Mansfield was equally excited. The cold sweat came upon his face, and it seemed as if his heart stood still, and could never recover its power. It is difficult to conceive of a keener torment—a more excruciating agony than that which is produced by the awakening—the sudden bringing to life of a long-buried hope. The extremes of joy and pain are the same, but the culminating point of the latter is reached, when doubt—almost and yet not quite uncertainty—is a part of the former. It is impossible for a human being to quietly bear it. Relief must be found in some direction, or the sufferer's reason will flee.
The painful affliction of Abbot and his wife was known to the entire settlement, and they had the heartfelt sympathy of every one. It was believed by all that the wife was dying of a broken heart. She was silent and remained at home, seeking the society of no one. She had become pale and fearfully emaciated, seeming resigned and anxious for the death that was so fast approaching. Her only desire was to rejoin her sainted child, where no murderer's hand could ever separate them.
After the father had, in some degree, regained command of himself, he passed out of the house again, without speaking to his wife, and made his way back to where a knot of the settlers were discussing the all-absorbing question. Here he found with painful joy—for those two words express exactly his emotion—that the belief was quite general that Marian might possibly be alive and a prisoner among the Indians.
"I tell you it won't be the fust time such a thing has happened," remarked Dingle impressively, "there's no tellin' what capers them Shawnees are up to. In course, there's a powerful heap of chances that the gal has gone under, but h'yer's as thinks it ain't noways onpossible that the gal is kickin' yet. Now, Jim Peterson, tell the truth for once; is you sartin that gal died when you dropped her on the boat? Mind you're on your oath."
"No, by the eternal, I don't know she is dead, though I'd swear to it, on the Bible this minute."
"Wall, sir, h'yer's is goin' to the Shawnee towns and findin' out whether that gal is livin'."
"But," persisted Abbot, who seemed determined to receive no false basis for his hope, "how can she be there? Have you not been to all the towns, and had an opportunity of judging. You certainly would have heard of her before this time."
"No; I don't know as I would. Them Shawnees ar' all the time up to such tricks that no one can begin to keep track of 'em. Freeze me, and Lord bless you, man, I don't want to make you think I am going to find your gal for you and then have her dead all the time. You must be ready for disappointment."
"I am ready for anything, I trust," faintly replied Abbot, who felt that he could not survive such a cruel dashing of the cup of hope from his lips.