A STORM ON THE PRAIRIE.
A short time after Mr. Merritt settled at Elmwood, a small village
sprung up about twenty miles distant, on the edge of the prairie; and,
as the country filled up beyond, it was made the county-seat; and a
store or two being established there, it became quite a market-place for
the farmers on the prairie.
On a cold morning in January of the third winter of his residence at
Elmwood, Mr. Merritt, having some business which called him to the
village, Miss Emma improved the opportunity to accompany him, for the
purpose of exercising her taste in the purchase of a few articles from
the store. The snow was too thin for sleighing, and the wagon was
therefore rigged with two chairs and a cloak, together with a buffalo
robe for the feet; and, all things being ready, they set off in high
spirits.
Emma succeeded to her utmost satisfaction in cheapening and securing the
requisite bargains, and was ready to return, long before her father had
completed his share of the business of the day. It was nearly night, and
she was quite out of patience, when Mr. Merritt drove up with the
one-horse wagon, to convey them homeward.
“I am afraid you will have a storm, sir,” said the polite shopkeeper,
bowing a farewell, and glancing at the clouds.
“I hope not before we reach Elmwood,” replied Mr. Merritt, returning the
salutation, and applying the whip. He cast an anxious eye overhead, and
applied the whip more vigorously.
Dark clouds had gradually overspread the sky, and were thickening every
moment, while an occasional gust sweeping along the prairie, gave
evident manifestation of an approaching storm. They had not gone half
the distance, when a feathery snow-flake floated slowly down, and then
another, and another. Now they came thicker and faster, and the darkness
increased so much, that Mr. Merritt could hardly discern the road.
“Emma, dearest, wrap your cloak closely, it will be very cold,” said he,
urging his horse to greater speed.
“I am very comfortable, now, father,” returned Emma; “are we not nearly
home?”
“I hope that we may be, for it will be a dreadful night.”
As the night set in, the wind increased. The snow had hitherto fallen
gently, but now it was driven into their faces by the gale, and almost
blinded them. It grew colder, too, very rapidly, and the mechanic’s
fingers could hardly grasp the lines. Still he continued to ply the
whip, and they rolled on at a gallop.
“Emma, can you see a light?—we should be near Elmwood.”
“No, father, I can see nothing.”
Again they hurried on.
“Look all around you, Emma,” said her father, anxiously; “we must
certainly be nearly home.”
She strained her eyes in every direction, but no light was visible.
A dreadful thought flashed upon him then. He stopped his horse, leaped
from the wagon, and bent his eyes close to the ground.
“O my God!” he exclaimed, in agony, “we have lost the road!”
The storm howled in fury—the track was entirely covered with snow—to
go forward was uncertainty—to return would be folly—to remain, was to
perish. What man, how stout-hearted soever he might be, would not have
quailed at such a prospect.
“What shall we do, father? I am very cold;” said Emma, faintly.
“Heaven only can preserve us, my dear Emma. Take this buffalo, I do not
need it,” said the kind father, carefully wrapping the fur robe to
shield her tender frame from the storm, while an involuntary shivering
through his system evinced the extent of his self-denial.
After an earnest invocation to Heaven, in silent petition, for their
preservation, he resolved to go forward, and leave the result with
Providence.
“Are you warm enough, Emma?” said her father, after a pause.
“I am not cold now, father, but I am _so_ sleepy.”
“My child, exert yourself—do not sleep!” said the mechanic, in
alarm—“it is death!”
As he spoke, a dull, heavy sound was borne along the gale. Mr. Merritt
listened. It was not the wind. Another report was heard.
“’Tis a gun!” he exclaimed. “Heaven be praised! it is a gun from
Elmwood!” He turned his horse’s head in the direction of the sound. A
third time the report was heard, evidently nearer. Soon a faint glare
was visible, which continued to increase as they approached. There stood
his dwelling, with every window brilliantly illuminated; and just as he
reached the house, the door was opened, and George appeared with the
gun, which he was about to fire again, when he saw them.
“Mother, they’ve come!” he shouted, “and this in honor of their return,”
he added, blazing away, and almost thrown on his back by the recoil a
moment after.
The mother was at the door ere he had finished. Mr. Merritt was so
stiffened and benumbed with cold that he descended from the wagon with
difficulty to meet the warm embrace of his wife; but Emma sat still nor
spoke. She was asleep. At this discovery, the excitement and alarm of
the mechanic seemed to endow him with superhuman strength, and lifting
her as if she had been an infant, he hurried into the house with his
lifeless burden, and laid her upon a couch. With frantic energy they
applied the restoratives at command—and they were blessed. Her eyes
opened slowly, and she attempted to speak.
