CHAPTER XIV.THE DENOUEMENT.

CHAPTER XIV.THE DENOUEMENT.

As if to mock the anguish of those who were about to lay their last-born in the earth, the day of Charlie’s funeral was bright and beautiful, as the spring days often are ’neath the warm Kentucky sun. Sweetly the wild flowers were blooming, and merrily sang the summer birds, as underneath a maple tree, a tree which stands there yet, they dug that little grave—the first grave at Glen’s Creek. Mr. and Mrs. Gorton, Robert, and several others from Lexington had come to shed the sympathizing tear with the bereaved ones, but besides the nearest relatives, there was not so sincere a mourner as she who, apart from the rest, looked silently on, while into the earth they lowered the cold, dead Charlie.

Long after the mourners had returned to their desolate home, she lingered, and on the little mound deplored in piteous tones her loss, saying, “Oh, woe is me, now Charlie has crossed the great river, and left Orianna all alone. Who will love me now as he did?”

“Many, many,” answered Robert Hunting, who purposely had returned, and been an eye and ear witness of Orianna’s grief. “Yes, many will love you,” he continued, seating himself by her, and drawing her closely to him. Then in the bewildered girl’s ear he softly whispered, “I am not worthy of you, Orianna, but I love you, and I know, too, on what condition you went to Virginia, and that had Wahlaga lived, he had sworn to murder me and marry you.”

For this information he was indebted to Narretta, who, three days before Wahlaga’s illness, overhearing him unfold his plan of revenge to Owanno, went to the door of Deacon Wilder’s house, and asking for Robert, led him to the woods, and there communicated to him what he had just told Orianna. Robert did not ask Orianna to be his wife; and perhaps ’twas well that he did not, for the confession which he did make, added to the excitement of Wahlaga’s and Charlie’s death, was too much for a frame already weakened by the hardships attending that journey to and from Virginia. The next morning found her burning with fever and raving with delirium. Owanno, too, was smitten by the same disease which had consigned Wahlaga to an early grave.

With anxious heart Narretta hurried from one sufferer to the other, and the first Indian that looked at the door, was urged to go immediately to Deacon Wilder’s and ask some one to come to her. Robert and Marian instantly obeyed the summons, but human skill could not save Owanno. In three days after the commencement of his illness, it was said of him that he had gone to the fair hunting grounds, while the despairing howl of the assembled Indians mingled with the mournful wail of the widowed Narretta and the feeble moans of Orianna, who incessantly cried, “Bury me under the maple tree with Charlie, where we sat when he told me—where he told me——” but what he told her she never said.

At Marian’s request, Mrs. Gorton had remained for some time at Glen’s Creek, and one day, not long after Owanno’s burial, she accompanied her daughter to see Orianna, who, though very weak, was still much better. They found her asleep, but Narretta arose to receive them. As Mrs. Gorton’s eye fell upon her, an undefined remembrance of something past and gone rose before her, and at last, taking the old Indian woman’s hand, she said, “Narretta, have I never met you before?”

“Plenty times,” was the laconic answer; and after a moment’s pause, Mrs. Gorton continued: “I remember now, eighteen or twenty years ago your wigwam was near my home in Virginia, and you one morning came to me, saying you were going away toward the setting sun.”

“White woman remembers wonderful,” said old Narretta.

“I might not remember so well,” answered Mrs. Gorton, “but you loved my little Madeline, and about the time you went away she died.”

Something out of doors attracted Narretta’s attention, and she abruptly turned away. For more than an hour she was gone, and when she returned she was muttering to herself, “Yes, I’ll do it. I shall do it.”

“Do what?” asked Marian, a little alarmed at Narretta’s excited manner.

But Narretta made her no answer, and going up to Mrs. Gorton, said rapidly, “Madeline did not die! Narretta loved her, loved all children, but the Great Spirit gave her no pappooses of her own, and when she went away she stole her. She took her, and under the tree she left part of her clothing and the smashed carcass of a young fawn, to make the white woman think the wolves had eaten her up.”

Here she stopped, and Mrs. Gorton, grasping the wasted hand of Orianna, turned to Narretta and said, “Tell me, tell me truly, if this be Madeline, my long-lost daughter!”

“It is!” answered Narretta. “You know she was never so fair as the other one,” pointing to Marian, “and with a wash of roots which I made, she grew still blacker.”

She might have added, also, that constant exposure to the weather had rendered still darker Orianna’s complexion, which was naturally a rich brunette. But whatever else she might have said was prevented by Mrs. Gorton, who fell in a death-like swoon at her feet. The shock was too great, to know that in the gentle Orianna, whose noble conduct had won the love of so many hearts, she beheld her long-wept-for daughter Madeline.

Upon Marian and Orianna the knowledge that they were sisters operated differently, according to their different temperaments. With a cry of joy Marian threw her arms around Orianna’s neck, who, when made to comprehend the reality, burst into tears, saying, “I thought I should be white sometime—I almost knew I should.”

