“I have one consolation, at any rate—we won’t see any of them nasty Indians in heaven, when we get there.”
“Don’t say that, sister, for I hope and expect to meet a great many there.”
CHAPTER VIII.
HOME AGAIN.
The prolonged absence of Kingman and Moffat, to say the least, was certainly singular. Several days had now elapsed since the battle, and if they were in the woods, or had escaped the vengeance of the Shawnees, there could be no reason offered why they had not made their appearance. The most sanguine began to doubt—all despaired save the captain, who, when questioned, replied with more than his usual protervity.
“He’ll come if you only wait. Umph! I don’t see anything to worry about.”
The fifth day wore slowly away without any tidings of the missing ones, and darkness was again gathering over the quiet village. There was an air of subdued repose up on everything. The quiet tree-tops were not swayed by the slightest zephyr, and the broad Ohio glistened like a sheen of silver as it flowed without a ripple beneath the horizontal rays of the setting sun. The dark forms of the sentinels could be seen at the block-houses, and here and there a quiet settler wended his way through the ungainly streets. The few cattle and horses were gathered home, and all were ready for the slow approaching night to close around them.
Irene Stuart stood at the open door of her cabin, as she had every evening since the battle, gazing vacantly out upon the Ohio. The last rays of the sun were shooting brilliantly over the tree-tops and illuminating them with a golden glow; the hum and noise of work around her had ceased, and the mournful stillness harmonized well with her sad and mournful thoughts. It was easy to tell where they were. It was easy to tell where they had been every night when she had stood thus, lost in communion with them. It is sometimes hard beneath the most convincing proof to believe that one is dead. When gazing upon the form of some cherished one, dressed ready for the grave, a strange doubt will sometimes come over us, that there is still life within him. The most improbable theories will present themselves and have a hearing. Perhaps we imagine that he is only feigning death, and will yet arise and speak before fastened within the coffin; or we may experience a faint, tormenting part of that awful thought of burying one alive, and our tortured imagination conceives of the unutterable horror of his waking within the tomb. Then, again, a hope that there yet is power in medicine subtle enough to win the soul back, sustains us to the brink of the grave. A thousand conflicting theories—perhaps in Divine Providence—prevent us from fully realizing the truth as it is.
Hopes, fears, doubts, constant and intensified, had had continual play with Irene. Sometimes when cold, common sense had its sway, it carried with its overwhelming evidence the conviction that George Kingman was lost forever to her. Then instantly a thousand contingencies would present themselves, and her heart would throb tumultuously with the hope thus awakened. These conflicting feelings had told upon her, even in the short time since they had held alternate region. There was a vacant wandering expression of the eye, a languid listlessness of manner, and an absent unconsciousness to what was passing immediately around her, that show unmistakably the deep hold these thoughts had upon her. Sometimes she would stand as motionless as death itself, with that expression of the eye as though gazing at the clouds in the horizon miles away. And often when questioned upon some different subject, her reply would relate to the all-absorbing topic of her mind, she would move like an automaton among the living, scarcely heeding a word or movement of those around.
Her parents pronounced her conduct queer, and trusted she would soon get over it. The good minister frequently visited the house. At such times Irene would be herself again, and would cheer up and converse about whatever was proposed, gradually verging to the one great topic, however, until, at the departure of her friend, she was completely lost again. The worthy man understood fully her case, and used every means he could devise to win her from the fearful control of her feelings.
Irene was standing in an attitude of earnest meditation, as was said, at the door of her cabin. Her parents were absent, so that there was nothing to prevent her relapsing into one of her unconscious spells. This was the reason why she did not notice an unwonted noise in the village—this was the reason why she did not hear a confusion of voices a short distance away, and the reason why, when a form flitted past her vision, it made no impression upon it; or more properly, the impression was made upon the retina, and the optic nerves sped the intelligence up to the brain; but the brain had took much other business on hand, and took no notice of it whatever.