"Not any, sir," replied the young girl, turning upon the questioner a look of some surprise; "I am the only one--his only daughter. Why do you ask?"
"I thought I remembered--or had heard--something--"
"Heard what, sir?" asked she, cutting short the stammering speech.
"Of a young man--a boy, rather--who lived in your father"s cabin. Was he not your brother?"
"I never had one. He you speak of was no relative to us."
"There was some one, then?"
"Yes. He is gone away--gone years ago."
The serious tone in which these words were spoken--something like a sigh that accompanied them, with a shadow that made its appearance on the countenance of the speaker--were signs pleasing to the interrogator.
His heart beat joyfully as he put upon them his own interpretation.
Before he could question her further, the young girl, as if stirred by a sudden thought, looked inquiringly in his face.
"You say you knew this place well, sir? When did you leave it? Was it a long time ago?"
"Not so long either; but, alas! long enough for you to have forgotten me, Lena."
"_Pierre, it is you_!"
STORY ONE, CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
ABSENCE EXPLAINED.
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 d.i.c.k 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 embarra.s.sment, 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. G.o.d 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.