Chapter XXVII

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.