“The crisis is past, and our Emma is preserved!” exclaimed Mrs. Merritt,
clasping her hands together in joyful thanksgiving.
Emma was soon entirely recovered, but the careful mother forbade
exertion, and with her own hands prepared and brought a nice cordial to
her daughter’s bed, under the soothing influence of which she ere long
sunk into pleasant and refreshing slumbers.
Mrs. Merritt, while supper progressed, was relating to the mechanic the
anxiety she had felt for their safety when night came on, and he had not
returned; and how George had suggested the thought of firing the gun,
which had led to their preservation, when a loud knock was heard at the
door. George opened it, and a stranger entered, muffled to the eyes in a
capacious cloak, which was almost concealed by a covering of snow.
“Can a traveler find shelter with you to-night?” asked the new comer,
who appeared to be a young man.
“God forbid that we should drive a human being from our roof on such a
night as this,” said Mr. Merritt. “Sir, you are quite welcome to the
best we have to offer.”
The traveler expressed his thanks, and divested of his cloak, exposed
the features of a handsome young man, of apparently not more than
two-and-twenty years.
A sudden exclamation burst simultaneously from the lips of Mr. and Mrs.
Merritt.
“William Warden!” It was he.
“You recognize me, I see,” said Warden, “although three years have
changed me somewhat;” and he continued, “will you, Mr. Merritt, for the
moment, forget that I am the son of my father, and accord to me the
welcome of a stranger?”
The mechanic evidently struggled with bitter recollections, but subduing
them, offered his hand calmly to Mr. Warden. “You are my guest, Mr.
Warden,” said he, “and as such, are not the less entitled to my
hospitality that you are the son of one who has done cruel wrong to me
and mine.”
“But not irretrievable wrong, thank Heaven!” replied young Warden. “The
son shall expiate the crimes of the father. To-morrow, Mr.
Merritt—to-morrow shall be the dawn of a happier day.”
Mr. Merritt made no reply. Warden did not resume the subject, and they
sat some time in silence. William had frequently glanced around the room
since his entrance, and his countenance now assumed a perplexed and
anxious expression. There was one missing, of whom he wished, yet feared
to know. At length he mustered sufficient courage to inquire in as
indifferent a tone as he could assume, “Where is Miss Emma?”
Mrs. Merritt then recounted the history of Emma’s trip to the village,
and her narrow escape from a dreadful death on the prairies, and how the
firing had been the means of their rescue; to all of which he listened
with intense interest. He, too, had heard the gun, and been saved by it
from a similar fate.
On the next morning Emma was quite herself again. She had not heard of
the traveler’s arrival, and when she came into the breakfast-room and
saw William Warden, she almost fainted. The tell-tale blood, which had
at first retreated, now crimsoned her cheek—and William himself seemed
to have caught the contagion, for his face was all on fire. They shook
hands as composedly as possible under the circumstances, and succeeded
in exchanging a few interrogatories without betraying the secret
agitation of their hearts to the eye of the mechanic. If William had
loved Emma at sixteen, how much more worthy of his love did she now
appear. She had grown taller, and every childish grace had matured into
beautiful womanhood. The climate had tinged her complexion with the
slightest possible brown, and her plain western dress fitted her
charming figure so well, that he would not have exchanged it for the
richest robe that ever decked a haughty ball-room belle.
William, too, how vastly he was improved. Three years had transformed
the slight stripling into the form of manly beauty; and his eyes beamed
with the intelligence of superior intellect. Emma thought him even
handsomer than ever.
After breakfast was over, Mr. Merritt and young Warden walked out
together, and when the latter returned to the house, he found Emma
alone. He approached the fair girl, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
“Emma,” said William, “have you forgotten our last parting yet. O, Emma,
the words you then whispered in my ear have sustained and encouraged me
since that day; and the hope of one day being worthy of you, and
repairing the injury done to your father, has borne me onward and upward
over difficulties of every kind, until at last I am here to remind you
of your promise. ‘I will be yours, and yours only, William,’ you said;
and now, dearest Emma, I have just explained all to your father, who
will not withhold his blessing, and it needs but your confirmation to
seal my happiness forever.”
The happy girl did not withhold it.