“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.