BLACK NANCY SHOUTS.—A DREAM.—THE TWO SAVAGES.
THE lad that goes from the old homestead to seek his fortune, but of
whom nothing is ever heard afterwards; the dear ones who set sail in
the ship that makes no port, and concerning whose fate the ocean is
dumb; the child, missed from your side in the dense city or flowery
field, who answers no more to your call,—these "lost" ones are mourned
for with an unceasing and peculiar sorrow. The mystery of their destiny
fills the mind with a yearning disquiet. Years drag by, and we think we
have seasoned ourselves into the immovable conviction that they have
entered, "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at
rest." But we start at a familiar voice or step, and find ourselves,
with aching hearts, waiting for the wanderers.
Over long-lost Alice, her parents ceaselessly wept. They conversed less
of their strange bereavement, but their grief gnawed as remorselessly.
General McElroy's tall, erect form became bowed, and his locks white.
His elegant wife wasted as if in a slow consumption, and her brilliant
smile was the wan semblance of its former radiance.
The fond parents had left no measures untried to solve the painful
problem of her disappearance. But no news of the absent daughter was
borne to them from prairie, grove, or river, cabin of the pioneer, or
wigwam of the red-man. Grasses waved, birds carolled, trees waved their
brawny branches, waters ran, but spoke not a syllable concerning the
fair form for whom they witnessed such pains-taking and heart-breaking
search.
Nor did her family grieve alone. Before the sad event, gayety and mirth
often held carnival in the many-roomed dwellings of the frontier fort,
for the long, four-storied, brick buildings, enclosing the spacious
square, contained not a few choice spirits—ladies and gentlemen of
culture; and the fortress itself, what was it, but an armed, compact
town? An advanced outpost, remote from the large settlements, it was
dependent on its own resources for improvement and diversion, and each
person contributed something to the social stock.
But the loss of the commander's child caused a marked change in the
little community. The sympathy for him and his wife was sincere and
profound. Soldiers spoke low and stepped softly as in the chamber of
death; for the beautiful girl was a universal favorite.
Prosperity affects children very differently. It is the ruin of some, a
blessing to others. Alice McElroy was "born with a silver spoon in her
mouth," as the quaint old phrase has it. Wealth and position commanded
attention and petting, and the winsome child of the general would
inevitably have been spoiled had she naturally lacked the ballast of
sound common sense. Just as sweet, unaffected, and unselfish was she,
despite fine clothes, personal charms, and unstinted praise.
Ah, that shut piano, which used to gush with music beneath her
fairy fingers, the varied tones of which all the fort rejoiced to
hear,—sacred instrument, closed now, for no hand since hers had
vanished might woo the ivory keys,—how its eloquent voicelessness
depressed the fort people! And the dumb woe of the dispirited pony,
listening in vain for the loving call and the tripping-step, increased
the prevailing gloom.
A Scripture fragrant with wisdom and love exhorts us to console the
sorrowing, "with the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted."
Mrs. Jones, Tom and Charley's mother, was first brought to the fort by
the soldiers who had rescued her from the scenes of tragic horror in
which her husband was mortally shot and her daughter tomahawked. The
fate also at that juncture of Charley and little Bub was involved in
doubt, as no trace of them was found.
Mrs. McElroy welcomed the weeping woman with large-hearted and
sympathizing hospitality, and did all in her power to calm her grief
and cheer her spirit. With tender consideration, she caused the widow
to become governess in the McElroy household, that congenial employment
might at once divert her thoughts and give her the independence of
self-support. Little did the general's wife then imagine that the hour
was coming when, instead of ministering comfort, she would lean on Mrs.
Jones for sympathy, as that lady had on her. So do good deeds return to
bless the doer.
A union of the best qualities of head and heart fitted Mrs. McElroy to
counsel and plan for Mrs. Jones in the time of the latter's troubles.
She could suggest a silver lining to the stormiest cloud, and argue
aptly and cogently against despair. Nor did she omit to point the
sufferer to faith in an all-wise and gracious Providence. Nevertheless,
this, to a large extent, was "theory" to Mrs. McElroy. Her life had
been scarred by no notable misfortune—on the contrary, it had been
happy beyond that of most.
But the unexplained disappearance of Alice smote down the stately woman
as by a murderous blow. Wild with anguish, day and night she moaned and
wept. Such a sunbeam as Alice had been, and so swift the quenching of
that light! The mother's vigorous mind, stored with philosophic maxims
and Bible texts, was in a whirl of fear, anxiety, sorrow, foreboding,
and not one of the well-turned truisms she was wont with soothing smile
to offer Mrs. Jones availed for her own soul.
Her extremity was Mrs. Jones's opportunity. What could she have done
in that hour, had it not been for one who had tasted the same cup of
bitterness? When the cry was wrung from her, "Never was sorrow like my
sorrow," the gentle governess reminded her of the terrible days when
brave, romantic Charley was, none knew where; yet both he and Bub were
restored to her embrace.
"Best of comforters! Truest of friends! What should I do without you?"
often would Mrs. McElroy exclaim.
