WEARY WAITING
“No news of the lads yet, Martha! Will they never come home?” said Nathaniel
impatiently, as he sat in the wide porch of Alpha Marsh one bright autumn day.
“No, there be no news,” answered Martha sadly; “and yet they say the
fighting’s over for the present. I’m minded, if they’ve not both been killed,
they’ll be here before long.”
“Both killed! Our bonnie lads, Martha? Nay, I cannot think God would have
spared my life and taken them. I’m not of much account now,” and he looked at
his arm, which hung helpless in his coatsleeve.
“You’ve no need to fret; you’re wonderfully better,” said Martha. “And as for
the lads, it isn’t likely they’re together; they’ll be dropping in when we
least expect them, one after the other.”
“God grant it,” said Nat; “but somehow I always see them together;” and he
rose from his chair, and went and stood by the wicket gate, looking down the
road which skirted the forest and led to the village.
During the year which had elapsed since the Indians invaded Marshwood, it had
gradually resumed its former appearance of happy prosperity. Most of the
houses destroyed by the fire had been rebuilt; a fresh harvest had been
gathered in; and if some hearts still ached for those who had fallen, time was
gradually softening the horrors of that terrible night, and casting a halo
over the memory of the lost.
Early the previous spring Martha Langlade had returned to Alpha Marsh,
bringing little Susie with her, though in truth she was “little Susie” no
longer, but a tall fine girl, very proud of her knowledge of city life, and
only desirous of returning to Boston, where they had left Marie, the happy
bride of young William Parkmann.
Nathaniel Boscowen had to a great extent recovered his health; his arm alone
was still powerless; but as time went on his restless longing for the return
of the “lads,” as he called them, grew painfully intense. The news of the fall
of Quebec, and of both Montcalm’s and Wolfe’s death, had reached him in due
time, and from that hour he had, so to speak, waited by night and by day.
“They’ll be here to-morrow,” he would say, with a sigh, when Loïs bade him
“Good-night”; and she would answer with a smile which grew every day
fainter,--
“Yes, Father Nat; they’ll be here to-morrow.”
Several companies of Rangers had returned to their homes, bringing the
assurance that Roger was alive, that they had seen him after the battle; but
of Charles there was no news, and Loïs, like Nathaniel, waited, going
patiently about her daily work, with that look of hungry longing which grows
in women’s eyes from “hope deferred.”
Between her and Roger there had been no words of reconciliation, but, beside
Nadjii’s grave, when they laid her to rest under the shadow of the great oak
tree in the home meadow, and in the long night watches by Father Nat’s
bedside, the hardness had melted out of Roger’s face; their hands had touched,
their eyes had looked into each other’s; once more it was “Loïs” and “Roger.”
And so, through all the months of sadness and loneliness after he left them,
Loïs bore up bravely, for hope, blessed hope, was hers.
She worked as she had never done before, comforting the widows and clothing
and feeding the orphan children. Love gave her strength as only love can.
Through the bright short spring and long summer days she waited, with the
never-ceasing prayer upon her lips for “Peace, blessed peace.” But now for
many weeks she had had no news, save what the stray home-comers had brought;
and yet the war was over--the English were masters of Quebec. Why then did
Roger linger?
Of late the habit had come to her of going to the upper windows and looking
out over the country. Vague rumours of Charles’ death had reached both her and
Marcus, but by common consent they hid it from Martha and Father Nat, who
always repeated, “The two will come together. Many things may have happened to
detain them on the road,” and both she and Marcus were thankful he should
think thus. But the winter was fast approaching, and then the land would be
icebound, and long dreary months must elapse before they could hope to see the
wanderers. Oh, how earnestly Loïs prayed for news, only for news, of them, and
it came to pass that her prayer was granted. But alas, how?
Loïs was always up betimes. All the dairy work fell to her lot, and Martha had
been ailing lately, fretting for Charles, they all knew. As she stood in the
dairy, pouring the new milk, which the maids had just brought in, from the
pails into the earthen pans for setting, the old Indian woman Nokomis crept up
to her with a mysterious look on her face.
