Chapter XLVII: Homeward Bound

“Did you climb those crags?” he cried, astonished.

She shrugged her pretty shoulders, while her lips curled a trifle.

“The chamois is not more sure-footed than Mimosa,” she said, briefly.

“Do you love flowers?” Wil asked, with a growing interest in her.

The quick color flashed over her face like a glow of light.

“They are the smiles of the Great Spirit,” she said, reverentially, while her eyes rested fondly upon the gay colors in his hand.

“You do love them, or you never would have said that,” Wil returned, earnestly, and deeply touched by the pretty smile; “and so do I. I am very thankful to you for thinking of me in my loneliness. But I have nothing to give you in return, unless you will let me choose one of these for you to wear as a token of my gratitude.”

“To wear?” she repeated, blankly, not comprehending his meaning at all.

“Yes. In my country, when a gentleman gives a lady a flower, if she cares anything for it, she pins it at her throat, or wears it in her belt. Here is this beautiful scarlet bell, which I will choose for you, as my thank-offering for the bouquet.”

He held it out to her as he spoke and she advanced shyly to take it, her eyes glowing, and the rich color sweeping up to her forehead as her fingers touched his in the act.

“I should be glad if you could come and see me again, Mimosa,” Wil said, as she was turning, without a word, to leave him.

“Mimosa has seen the paleface often, but he knew it not; he was sleeping, and the braves were on the trail,” she returned, thus indicating that it was only by stealth that she dared to approach his wigwam.

Then turning, she disappeared, like some bright bird, and the place seemed even more gloomy than before to its sad-hearted occupant.

Every day after Mimosa’s brief visit to him Wil received a lovely bouquet of flowers. Sometimes they were thrust just inside his curtains by a small, delicately-formed hand, which quickly disappeared again like a frightened bird; sometimes they were laid upon his pillow, where he would find them on his return from a walk, or they would be dropped in the very path at his feet from some invisible source above.

But he was at no loss to know to whom he was indebted for these choice floral offerings, although it was long before he had another opportunity to converse with the chieftain’s beautiful daughter.

Now and then he caught a glimpse of her as she passed to and fro about her duties or mingled with the other maidens of the camp; and once or twice, when he ventured near a group of which she formed the center, and met the glance of her dark, bright eyes, he marked the sudden flash which leaped into them, and the vivid flush which burned upon her cheeks.

Not having any opportunity to thank her for her thoughtful attentions, he could think of no other way to evince his appreciation than to wear her colors, so he would often tuck one of her bright flowers in his buttonhole, and wear it until it drooped and faded.

Now and then he would find a small basket of fruit in his tent--berries of various kinds; and one day he discovered upon his couch an exquisite belt of wampum, which, he did not doubt, had been wrought by the dainty fingers of the chieftain’s daughter.

Four months had passed since his captivity began, and he was able now to walk without a crutch, using only a stout stick to favor his weaker limb. He was well and strong in every other respect, and he began to have some desperate idea of taking matters into his own hands and strive to get away from the wilderness and his uncongenial companions.

With this in view, he often went out to sit with the braves around the council fires; and though he could not understand a word of their language, he could sometimes gather something of their meaning from their glance and gestures.

In this way he was now brought in frequent contact with Mimosa, as the maidens were often called to wait upon the braves, and she was always eager to be among them.

Occasionally she would stop in an off-hand manner near Wil, and speak a low word or two with him, and he could not fail to see that she entertained the kindest of feelings toward him.

“Perhaps,” he thought, after one of those brief interviews with her, “I may be able to persuade her to assist me to escape.”

One evening, after an excessively warm and sultry day, the men, instead of gathering in their usual circle, threw themselves about anywhere, where they could find the coolest spot of ground, while beneath a stately forest tree a knot of gay maidens had gathered to chat in the growing dusk.

Wil was very restless, and oh! so bitterly homesick. He could neither sit nor lie anywhere quietly, but paced back and forth in the open space before the wigwams, extending his walk a little farther every time he turned.

He had put a bright cardinal flower in his buttonhole before leaving his tent, hoping thus to attract Mimosa’s attention; for he had resolved to obtain an interview with her before he slept, if possible, and put her regard for him to a test.

It was not long before he espied her sitting by herself just a little apart from the group of girls before mentioned.

Little by little he extended his pacings in that direction, until he passed the spot where she sat twice, and without appearing to notice that she was there.