One morning, after a sleepless night, Mrs. McElroy, adjusting a shawl
to her shoulders, feebly descended to the door to breathe the prairie
air a moment before eating, she said, then took her seat at the
breakfast table. The ashen lips, sunken cheeks, languid eye, fickle
appetite, bespoke the chronic invalid. Yet it was not bodily disease
that had wrought the sad change, but a mother's mourning love.
Black Nancy, with hair in short, crisp pig-tails, adorned with
fluttering bits of bright ribbon, bustled about, recommending "missus
jest to taste of dish sher berry nice fricassee prairie chicken, an'
dat ar light biscuit and new butter."
But neither odorous coffee from the silver urn, though seasoned with
rich, thick cream, skimmed "preticklerlally for missus," nor the neatly
laid cloth artistically covered with tempting dishes, could provoke the
sorrowing woman to eat.
"It's mos' descouragin'; de little bird ud die eatin' no more'n missus
do," ejaculated the sable waitress, as Mrs. McElroy arose. "I'se a
great min' neber to set dish sher agin." And she clattered off the
plates indignantly. "Anybody'd tink de food wasn't fit for de pigs—dat
dey would. An' missus growin' dat poor,—specs she'll blow away some ob
dese fine mornings, when dere's no wind. An' massa, too, follerin' on
jest de same way. So poor now de crows wouldn't pick dere bones, of
'twas ter keep dere selves from breakin' de commandment, and stealin'
de farmer's corn! But, laws, Miss Jones," she exclaimed, suddenly
confronting that lady, "what am de matter wid you? Eber sense Tom was
here de las' time, you fly about, fly about, jest as if de wings were
sproutin' on yer shoulders, an' you was spectin' to be a sure enough
angel, an' fly out ob de winder up to de sky. You do conduc berry
singlar!"
"Nancy," said Mrs. Jones, striving to look very grave, at which the
quick-eyed image cut in ebony rolled up her eyes most comically, "it
is quite desirable that you do not call attention to my manner in the
hearing of Mrs. McElroy. I do not wish her to notice it."
"Can't help it, no ways, Miss Jones; you do behave so quar," shrewdly
replied the African. "Ef, now, I understood jes' what am de matter wid
you, 'twould be diffrunt—dat's de fac, truf."
"Won't you let a soul know, if I tell you the secret?"
"You wont ketch dis chile in no sich imprudency—won't tell myself—dat's
so!"
Mrs. Jones began to whisper in her ear, her dark-skinned listener's
fat, shining face glowing with the consciousness of the honor conferred
on her by being made the confidant of the governess. Better than a
show was it to watch the varying expression of the colored woman's
mobile countenance. The large, round eyes grew larger and rounder,
the generous mouth slowly opened, revealing by degrees double rows
of comely white teeth, breaking meanwhile into a widening grin that
threatened to involve her ears; and the fleshy arms and hands were
gradually upraised in ineffable astonishment.
"O, bless de Lord! Praise de 'good' Lord! Jes' what I'se bin prayin'
for," she bellowed, "an' long ago He gub me de witness dat de honey
sweet—"
"Stop," interrupted Mrs. Jones; "you promised not to tell, and you are
proclaiming it to the whole fort."
"Can't help it, Miss Jones." And sitting flat on the floor, and swaying
back and forth, her ample body exercised in every bone and muscle with
her happy excitement, she shouted, "I 'shall' praise de Lord, if all de
worl' say I mus'n't. Bless de Lord! Praise de 'good' Lord!"
"Nancy," asked Mrs. McElroy, drawn to the dining-room by the uproar,
"what does this mean?"
"Dish chile can't possibly splain, missus; but she mus' praise de Lord,
or she'll bust; dat's de Bible truf."
"What has come over you? Get up, and be yourself again," commanded her
mistress.
"Now," said Mrs. McElroy, as the servant arose, "state to me calmly
what agitated you so?"
"Dat are ain't possible, missus. But I'se terr'ble happy. 'Fraid if I
keep still, de berry stones ob de court ud cry out. Praise de blessed
Jesus! He's jest bin de 'besterest' friend dat eber any poor sinner
eber had—been monstrous good to all in dish sher fort!"
"I wish I could realize it," said Mrs. McElroy.
"Bress de Lord, you'se gwine to right away, missus. You'll shout
bigger'n I did, when—"
"Nancy!" sternly interposed the governess.
"Laws," ejaculated the forgetful waitress, clapping her great paw over
her widely distended lips, "I jest gwine ter break my promise—but I
didn't, thank de good Lord for dat!"
"An unusual scene," observed Mrs. McElroy, as they ascended to that
lady's apartment. "You can, however, interpret it to me, if I mistake
not." And she laid her thin hand in that of the governess.
"It appears," replied the latter, "that Nancy has made your great loss
a subject of prayer,—you know what a simple, child-like faith many of
the blacks have,—and she is confident that the evidence is given her
that her petitions are heard; in other words, that Alice is alive, and
will be restored to you."
