CHAPTER XI.
PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY.
“O’er the forest dark and lonely,
Death’s broad wing is brooding now,
While each day the shadow deepens
Over Charlie’s fevered brow.”
Charlie’s health, which had always been delicate, seemed much impaired by the Kentucky air but with the return of winter, there came the hacking cough and darting pain, and Orianna already foresaw the time when, with a flood of bitter tears, she would lay her darling in the grave. The meetings in the woods were given up, and if Orianna saw her pet at all, it was in his home, where she at length became a regular visitor, and where Marian daily taught her as Charlie had before done. Many were the lessons learned in the sick-room where Charlie lay, fading day by day, and many were the talks which he had with his Indian friend concerning the God whose power she questioned. But from the time when she was able herself to read in Charlie’s Bible, the light of truth slowly broke over her darkened mind.
From the commencement of Charlie’s illness, he looked upon death as sure, and his young heart went back to his playmate, Ella, with earnest longings, which vented themselves in pleadings that some one would go for her,—would bring her to him and let him look upon her once more ere he died. ’Twas in vain that his mother tried to convince him of the impossibility of such a thing. He would only answer, “I shall not know her in heaven, unless I see her again, for I have almost forgotten how she looked.”
Winter was gone, and Charlie, no longer able to sit up, lay each day in his bed, talking of heaven and Ella, whom he now scarcely hoped to see again. One afternoon Orianna lingered longer than usual, in low, earnest conversation with the sufferer. Charlie listened eagerly to what she was saying, while his eye sparkled and his fading cheek glowed as with the infusion of new life. As she was about leaving she whispered, softly, “Never fear, though the time be long, I will surely bring her.”
Yes, Orianna had resolved to go alone through the wilderness to Virginia, and bring to the dying boy the little Ella. Filled with this idea she hastened home; but list,—whose voice is it that on the threshold of her father’s door makes her quake with fear? Ah, Orianna knows full well that ’tis Wahlaga! He has returned to claim his bride, and instantly visions of the pale, dying Charlie, the far off Ella, and of one, too, whose name she scarcely dared breathe, rose before her, as in mute agony she leaned against the door.