He turned the third time, and just as he came opposite her the cardinal flower that he had worn dropped just at her feet. He stooped to pick it up, and said, in a low, appealing tone:

“Will Mimosa come to the back of the tent by and by? I have a few words to say to her.”

She did not even look up at him as she briefly answered:

“Yes, paleface, she will come.”

The closest observer would not have mistrusted that they had spoken to each other. He had, to all appearance, dropped a flower, stooped an instant to recover it, and then passed on.

Once or twice he paced back and forth again, then, yawning wearily, he leisurely sauntered away to his tent.

Mimosa watched him from beneath her dusky lashes, but not a movement betrayed that she was in any way interested in his action, and, after he had disappeared, her head gradually sank forward until it almost rested upon her bosom, while her body swayed back and forth as if overcome with sleep.

A burst of merriment appeared suddenly to awake her, making her look up, to find several pairs of eyes mirthfully regarding her, and the young girls, gathering about her, began to banter her upon her drowsiness at that early hour of the evening.

This, as she had intended, gave her an excuse for retiring, and, rising, she made some laughing rejoinder, and then ran lightly away to her own wigwam.

Half an hour later Wil heard a gentle scratching on the cloth of his tent just by his pillow.

“Mimosa,” he whispered.

“Let the paleface speak; Mimosa will listen,” came in a low, sweet tone to him.

“Mimosa, why do your people hold me a captive here?” he asked.

“Is not the paleface kindly treated?”

“Yes, but I long for my own land and my own people.”

Wil thought he heard a gentle sigh at this, but the next moment she answered, though her voice did not sound quite natural.

“The paleface would make a brave warrior. If he could be content, he might become a great chief by and by.”

“No, no, that would be impossible,” he returned, with an unseen gesture of disgust.

“Tell Mimosa why.”

“Because--because--listen, Mimosa: You have always been a child of the forest; you have been free and unfettered as a bird, and no other life would be possible for you; that is, you could not enjoy any other. How would you like it if some one should carry you away to a large city and shut you up in small, close rooms, never allowing you to go out, and where you could never get a breath of your native air, or see one of your own people?”

“Mimosa would die,” she said, briefly; “her heart would break.”

“Yes, that is it. I am in a strange, wild country, my liberty is taken from me, and my heart is breaking to go back to my friends and my country.”

“The paleface is a man, and the hearts of the brave do not break,” the girl replied, with an accent of scorn.

“Perhaps not,” he assented, with a flush at the implied weakness; “I might not die, but I am very unhappy to be detained here against my will.”

Again he heard that sigh, then:

“Ah! if only the paleface could be happy here, Mimosa would live but to serve him, and--he should be a great chief.”

There was a sadness and an earnestness in the sweet voice that thrilled her listener.

He started, as a thought flashed upon him.

Could it be possible that this beautiful Indian girl was learning to love him? and was that the secret of her past attentions to him and of her wish for him to remain and become one of her people?

He hoped that such was not the case; at all events, he resolved to nip any such sentiment in the bud.

“That could never be,” he said, gravely. “My heart is with my own people, and I must go back to them. Will you help me, Mimosa?”

Surely a sob smote his ear at this. He was not quite sure, but it was very like it. Then the girl said, in a passionate voice:

“When the paleface goes home, far across the sea, Mimosa--dies!”

Her voice died away to a hoarse whisper at the last word.

It was as he had feared, after all. The mischief was done--the Indian maiden loved him; and for a moment he was speechless--appalled.

“Hush!” he said, at length; “you must not say that, for by and by some noble brave will ask to take you to his wigwam, and you will be very happy, while I--listen now, for this is a secret which I could not tell to every one--I must go back to England, for I love a beautiful, golden-haired maiden there, who, I fear, is even now mourning me as dead. Now you see why I could not remain willingly with your people, even were not this kind of life distasteful to me. But, Mimosa, if you will assist me to get away, so that I can go back to those I love I shall always remember you as a kind friend.”

He listened and waited for some reply to this, but none came. At last he arose and looked out. There was no one there--the spot where Mimosa had knelt to talk with him was empty; she had stolen away as quietly as she had come, and he knew not what would be the result of his petition to her. So, with a sigh of disappointment and something of apprehension, he threw himself again upon his pile of robes, and was ere long asleep.

He scanned the faces of the warriors somewhat anxiously the next morning as he went among them, and for several days after, but no one appeared any different to him; he was not more closely watched, and he began to think that if Mimosa did not mean to help him, she at least intended to keep his desire for escape a secret.

However, he was every day becoming more desperate, and resolved that he would improve the first opportunity that offered for his escape--take his life in his hand, and try to make his way to some white settlement.

