It was Pierre Robideau who stood once more in the presence of Lena
Rook--not in her presence alone, for they were locked in each other's
embrace.
From the first moment of seeing him, the young girl had felt strange
thoughts stealing over her--weird memories, awakened by that manly
presence that scarce seemed unknown to her.
She knew that Pierre Robideau still lived, and that her father had
compelled her to keep it a secret. But why, she knew not, nor why her
father had sent him away. It was well she knew not this.
Equally ignorant had she been kept as to where he had gone.
California, her father told her; and this was indeed true. But what
knew she of California? Nothing beyond the fact of its being a far
distant land, where people went to gather gold.
This much was known to every one in the settlements around--every one in
America.
Lena Rook thought not of the gold. She thought only of her old
playmate, and wondered why he was staying so long away.
Was he never going to return? He who had won the girl's heart--the
firstlings of her young love--had stood under the forest tree, clasping
her in his arms, and telling her she had won his!
And on that dread night, when he lay upon the couch, slowly recovering
from the terrible strangulation, was not the first word breathed forth
from his lips her own name--Lena?
And to have gone away, and staid away, and forgotten all this!
It was not strange she wondered, not strange she grieved--or that the
cloud of melancholy, already remarked upon, sat almost continually on
her countenance.
She had not forgotten _him_--not for a single day. Throughout the long
lonely years, there was scarce an hour in which she did not think,
though not permitted to speak, of him. She had been true to him--both
in heart and hand--true against scores of solicitations, including that
of Alfred Brandon, who was now seeking her hand in marriage, determined
upon obtaining it.
But she had resisted his suit--even braving the displeasure of her
father who was backing it.
And all for the memory of one who had gone away, without explaining the
cause of his departure, or making promise to return.
Often had she thought of this, and with bitterness--at times, too, with
a feeling akin to spite.
But now with Pierre once more in her presence, his tall graceful form
before her eyes, she instantly forgot all, and threw herself sobbing
upon his breast.
There was no reservation in the act--no pretence of prudery. Lena's
instinct told her he was still loyal, and the firm, fervent pressure of
his arms, as he received her in that sweet embrace, confirmed it.
For some time both remained silent--their hearts too happy for speech.
At length it returned to them, Lena taking the initiative.
"But tell me, Pierre, why did you stay from me, and for such a time?"
"Your question is easily answered, Lena. I have made a long journey to
begin with. I have been to California, and spent some time there in
searching for gold. But that is not altogether what delayed me. I was
for three years a prisoner among the Arapahoes."
"Arapahoes? What are they?"
"A tribe of Indians, who roam over the big prairie. I might have been
still in their hands, but for a party of Choctaws--my mother's people,
you know--who chanced to come among the Arapahoes. They rescued me by
paying a ransom, and brought me back with them to the Choctaw country,
west of here, whence I have just come almost direct."
"O, Pierre! I am so happy you are here again. And you have grown so
big and so beautiful, Pierre. But you were always beautiful, Pierre.
And you have been to California? I heard that. But tell me, why did
you go there at all?"
"I went to find my father," he answered, in quiet tones.
"Your father? But he--"
The young girl checked herself at the thought of a fearful incident that
only now rose to her remembrance--another episode of that night of
horrors.
She repented of her speech, for she believed that Pierre knew nothing of
what had then occurred. He had not been told, either by her father or
by herself, that Dick Tarleton had been there, as he was still in an
unconscious state when the latter left the cabin never more to return to
it.
She had said nothing of it to Pierre after his recovery. Her father had
cautioned her against any communication with him on the subject, and
indeed there was not much chance, for the moment he was in a condition
to travel, the old hunter had hurried him off, going in the dead of
night, and taking the youth along with him.
Remembering all this, Lena regretted the speech half commenced, and was
thinking how she should change to another subject, when Pierre,
interrupting, relieved her from her embarrassment, as he spoke.
"You need not tell me, Lena," said he, his voice trembling; "I know the
sad tale--all of it, perhaps more than you, though it was later that!
learnt of it, my sweet innocent! You little dreamt when--But no, I must
not. Let us talk no more of those times, but only of the present. And
now, Lena, I do not wish to see your father, nor do I want him to know
that I am in the neighbourhood. Therefore, you must not say you have
seen me."
"I will not," answered she, in a tone that spoke more of sorrow than
surprise. "Alas! it is too easy to obey your request, for I dare not
even speak of you to him. My father, I know not for what reason, has
forbidden me to mention your name. If by chance I ever asked after you,
or spoke of your coming back, it was only to get scolded. Will you
believe it, Pierre, he once told me you were dead? But I grieved so, he
afterwards repented, and said he had only done it to try me. God
forgive me for speaking so of my own father, but I almost fancied at
times that he wished it himself. O Pierre! what have you ever done to
make him your enemy?"
"I cannot tell, that is a mystery to me; and so too his sending me away,
and so too several other things; but--Whose voice is that?"
"My father's! And the tramp of his horse! He is coming along the lane.
O, Pierre! you must not let him see you!"
"Nor shall he. I can get off as I came, under cover of the trees.
Adieu, dearest! meet me to-morrow night. Come out late, when all are
gone to bed--say eleven. You'll find me waiting for you here--no, by
the big cottonwood yonder. How often we used to sit under its shade."
"Go, Pierre, go! He's got up to the gate."
"One more kiss, love! and then--"
Their lips met and parted; and they too parted, the girl gliding towards
the house, and the young man stealing off among the peach trees, to seek
safer concealment in the shadowy woods beyond.