The mother sighed, then asked, with a penetrating look,—
"What do you think in regard to this matter?"
"Stranger things have happened," she answered.
"Mrs. Jones," cried the general's wife, gazing into the governess's
truth-telling face, "has anything been heard of Alice?"
"There has been a new search instituted by my Tom, aided by his Indian
friend, Long Hair, and Tom is sanguine that all will end well. But of
course the young are hopeful. Do you think the joy will be too much for
your debilitated frame, should his efforts result as we all so much
desire?"
"No. I can bear anything better than this awful suspense. But I have
not mentioned that I also have a presentiment that Alice is not dead,
and that I shall once more clasp her in my arms. Lately, when I am
most desponding, a secret voice seems to whisper, 'She's coming; she's
coming!' And therefore, if she should return, she would not find me
wholly off my guard. But what is this?" she inquired, as, hearing the
clattering of hoofs, she went to the window. "Two mounted Indians! How
queer!"
"Why, so there are," Mrs. Jones responded. "One of them looks like a
squaw. It is the Dakota chief's daughter, Blue-Eyes, so famed for her
beauty, intelligence, and fine character, I'll wager. Tom told me about
her; he saw her on one of his adventurous expeditions. Yes, it must be
she, for there's Tom just alighting, and my wide-awake Charley. Suppose
we return to the dining-room, and make the acquaintance of the tawny
miss."
"A remarkable beauty, surely," murmured Mrs. McElroy, raising the
window, and gazing spell-bound after the Indian girl. "What a graceful,
queenly carriage—a perfect figure! But I feel faint," she suddenly
added, and staggering to a sofa, reclined a while, Mrs. Jones anxiously
fanning her.
"What do you suppose," said she, recovering her equanimity, "affected
me so? You don't know how my heart jumped. What is the matter with me?
My load of sorrow is gone. I begin to be happy again. How singular!
One night I had such a sweet dream! I thought Alice came. I didn't
recognize the dear child at once; but it proved to be really she; and
O, how happy I was! But why should that same peace fill my heart now,
when, alas! she is still away? Strange—isn't it? If I did not 'know'
to the contrary, I should believe that the dear girl had now come. But
perhaps it is because I am not strong, and my mind is overtaxed."
"Perhaps it will interest you," said Mrs. Jones, wiping the tears from
her own cheeks, "to go down and see the chief's daughter."
Tom's eager, yet respectful greeting of Mrs. McElroy, as she entered
the room, was cordially reciprocated.
"This is Long Hair," said he, pointing to the Indian sitting nearest.
"I am pleased to see you once more," she remarked, shaking his hand.
"You were a good friend to the Joneses, and I am grateful for it. And
who is this?" she inquired, advancing towards the beautiful Indian girl.
"Blue-Eyes," answered Tom, with choked utterance.
"I have heard of you," politely said Mrs. McElroy, addressing the dusky
maiden.
And she was about to take her hand also, when, sinking into a chair,
she said, "O, how strangely I feel! Just as in that blissful dream. I
am not deceived—Alice is coming! Nancy, open the door, she must be in
the court. I know she's near. Throw the door wide open. Nancy, do you
hear? Alice, my own darling Alice, is coming, I say!"
"Mother, mother! Dear, dear mother! Don't you know me!" cried the
Indian girl, starting up, and casting herself on Mrs. McElroy's bosom.
"I was captured by the Indians, and adopted by a chief!"
"Happy, happy! Just as I dreamed," murmured the mother, folding her
closely.
It is said that evil tidings travel fast, and that "a lie will go ten
leagues while truth is putting on its boots." It is delightful to
mention one instance in favor of the reverse.
The news that the fairy of the fort, gentle, lovely Alice McElroy, was
in the fortress, went like a flash of light through the buildings.
"Beautiful upon" the prairie "the feet of them" that hasted to spread
the joyful intelligence. Officers and privates shook hands over the
event, and war-begrimed comrades embraced each other with brimming eyes.
That evening, when the grand old star-spangled banner, waving from the
lofty flag-staff, was, as usual, lowered, jubilee was kept. How the big
cannon roared, and the musketry rattled, and the band played! Flash
followed flash, report succeeded report, one tune rose after another,
till the air was ablaze, and the prairie vocal.
Meanwhile, the ladies,—did anybody ever "get ahead of their
time"?—while the lords of creation supposed them to be dutifully
applauding their performances, were getting up a little celebration on
their own hook. To each window-pane of the entire fort, they affixed
rows of candles, and at a signal the tapers were lighted, and the
spacious buildings illuminated as if by enchantment.
The result was striking. The drummers stopped drumming, the musicians
forgot to blow, the gunners neglected to load; then splitting their
throats in their enthusiasm, cheer on cheer greeted the brilliant
spectacle.
I do not know what the prairie wolves thought of the military thunder
and lightning, the radiance and deafening voices. They did not tarry
to express their feelings at any great length, but with their tails
between their legs, they scampered off, snarling and howling. As for
prowling savages, they slunk away with the wolves.