But one morning he arose with a strange feeling of lassitude upon him, while sharp, stinging pains went shooting throughout his whole body. His tongue was parched and dry, his head dizzy, and a fear began to taunt him that he was going to be very ill.

Every moment he seemed to grow worse, and before he had finished dressing himself, he was obliged to crawl back to his bed, where a messenger, sent to inquire into his absence from the morning meal, found him, groaning with pain.

The doctor was summoned, and, upon seeing his patient, gave vent to a perfect torrent of dissatisfied grunts, and proceeded to put him through a thorough steaming process; but it was all of no avail, for every hour only added to poor Wil’s torments, and before night he was unable to move, for he was bound hand and foot by the chains of that relentless demon--rheumatism.

It would be tedious to follow him through the long season of pain and wretchedness, of loneliness and almost despair. The disease seemed loath to relinquish its hold upon its victim, but his strong constitution at length conquered, and he began slowly to mend.

He had received the most devoted care, however, during this illness; for when the fever had passed and his wandering mind returned to its normal condition, he found Mimosa established beside him as his nurse, and a very efficient one she proved, too, for every want and need were attended to almost before he was conscious of them himself, and with a gentleness and deftness that were very grateful to his weakened nerves.

But she was greatly changed; she was no longer the bright, happy maiden that she had been when she had come so shyly to bring him her flowers.

Her cheeks had lost their roundness; her sparkling eyes had grown dull and sunken; her form seemed to have shrunk away, all its graceful lines had disappeared, while she had a dry, hard cough, which racked her whole body with every paroxysm.

But she never complained--never spoke of herself, though there was a hopeless tenderness in her eyes which smote Wil every time she looked at him, while she was so attractive and gentle that he began to feel a real affection for her.

But as his strength returned and his convalescence progressed rapidly, she did not come so often, while she seemed to have grown suddenly weak and spiritless herself.

Once she was absent several days, and upon inquiring of Arrow where she was, he replied in a tone that was almost fierce, and with a despairing look:

“Mimosa droops; she says the Great Spirit has called her.”

“Surely she cannot be so ill as that!” Wil cried, greatly startled.

The Indian bowed his head upon his breast and did not answer, but Wil could see that his teeth had almost bitten through his lip in his effort to restrain all feeling, while his hands were clinched so tightly that they had become livid.

Tears actually started to the invalid’s eyes; he could hardly believe that the beautiful girl was fatally ill; yet he remembered how hollow her cough had sounded the last time he saw her, and how, several times, she had involuntarily put her hand to her side as if a sharp pain had suddenly pierced her.

Arrow soon recovered his composure, and then told him that Mimosa had been out in a storm and taken a sudden cold; that during his illness she had several slight hemorrhages, and only a day or two previous she had been attacked with one more violent than the others, and was now confined to her couch.

This made Wil very sad, for he had been greatly interested in the bright, intelligent maiden, and it seemed almost cruel that she must die so young.

Another week passed, and then she came again to see him, and he was shocked at the change which the past fortnight had wrought in her, though she did not appear nearly so sad as she had done the last time he saw her.

“I am sorry you have been sick, Mimosa,” he said, holding out his hand in greeting to her.

She laid hers for a moment within it, and it almost burned him with its fever heat.

“Mimosa will be better soon,” she answered, quietly, as she sat down beside him.

Then, fixing her dark eyes with a mournful look on his face, she asked, significantly:

“Can the paleface be patient a little longer?”

Wil’s heart bounded into his throat at the question, for something told him she had devised a way for him to escape from his captors.

“How?--patient for what?” he asked, trying to speak calmly.

She held up her hand between him and the sunlight that poured in between the parted curtains of his tent, and he saw that it was almost transparent, and trembling from weakness.

“See!” she said, with a sad smile, “the life is almost gone; two moons will not wax and wane before it will be cold and still. When Mimosa’s heart ceases to beat, the paleface shall be free!”

“Mimosa! surely you do not think you are going to die!” Wil said, startled by her words, and in his anxiety for her heedless for the moment of their full import.

She smiled again, a trifle bitterly.

“Does the paleface care?”

“Truly I do,” he said, earnestly; “I should grieve sorely.”

“Will he remember the poor Indian girl when he goes back to the golden-haired squaw?”

“Indeed I shall. I shall never forget how kind you have been to me; nor that perhaps I owe my life to your faithful care.”

