of the ancient people of this continent. I looked about curiously, and by the glare of my torch fell upon a heap of ore, piled up on a dry rock in the corner of the chamber—a heap of glittering ore, washed from the soil and gravel, and ready for the crucible. I examined it—it was gold! gold in crumbly dust, in irregular lumps, in broken quartz, enough of it gathered and heaped in that long-neglected pile to make me, dear Elizabeth, a much richer man than I had ever aspired to be.
"For a few moments my breath came hard; I was excited, as men are at the sight of countless wealth. But my torch began to flicker and wane. Gold was not bread, nor water, nor sunlight—it was not life—I was fighting for life. I pressed on; but in less than half an hour my pine-knot was consumed.
"Exhausted, I sat down a few moments to rest, and to nibble the dry biscuit which chanced to be in my pocket. This little refreshment gave me new energy. I groped along, following the stream—I had a strong hope that that noisy babbler would lead me out of this cavern sometime, provided I did not drown myself or break my neck before that happy time should arrive.
"I was not wrong in my conjecture. After suffering mental and bodily torture which I will not distress you by speaking of, suffice it that I emerged, the second day of my entombment, into the light of the sun once more.
"I found myself in one of the wildest gorges of the Rocky Mountains. How I supped that night on a prickly pear—how I killed a wild animal the next day with my hunting knife, and lived on its flesh during the rest of my adventures—how I took care to mark the devious and intricate path, by which, after nearly a week of travel, I found myself upon familiar ground again—how I finally worked my way to Pike's Peak—of all this I will some day give you the particulars.
"I will only say now how stricken I felt when I heard of the departure of my little girl, only two days previously, and that I was too proud to follow when her father had kept me at such distance. I will only say, sweetest, how my heart burned when good Mrs. Wright told me of the blow it had been to you when you thought me lost. I believed that you loved me, and I blessed you in my inmost soul. I resolved to go some time and ask you if it were not so. But not just then. I would go in such guise that your haughty father should not discard me—at least with good reason.
"I returned upon my tiresome journey back to that wonderful cavern, but this time I went well armed, provisioned and escorted, with a few chosen men to share the dangers and the spoils. I led my little band to the exact locality, and, by following the subterraneous stream as I had done at my exit, I made my way to those old chambers where unknown miners of an extinct race had toiled centuries ago, laying up riches to help me in my little plot for happiness.
"We brought away the accumulated gold which by some purpose or accident had been left concealed in the cavern; I had the lion's share, but there was enough for all. Your good uncle, Mr. Wright, was one of the fortunate ones.
"I left Pike's Peak several months ago. I met Buckskin Joe on the plains. He wished me good-luck, told me to 'fear for the best,' and sent you, as a token of his everlasting friendship, this golden arrow, which he had manufactured from a lump of the precious metal which he took from that ravine. May I put it in your hair, dear Lizzie?
"I have been a long time at my father's home in this State—a home which I deserted years ago, driven forth into the wilds of the West by a silly and heartless girl that I have seen, this summer, fat, frowsy, and commonplace, boxing her children's ears. My dear mother was dead. But my father was alive and still preaching to a loving and devoted congregation. You wouldn't have guessed I was a minister's son, would you, little one? And a minister's son is almost as respectable as a doctor's daughter—particularly when he is worth half a million. Besides, I have shorn my shaggy coat. I'm not quite such a bear as I used to be. Do you think I am?"
She smiled as he bent his handsome face to look into her eyes; then her head drooped, until her face was hidden in his arm.
"I should have loved you as much, had you been just the same," she said. "But why did you stay away so long?—so near, and never to let me know?"
"Was it wrong, Lizzie? Perhaps it was, but I wanted to give you a chance to make a different choice if your taste inclined. When you knew me, you did not know the world. I would not take advantage of your ignorance. I came to this house with fear and trembling, but your sweet eyes told me the truth the moment I looked in them. Those eyes of yours! Well, my little girl, I don't know as they are any more beautiful than they were the first time they looked at me from under that faded sun-bonnet. They took Golden Arrow captive at the first glance."
Her head lay upon his breast.
"Those were strange days," she murmured.
And a sweet silence fell upon both. Up in the horizon of memory crept the herds of bison, whistled the midnight hurricane, rode the shy bands of stealthy savages, crept the long day of solitude and starvation, in which their love first spoke from mute eyes and clinging lips.
Dr. Carollyn admitted himself to the house with his night-key and stepped lightly into the library, with a kiss on his mouth ready for his daughter. He paused, as the tableau vivant of the happy lovers met his gaze; the smile suddenly died out and an awful frown gathered in its stead.
"Annie!"
She started at the cold, crisp word; for an instant she shrunk, then springing up, still clinging to her lover's hand, she said, softly, but with a firmness borrowed from her father's blood:
"This is Nat Wolfe, dear father. He has come back to life and me. You must take both or neither of us!"
"Must!"—humph! it had come to that, had it? That was too bitter a pill for Dr. Carollyn to swallow, albeit it was a favorite prescription of his.
A moment his dark eyes blazed at the young couple standing before him, neither of whose faces flashed less resolute than his own; then turning abruptly upon his heel, without the courtesy of a word to the unwelcome visitor, he retreated to his chamber, and Elizabeth saw no more of him that evening.
Plainly the evil spirit had not been so finally driven out of him as he had hoped. That night he wrestled with it again, in the solitude of his room, knowing well that while he struggled, the child, dearer to him than his own life, must be wetting her pillow with tears which himself alone was causing to flow.