“Well, Nokomis, what has happened? Have you burnt the cakes for breakfast?”
asked Loïs.
She shook her grisly head and answered slowly, “Alas, alas, mistress! there be
those who will never eat of my cakes again, and yet he loved them! Old
Nokomis’ cakes--he’d take them half-baked out of the oven, for the smell of
them!”
“Who are you speaking of?” said Loïs, hastily putting down the half-empty
pail.
“Who should I speak of if not of the young master? Ah, it was an evil day when
Boscowen and Langlade parted; they’ll never come together again.”
“What have you heard?” said Loïs, turning deadly pale.
“The boy’s there; he can speak,” said Nokomis.
“What boy?” asked Loïs. “Oh, Nokomis, if there be news of Roger and Charles,
do not keep me waiting.”
Thus adjured, the Indian woman went to the door, made a sign to some one, and
in another minute an Indian youth entered and stood before Loïs.
“What have you to tell me?” she asked tremulously.
The boy answered,--
“I am Nadjii’s brother. I carried the boy away, but the White Chief, his
father, found him, and would have hidden him from Ominipeg, but he could not;
the ‘Black Eagle’ took him, and carried him into the battle, and they were
killed together. And last of all the White Chief was killed; I saw him fall.
They are all gone into the land of the Great Spirit.”
“Do you mean to say my brother is dead?” said Loïs, leaning against the wall
to keep herself from falling.
“Yes, I mean it; they are all dead, and I will stay here and serve you. I
loved the White Chief, and I served him. He told me many things. I will live
with the white man, and pray to the Great Spirit Jesus”; and suiting the
action to the word, he sat down upon the floor, in token that he meant to
abide there.
Silence, a dead silence, fell upon them. The early morning light came creeping
in through the windows, a pale autumn light with no warmth or brightness in
it. A chill feeling of despair overpowered Loïs; she looked at the dark
messenger. Could he be speaking the truth? Might he not be mistaken? But she
knew the Indian lad; he had often brought her messages from Charles, even when
he was a mere child; now he was about fifteen, and there was no reason why he
should deceive her. What should she do with him? If she took him into the
kitchen the rest of the family would see him, and the news he brought would
spread from mouth to mouth, until it reached the ears of her mother and Father
Nat. At present this must be avoided.
“How have you travelled?” she asked. “And how long have you been on the road?”
“I travelled the same way as the hunters, through the forests. I have come
often before; I know the way,” said the boy. “The moon was new when I started;
it is full now.”
“You must be tired; you had better rest. Nokomis, take him to the attic next
yours in Omega Marsh, and be careful that neither my mother nor Father Nat
sees him, until I tell you. Give him bread and meat, and all he needs. You
will keep quiet for a day or two, until I know what to do,” she said to the
boy.
Her eyes were full of tears, her lips trembled; she never for one moment
doubted the truth of the story he told. Her brother was dead, the child was
dead, and Roger--where was he?
Nokomis signed to the Indian to follow her, and skirting the outhouses, they
reached the back entrance to Omega Marsh, which was at present only inhabited
by herself and one or two men, Father Nat having remained since his illness at
Alpha Marsh.
“You lie quiet here. Nokomis bring you food: you sleep; no work.” And to this
pleasant prospect the Indian readily acquiesced. Nevertheless Nokomis, when
she left him, took the precaution of turning the key and putting it in her
pocket.
Two days later, when she went in the early morning to take him his food, he
was gone; the dormer window was open, and, looking out, she knew he had
escaped by the roof. Here and there a creeper had been loosened, and in the
grass and on the ground below she saw traces of feet--not the Indian’s naked
feet only, but the print of a woman’s shoe; and she stood and looked, then
went across to Alpha Marsh, her eyes fixed on the ground, like a dog on the
scent. As she passed Bob’s kennel she saw it was empty.