Her lips trembled and her eyes were dazzlingly bright as she leaned nearer to him, the hectic burning on her cheek.

“Mimosa has loved the paleface well,” she whispered--“so well that she will find a way to send him back to his people and the beautiful maiden who is grieving for him. But her heart is broken; there is no beauty in the hills or valleys any more for her--no joy in the flowers, in the whispering boughs and running waters; she longs for the happy hunting-grounds of the Great Spirit, who will make her well and lift the pain from her heart.”

Wil Hamilton sighed heavily.

“You make me very unhappy, Mimosa,” he said, in a husky voice. “I never intended you any wrong, my poor girl.”

She lifted her head with a proud gesture at those last words.

“Pomanda’s daughter can do without the paleface’s pity!” she said, haughtily.

Then a painful crimson swept over her wan face, and she added, sadly and humbly:

“I know he meant no wrong; it is only poor, foolish Mimosa who has been wrong. There was no one among her father’s people who had power to touch her heart, no brave to whose wigwam she was willing to go; but when the paleface came, with a brighter light in his eyes, with wisdom in his speech, with gracious words and gentle courtesy--so different from the rude ways of the men of the forest, the poor Indian girl was foolish enough to look up to him, to linger for his smile and the sound of his voice, and to tremble when he spoke pleasant words to her. She forgot that the eagle never mates with the sparrow, until the paleface told her of the beautiful golden-haired squaw over the sea, and how his heart was full of bitterness because he could not return to her. But now he shall go back to her and his own people. Mimosa has sworn it and she will perform her vow.”

Wil was deeply moved as he listened to the dying girl; there was infinite tenderness in her low, sad tones, and every word was full of a pathos that was very touching.

“I shall be very grateful to you, Mimosa, but I should be much happier if you could get well and be happy yourself, after I am gone. I will hope that you may, at all events; but will you not tell me,” he added, anxious to change the subject, “how you learned to speak my language so correctly?”

The girl flushed again, and with evident pleasure, while a glow of pride came into her eyes.

“Three summers ago Mimosa went to visit the tribe of Pomanda’s brother, beyond the Red River of the North, and a pale sister with a voice like the nightingale’s and eyes like the meadow violet, came to teach the poor red men. Mimosa’s heart was hungry to learn, she had always wanted more than her own people could give her, and she sat often at the feet of the pale sister who taught her the language of her fathers, and,” hesitating and casting a furtive glance at her companion, “and about the Great Father, and the good Christ who died for the white man, the red man, all people. Does the paleface know Him?”

“Yes, Mimosa, I know that Christ died for every one,” Wil answered, with a strange tension about his heartstrings.

“Does the paleface love Him?” she asked, with almost breathless eagerness.

His eyes drooped and a flush slowly mounted to his brow. He knew that he did not love Him in the way that she meant, and he was speechless before her. Had he come into the wilderness to be taught the truths of the gospel by this simple girl?

A wistful look swept over her face; then she said:

“Mimosa will search for the paleface in the happy hunting-grounds by and by; she hopes that he will come to them, for she loves the good Christ, and she will not be afraid to go away to them when He calls her; for she knows that there her heart will never be heavy any more.”

She arose, her face all alight with hope, but it soon faded, and she continued in a weak voice:

“Mimosa cannot come again to look upon the paleface, for her spirit is weary and her feet are slow; but let him not lose his courage, for, when Mimosa’s spirit is free, he shall be free also.”

She stooped, and, with a suddenness for which he was wholly unprepared, pressed her burning lips to his for one instant, and then was gone.

He never saw her again, but he often inquired for her, and was told that she was failing and far too ill to leave her own wigwam.

Six weeks after the last sad interview, Arrow came one morning, a little after sunrise, to his tent, his face gray and stern, his brow gloomy and overcast.

“Let the paleface make ready for the trail,” he briefly commanded.

Wil looked at him inquiringly, but his heart was beating heavily with mingled hope and fear.

“The Great Spirit has called the flower of Pomanda’s tribe to his happy hunting-grounds, and she will never make glad the heart of her people any more. But the chief, my father, made a vow that when Mimosa ceased to breathe the paleface should be free. When the sun rose my sister was gone, and the chains of the captive broken. Come!”

He turned abruptly and went out of the tent, while Wil, trembling in every limb at the glad tidings of his freedom, yet with tears of sadness gathering in his eyes at the untimely end of the gentle Indian girl, made haste to equip himself for a long march.

As he passed out of his tent he found Arrow waiting for him. He made a gesture indicating that Wil was to follow him, and immediately plunged into a narrow path leading through the forest.

