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. Gorton built 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?”
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.