“Bob, Bob!” she called. There was no answer. “He gone too,” she muttered
between her teeth. Taking the key of the back kitchen from the hiding place
where she put it every night, she entered, looked round, went into the pantry,
examined the safe in which cold meats and other provisions were kept, lifted
the cover of the bread-bin, and counted the loaves. While she was thus
occupied Marcus entered.
“What are you doing, Nokomis?” he asked, watching her curiously for a few
seconds.
“Where’s Loïs?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Not yet up, I suppose,” he answered. “She’s overslept herself--an unusual
thing for her.”
“You go and look in her room. I tell you she’s gone.”
“Gone! Where should she be gone?” said Marcus.
“To bring the lads home,” said Nokomis; and then for the first time Marcus
heard of the arrival of the Indian lad, the story he related, and how he had
disappeared.
“Why did she not tell me?” he thought bitterly; and yet his faith in Loïs was
so great that he checked the angry feeling, and went straight up to her room.
There he found the confirmation of Nokomis’ words. The bed had not been slept
in; Loïs was gone! But surely not without a word! No, there on the table was a
letter addressed to himself.
“Dear Marcus,--Forgive me,” she wrote. “For the last two days and
nights I have prayed unceasingly for God to guide me, and it has
been borne in upon me that, notwithstanding all the Indian lad
tells me, Charles and the child are still living. At first I did
not think so; but now I do. I know where Charles put the child--in
the Convent of the Ursulines at Quebec; I am going there. Tell
Father Nat and the mother that I have had news of Charles; that he
needs me, therefore I am gone to him. They shall hear soon; but do
not let them know the rumour of his death. Why should they grieve,
perhaps without a cause? I have taken money, my Indian guide, and
Bob. Have no fear for me; God and His angels will guide my steps.
I am going forth in His strength, without fear, to bring our dear
ones home. Pray for me, and tell John Cleveland to pray for me in
the congregation on the Sabbath Day, until I come back to you all,
and we settle down in peace. I go without warning you; not from
mistrust, but because I know you would wish to go in my stead, and
that must not be. You are all that is left to us. If harm befell
you, the Marshes would indeed be without a master and desolate. I
am only a woman!
“Your loving sister,
“Loïs.”
“And truly a brave one!” said John Cleveland, when he had read the letter,
which Marcus took straight down to the minister’s house. “You can but do as
she says; tell Father Nat she has been sent for, and is gone on the road to
meet Charles. You may be sure she’ll manage to send us news before many days
are over; we’ll just live from day to day in hope and prayer. If any one can
bring the lads home, Loïs can. Go about your work as usual, Marcus; tell
Nokomis to keep a silent tongue in her head. I’ll come up and see your mother
and Father Nat. No need to say she’s gone to Quebec: we don’t know whether
she’ll ever get there; maybe she’ll meet them on the road.”
Marcus shook his head.
“I do not think there is much chance of that,” he said.
“How dare you say so?” said John Cleveland sharply; “and you who would be a
minister and teach others. With God nothing is impossible. Have faith,
lad--faith which can remove mountains,” and he clapped him on the shoulder,
adding, “And now I’ll just let my missis know I’m going to breakfast up at the
Marshes. I won’t leave you to face Father Nat alone. How he’ll live the day
through without Loïs, his right hand, is more than I can tell. She thinks
she’s of no account because she’s a woman, but we men should be badly off
without our womankind, even though there are not many like our Loïs. I only
want to live long enough to give her and Roger my blessing on their
wedding-day, and I believe I shall, and that before long.”
It was no easy matter to hoodwink Father Nat. But she was gone; there was no
remedy: they could not go after her, not knowing which way she had taken; and
so, when Martha wept and wailed “that all her children were going from her,”
Nathaniel said quietly,--
“She’s a wise and a good lass, and the Lord is with her. No harm will come to
her, and maybe she’ll bring both the lads back.”
And so they watched and waited at the Marshes, and the snow fell covering the
earth, and the rivers were icebound, and still there was no news of the
wanderers.