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<SPAN name="chap28"></SPAN> <h3>Chapter Twenty Eight.</h3> <h4>An Errand of Love.</h4> <p>This second purchase and payment rendered necessary a communication with my Nashville friend. Fortunately, Swampville had a mail; and, to avail myself of it, I rode direct for the settlement. On my return, I found the river-town, figuratively speaking, on fire. Short as bad been the period of my absence, it had been marked by an incident of no ordinary character. That morning’s mail had conveyed to the settlement the intelligence of a rare and interesting event—the discovery of the <i>gold placers</i> of California. I had heard rumours of this before—only half believed, and not yet reaching to Swampville. Returned emigrants from California were now reported, as having arrived in Saint Louis and other frontier towns—bringing with them, not only the full account of the gold discovery, but its confirmation, in the shape of large “chunks” of gold-bearing quartz, and bags of the yellow dust itself. The marvellous tale was no longer questioned, or doubted. The mail had brought newspapers from New Orleans and Saint Louis, giving detailed accounts of the digging of Sutter’s mill-race by the disbanded soldiers of the “Mormon Battalion;” of the <i>crevasse</i> caused by the water, which had laid open the wonderful auriferous deposits; and describing also the half frantic excitement which the news had produced these populous cities.</p> <p>In this, Swampville had not been slow to imitate them. I found the little village on the <i>qui vive</i>: not only the idlers showing an interest in the extraordinary intelligence; but the business men of the place being equally startled out of their sobriety. A “company” was already projected, in which many well-to-do men had registered their names; and even Colonel Kipp talked of transporting his <i>penates</i> across the great plains, and swinging the Jackson sign upon the shores of the Pacific. Swampville was smitten with a golden mania, that seemed to promise its speedy depopulation.</p> <p>Though many of my old <i>camarados</i> of the Mexican campaign found fresh vent for their energies in this new field of enterprise, for me it had no attractions whatever. I therefore resisted the solicitations of the Swampvillians to “jine thar company”—in which I was offered the compliment of a command. On that day, and at that hour, not for all the gold in California would I have forsaken my new home in the forest—under whose “boundless contiguity of shade” sparkled, in my eyes, “a metal more attractive.” Instead of longing for the far shores of the Pacific, I longed only to return to the banks of Mud Creek; and chafed at the necessary delay that hindered me from gratifying my wish. Even the generous hospitality of Colonel Kipp—amiable under the influence of golden dreams—even the smiles of the simpering Alvina, and the more <i>brave</i> coquetry of Car’line—now become a decided admirer of my yellow buttons—were not sufficient to preserve my spirits from <i>ennui</i>. Only at meals did I make my appearance at the hotel—at all other times, seeking to soothe the impassioned pulsations of my heart in the dark depths of the forest. There I would wander for hours, not listing where I went; but ever finding myself, as if by some instinct, upon the path that conducted in the direction of the creek! It was some solace to listen to the notes of the wild-woods—the songs of birds and bee—for these had become associated in my mind with the melodious tones of Lilian’s voice—to look upon the forest flowers; more especially upon the encarmined blossom of the bignonia—now to me a symbol of the sweetest sentiment. The one most prized of all, I had carefully preserved. In a glass I had placed it, on the dressing-table of my chamber, with its peduncle immersed in water.</p> <p>My zealous care only procured me a chagrin. On returning from one of my rambles, I found the flower upon the floor, crushed by some spiteful heel? Was it thy heel, Caroline Kipp? In its place was a bunch of hideous gilly-flowers and yellow daffodils, of the dimensions of a drum-head cabbage—placed there either to mock my regard, or elicit my admiration! In either case, I resolved upon a <i>revanche</i>. By its wound, the bignonia smelt sweeter than ever; and though I could not restore the pretty blossom to its graceful campanulate shape, from that time forward it appeared in my buttonhole—to the slight torture, I fancied, of the backwoods coquette.</p> <p>In the two days during which I was denied sight of her my love for Lilian Holt was fast ripening into a passion—which absence only seemed to amplify. No doubt the contrast of common faces—such as those I observed in Swampville—did something towards heightening my admiration. There was another contrast that had at this time an influence on my heart’s inclinings. To an eye, fatigued with dwelling long and continuously on the dark complexions of the south—the olivine hue of Aztec and Iberian skins—there was a relief in the radiance of this carmined blonde, that, apart from her absolute loveliness, was piquant from the novelty and rareness of the characteristic. Additional elements of attraction may have been: the <i>mise en scène</i> that surrounded her; the unexpected discovery of such a precious jewel in so rude a casket; the romantic incident of our first encounter; and the equally peculiar circumstances attending our second and last interview. All these may have combined in weaving around my spirit a spell, that now embraced, and was likely to influence, every act of my future existence. Therefore, on the morning of the third day, as I mounted my horse, and turned his head in the direction of Holt’s clearing, it was not with any design of dispossessing the squatter. Occupied with sweet love-dreams, I had as yet given no thought to the ruder realities of life. I had formed no plan for colonising—neither towards entering upon possession, nor extending the “improvement” I had twice purchased.</p> <p>Notwithstanding both purchase and payment, the squatter might still continue to hold his cabin and clearing—and share with me the disputed land. Welcome should I make him, on one condition—the condition of becoming his guest—constant or occasional—in either way, so long as I might have the opportunity of enjoying the presence of his fair daughter, and to her demonstrating my heart’s devotion. Some such idea, vaguely conceived, flitted across my mind, as I entered upon my second journey to Mud Creek. My ostensible object was to take formal possession of an estate, and turn out its original owner. But my heart was in no unison with such an end. It recoiled from, or rather had it forgotten, its purpose. Its throbbings were directed to a different object: guiding me on a more joyful and auspicious errand—<i>the errand of love</i>.</p> <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />

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