Before her mother returned to the apartment, Tahmeroo had disappeared—whither, no one knew. Half a dozen of her father’s warriors quitted the settlement with her; but they left no trail in the forest by which her route could be traced.
CHAPTER XX
HOUSEHOLD TALK
The brightness of a sunset in early May settled on Monockonok Island. It was now the spring of 1778—that year so eventful in the annals of Wyoming—but as yet there was no warning of the fell tragedy which afterwards desolated that beautiful spot.
In the tidy kitchen of their little cabin Mother Derwent was seated at her work, while her two granddaughters sat by. The old lady’s wheel was flying round with a pleasant hum, and the placid expression of her wrinkled face betrayed thoughts that had gone back to pleasant memories of the past. Mary Derwent sat by the window, a Bible lay open on her lap, from which she had been reading loud; and the spring breeze fluttered through the casement, making restless lights on her golden hair, and rustling with a musical sound among the worn leaves of the sacred volume. The past year had somewhat changed Mary; her look of patient sorrow had given place to one of undisturbed resignation; those soft blue eyes had cleared themselves from every mist, and if there was no joyousness in their depths, neither was there a trace of human grief—they were pure and serene as violets that have caught their hue by looking up to heaven.
On a low stool at her feet sat her sister Jane, occupied with some feminine needlework; but her skill seemed often at fault, and she would put her work on Mary’s lap, with pretty childish petulance, asking for help. Mary would look up from her reading, take the work, and by a few dexterous touches of her nimble fingers, set it once more in order; then restore it with a kind smile to the beautiful girl, whose mind seemed diverted by pleasant fancies from her task oftener than was at all compatible with its progress.
Jane, too, looked happier and more quiet, the loveliness of her face was no longer disfigured by the discontent which had formerly brooded over it. The holy influence of Mary’s life had wrought its effect on her wavering character. The pure soul of one sister had buoyed up the weak girlishness of the other; from the calm strength of her sister’s mind Jane caught rays of light, full of serenity and trustfulness. With no tempter by, and good influences all around her, Jane had thrown off much that had been reprehensible in her character, and was now more reasonable and considerate than she had ever been in her life.
The afternoon wore on, and Jane hovered restlessly over her work, like a bird longing to forsake its nest for the free air, ever and again glancing towards the winding road of the Kingston shore, which was visible from the window.
“There, Mary,” she said, at length, unable longer to control her impatience, “I have almost finished it. Don’t you think I might as well leave off till to-morrow—my fingers do ache so?”
“You have been very industrious this afternoon,” Mary said smiling. “I really think you have earned your liberty.”
“Besides,” said Jane, “it is almost sundown.”