CHAPTER XVIII.HOME.

A swift ride through the prairies brought Esther Morse with the two horsemen who had proved a sure escort, into her father’s camp. Two days and a night they had journeyed on from the mountain where Black Eagle and his wife lay sleeping. Danger is to love what the hot-house proves to a delicate plant—its blossoms spring into quick, vivid life, with little regard to time.

When the little party rode into Morse’s canvas settlement, there was no Indian in the group; yet the number was exactly the same as when it left the mountain—three, and no more. Osse ’o was there in his rich, savage dress, his noble person unchanged, but his complexion had grown fair, and in his eyes you saw the brooding tenderness with which young La Clide had regarded the first lady of his love.Never had the grand passion changed a man as Osse ’o was changed after he knew how near Esther had been to forgiving the savage character he had assumed. His disgust of civilized life died a gentle death; his taste for prairie adventures disappeared. He was the betrothed husband of Esther Morse; the bereaved father had only recovered his child to give her away again.

It was settled that the party should turn back from the Oregon trail, and seek the first white settlement where the marriage ceremony could be performed. Morse sent his followers on their way, made wealthy by the property with which he had intended to open a new settlement. So with wagons well crowded with stock and tents, the train moved one way, while the few persons in whom we are most interested retraced their steps toward civilization.

At Laramie a quiet marriage service made Esther Morse the wife of young La Clide. To this point Waltermyer had accompanied his friends. Perhaps he had intended to leave them there; but if so, his great heart failed him; and he journeyed on in their company till school-houses and steeples ceased to be a novelty to him.

They reached the bank of the giant Missouri, where its turbulent tide rushes grandly into the “father of waters.” The boat that was to bear them away was already puffing at its wharf, when the father and husband wrung the hand of Waltermyer, and tendered a home with them in exchange for his prairie life.

“No, no!” he replied, in a voice husky with emotion; “my place is out on the perarer thar. I shouldn’t be happy in the settlements; thar may be more work for me to do. No; but I thank you for your kind offers, and shall not forget them. Good-by. I didn’t ever think my eyes would be wet agin,” and he turned as if to depart.

“Waltermyer, my kind friend—”

It was the voice of the young bride, and he turned again:

“Waal, Miss?”

“I am going to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor of me? Waal, you shall have it. Ask me for any thing in natur’, just my life even, and it’s yours.”

“Will you take care of my horse until I return?”

“Will I?” and a smile brightened his bronze face. “Will I? Would a bee stop to suck honey from a clover-top? But you don’t mean to part with him for good? You can’t mean that?”

“We are going on a long journey, you know. Some one must take charge of him until our return. You will not refuse me?”

A shrill whistle was his only answer. Both horses came, forming a striking contrast. Snow-Drift, with his snowy skin and silver mane, and the black, with his banner-like tail, the white spot shining in his forehead like a crystal star.

Good-by! The steamer, with its living freight, dashed oceanward; and Waltermyer, accompanied by his tried companion La Moine, hastened again to the broad prairies and the rocky cañons of the Nevadas.

A year passed rapidly to the voyagers, in, to them, strange lands. Their eyes rested on the castellated towers of “merrie England”—their feet wandered among the crags, and they listened to the merry songs of Switzerland—they roamed amid the vineyards of France—and grew sad among the ruins of imperial Rome. Then, with hearts and minds filled with the beauties of past ages, came the thought of their native land. Home—peerless to the long absent! Home—the sweetest thought and the dearest word of earth.

The ocean was recrossed. The lithe spars had bent to the snowy canvas, the rainbow flag floated from the fore, and through the placid waters the swift-winged keel glided, as if all the good spirits of ocean had gently pressed it on with watery fingers.

The mansion of Claude La Clide had been refitted more sumptuously than ever. The grounds had grown more luxuriant—shrub and tree were laden with June blossoms, and the bright air heavy with perfume. Many a curiously fastened box had arrived, for La Clide and his wife, both lovers of the beautiful, had purchased lavishly in their wanderings, and expectation was on thequi vive, in the neighborhood, to learn what all the signs of preparation could mean.

A wandering group of girls had paused at the gate before the long-deserted mansion, during an early evening walk, and stood looking up the tree and flower shaded and walledavenue, commenting upon the beautiful scene. One young girl of the group, at least, looked upon the stately dwelling with bitter—bitter feelings. She was thinking of the time when she had a right to come and go within that mansion, almost as its mistress. In the foolish pride and evil passions of her reckless youth, she had crushed the flowers of a manly love into the dust, and so lost every thing. Oh, how bitter—what wormwood and gall, in such an hour like that, were the simple words, “It might have been.”