By this time Mrs. Gorton had recovered from her fainting fit, and clasping her newly found daughter to her bosom, thanked the God who so unexpectedly had restored her. The next day the news reached Lexington, bringing thence Robert, who, in the intensity of his joy, seemed hardly sane. At a glance he foresaw the future. Orianna, for so he would always call her, should go to school for five years, and at the end of that time, images of a noble, beautiful bride rose before him, as he hurriedly traversed the road to Grassy Spring. Their interview we shall not describe, for no one witnessed it, though Marian impatiently remarked that “it took Bob much longer to tell what he had to say than it did George when he first came to Lexington.” But then Marian had forgotten, as who will not forget, or pretend to.

Old Narretta was the only one who seemed not to share the general joy. She looked upon Orianna as lost to her for ever, and heard the plan of sending her to school with unfeigned sorrow. Still, she made no objections to whatever Mr. and Mrs. Gorton chose to do with their child: and when Orianna was well enough, she gave her consent that she should be removed to her father’s house, where every possible indulgence was lavished upon her by her parents, in order to attach her to them and their mode of life.

There was now no tie to bind Narretta to Grassy Spring, and yielding to Orianna’s entreaties, she accompanied her to Lexington, occupying a cabin which Mr. Gortonbuilt for her on the edge of the wood at the foot of the garden. Here, many times a day, she saw her child, who was now Robert’s daily pupil. But Robert found it more difficult to tame his Indian girl than he had at first anticipated. On one subject—that of dress—she for a time seemed incorrigible. Occasionally she would assume the style worn by Marian, but soon casting it off, she would don her old costume, in which she felt and looked most at home. But one day the Indian dress mysteriously disappeared. More than a week Orianna sought for it in vain; then, with a flood of tears, she yielded the point, and wore whatever her friends thought proper. Her complexion, too, with which great pains was taken, gradually grew fair, until all trace of the walnut stain disappeared.

In October she was placed in the best school of which Philadelphia could then boast. She was always shy and timid, but her gentle manners and sweet disposition, to say nothing of the romance connected with her history, made her a general favourite with her companions, while the eagerness with which she sought for knowledge rendered her equally a favourite with her teachers. In speaking of this once to her mother, who was visiting her, she said, “When dear Charlie died, I thought there was no one left to love me, but now it seems that every body loves me.”

Here we will say a word concerning little Ella, who, two days after Charlie’s funeral, had gone home with her father to Virginia. Almost constantly she talked of Orianna, and on learning that she was Marian’s sister, her delight was unbounded. When intelligence was received that she had been placed at school in Philadelphia, Capt. Wilder, yielding to Ella’s importunities, consented to send her there also. Ella had not taken into consideration how greatly changed her Indian friend must necessarily be, and when, on reaching Philadelphia, a beautiful young lady entered the room, neatly and fashionably attired, she could scarcely believe that it was her companion of the forest.

At Orianna’s request they became roommates, and it was difficult to tell which was more child-like, the tall maiden of twenty-one, or the curly-haired girl of nine.

Five years seems a long, long time, but to Orianna it soon glided away, and then she left school, a much better scholar than now is often graduated at our most fashionable seminaries. During her stay in Philadelphia, she had become greatly attached to the city, and Robert, whose wealth would admit of his living where he pleased, purchased a handsome dwelling, fitting it up according to his own taste, which was rather luxurious.

Six years from the night of Marian’s bridal, there was another wedding at the house of Mr. Gorton, and Orianna, now a beautiful woman of twenty-six, was the bride. George and Marian both were present, together with a lisping Charlie, and a dark-eyed baby “Orianna,” who made most wondrous efforts to grasp the long diamond earrings which hung from its auntie’s ears, for, Indian-like, Orianna’s passion for jewellery was strong and well developed.

Old Narretta, too, was there, but the lovely young creature whose head so fondly lay upon her lap, asking her blessing, was unseen, for Narretta was now stone blind. Already in her superstitious imagination warnings had come from the spirit world, bidding her prepare to meet Owanno. Gladly would Orianna have taken her to her Philadelphia home, but she answered, “No, I will die and be buried in the woods;” and the first letter which went from Mrs. Gorton to her daughter told that Narretta was at rest.

On the first anniversary of Orianna’s wedding day, Robert, still madly in love with his handsome wife, wished to give her a pleasant surprise. Accordingly, besides the numerous other costly presents which he brought her, he presented her with a large square box, saying that its contents were for her.

Opening it, Orianna saw disclosed to view the old Indian dress whose loss she years before had wept. Bright as the sunlight of her happy home were the tears which glittered in her large black eyes, as, glancing at the rich heavy silk which now composed her dress, she said, “Oh, Bob, how could you?” and Bob answered, “How could I what?”

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESSilently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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