There was not a sound about the Indian camp, an ominous stillness seemed to hang like a pall over every wigwam, and not a person was visible anywhere.

As they passed a little open glade a short distance from the camp, Wil saw a new-made grave.

Mimosa had been buried at sunrise.

Arrow covered his face with his blanket and moved on, but Wil, breaking a bough from an acacia tree, moved forward and laid it reverently upon the narrow mound; then, with a sigh of regret for the dead, but with courage and hope once more animating both heart and body, he turned from the place forever and followed his guide.

For many days they marched eastward, the Indian sad and silent, for his heart was heavy; Wil growing every hour more hopeful and eager.

They paused upon their journey only long enough to eat their simple meals and take needful rest, and at last, just as the sun was setting after a glorious day, Arrow halted upon a slight rise of ground and pointed toward a dusky vapor which was curling over the tops of some trees not far distant.

“There the paleface will find friends,” he said, briefly.

“Is there a white settlement there?” Wil asked.

The Indian nodded assent.

Joy shone in Wil Hamilton’s eyes, and he trembled visibly.

It was very sweet, after the long, weary months of his captivity, to find himself so near to civilization and friends again.

“You will come with me and rest a while, before you resume your long march back, will you not?” he begged of Arrow, for he had grown thin and pale during their trying journey, eating but very little, and looking so sad that Wil’s heart ached for him.

The Indian’s lips grew tremulous, in spite of his forced stoicism, at the words of sympathy.

“The heart of Arrow is heavy,” he said, sadly; “he will not rest until he comes again to the bed where Mimosa sleeps.”

“But it is a long distance; you will be ill if you do not take proper rest and food,” Wil returned.

His companion merely shrugged his shoulders in reply and folded his blanket more closely about him, as if impatient to be gone, and Wil saw that it would be useless to urge him, so all that remained for him to do was to take his leave of him.

“I thank you, Arrow,” he said, “for your guidance during our hard journey, and I shall always remember your kindness to me. Of course, it has not been pleasant to be detained against my will among your people, but, perhaps, that was no fault of yours.”

Again Arrow shrugged his shoulders.

“Pomanda knew that this daughter loved the paleface, and he hoped to make a great warrior of him, that she might live and be happy,” he answered.

“Was that the reason you have kept me so long?” Wil cried.

“Not at first,” Arrow answered; “Pomanda loves the gleam of yellow gold, and he hoped to get it by keeping the paleface; but when that hope was dead, he began to see that Mimosa’s face shone when the white man was near, and grew sad when he was away; then he said: ‘The child of a great chief must be happy; we will make a brave of the paleface and he shall take her to his wigwam, for she shall not droop and fade like a flower before the hoar frost.’ But Mimosa’s face grew white, her spirit faint; the Great Spirit had whispered to her; she commanded that the paleface be set free, and--the dying never sue in vain.”

Wil was deeply moved, but the day was fast waning, and he was anxious to reach the settlement before night, and he knew he must hasten.

He took his purse from his pocket; there was considerable coin, both gold and silver, in it, and held it out to his companion.

“Take this to Pomanda,” he said; “there is gold in it, enough, I hope, to make him feel that I am not ungrateful.”

But Arrow’s eyes lighted with a sudden flash.

“Pomanda shall not have the white man’s gold,” he said, proudly; “he whom Mimosa loved shall not pay for the care her people gave him.”

“Then take this for yourself, Arrow,” Wil exclaimed, with an unsteady lip, while he drew a heavy gold ring from his finger, “and keep it as a token of my gratitude to you and your sister for all your kindness to me.”

The Indian did not refuse, and allowed Wil to put it upon his finger, then drawing a small pouch from beneath his blanket, he thrust it hastily into the young man’s hand, turned quickly away, dashed into the woods and disappeared from sight.

Opening the pouch, Wil discovered, to his amazement, gems of various kinds.

They were all in the rough, of course, but he knew enough of their formation to perceive that they bade fair to be of great value.

But there was no time to examine them closely, and, concealing them about his person, he set off at a brisk pace toward the settlement which Arrow had pointed out to him.

He found it without difficulty, and it proved to be merely a rude Western village; but he succeeded in obtaining a night’s lodging, and the next morning, procuring a conveyance, proceeded to the nearest railway station, which was many miles distant, whence he started at once for New York.

Arriving there he secured a passage upon the first steamer bound for England, and ere long was plowing the seas toward his native land, as fast as steam and sail could take him.