“Miss Worthington—Ellen,” said a gentleman, as he joined the group, “have you heard the news?”

“I? Assuredly not, if it is news.”

“Well, I am glad to be the first to tell it you.”

“Is it so very interesting?”

“To you I should think it would be.”

There was a marked emphasis on the words, and a hidden meaning in them, intended for her ear alone. She turned pale, and looked at the speaker sharply. It was the man who had tempted her to play the coquette with the owner of that princely establishment, who, in his turn, had trifled with her, and now stood ready to enjoy her anguish.

“Me? You speak in riddles, sir,” she faltered.

“Well, then, I will be plain. Claude La Clide has married a rich and beautiful wife, either in England or France, I forget which, and will be home with her to-night. It is time they were here now, I fancy.”

“Married! married!” gasped the girl. “Well, sir, what is that to me?”

It was bitter—bitter cruel that she should be so humbled by the very man for whom she had so basely used her once noble lover. Before she could move away, or recover composure, a cloud of dust announced the approach of a carriage. On it came, glittering in the slant sunbeams, drawn by richly caparisoned horses, that fretted against the curb in their high-blooded vitality. Within were seated a middle-aged man, a younger one, whom the group recognized at once, and a woman, whose calm, sweet loveliness struck them with admiration. On they whirled, through the broad entrance of the chestnut avenue. The dust from the wheels almost crushed that pale girl, as they whirled by, falling on her as unheededas it fell on the crouching stone lions keeping ward at the gate. Like an angel driven from a second Eden, she turned away. He had not seen her—never would look upon her again with love lights in his eyes.

The lady moon rose high in the heavens, and the golden stars flung their braided rays to earth. The flowers breathed fragrance from their chaliced lips. The trees sung a melodious lyric, and the voice of the river came stealing to their ears, softened by distance, like the deeper notes of a wind-swept harp.

On the balcony of La Clide’s dwelling the master and mistress stood, watching the moonlight shimmering down upon the waves, and drinking in the entire loveliness of a scene few countries could equal.

“Oh, how beautiful! And this is our home!” whispered the wife, as if her voice—and a sweet one it was—could disturb the fairy-like panorama before, above and around her. “How much more beautiful than any thing we saw even in Italy.”

“Yes, there are few scenes that can match it in any land. To me it has every charm, dearest.”

“Yes, truly. Every thing is so more than beautiful it could not be otherwise. No wonder you speak of a charm.”

“Do you not feel it? Does not your heart thrill with it? Is not your mind full of it? Ah, yes, I see you understand me now. It is—”

“Home, Osse ’o—La Clide—husband, it isHOME!”

THE END.

BEADLE’SAmerican LibraryNOW READY:SETH JONES.ALICE WILDE.THE FRONTIER ANGEL.MALAESKA.UNCLE EZEKIEL.MASSASOIT’S DAUGHTER.BILL BIDDON.THE BACKWOODS’ BRIDE.NAT TODD.SYBIL CHASE.MONOWANO.THE BRETHREN OF THE COAST.KING BARNABY.THE FOREST SPY.THE FAR WEST.THE RIFLEMEN OF THE MIAMI.ALICIA NEWCOMBE.THE HUNTER’S CABIN.THE BLOCK HOUSE;or, The Wrong Man.THE ALLENS.ESTHER;or, The Oregon Trail.RUTH MARGERIE;or The Revolt of 1689.OONOMOO, THE HURON.THE GOLD HUNTERS.GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.

BEADLE’S

American Library

NOW READY:

SETH JONES.

ALICE WILDE.

THE FRONTIER ANGEL.

MALAESKA.

UNCLE EZEKIEL.

MASSASOIT’S DAUGHTER.

BILL BIDDON.

THE BACKWOODS’ BRIDE.

NAT TODD.

SYBIL CHASE.

MONOWANO.

THE BRETHREN OF THE COAST.

KING BARNABY.

THE FOREST SPY.

THE FAR WEST.

THE RIFLEMEN OF THE MIAMI.

ALICIA NEWCOMBE.

THE HUNTER’S CABIN.

THE BLOCK HOUSE;or, The Wrong Man.

THE ALLENS.

ESTHER;or, The Oregon Trail.

RUTH MARGERIE;or The Revolt of 1689.

OONOMOO, THE HURON.

THE GOLD HUNTERS.

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESTypos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.Added table ofContents.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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