“What I am about to ask you is from no idle curiosity, but because my interest has been aroused for some time past by all I have heard of your son and his exploits. He is spoken of as a hard man, a splendid disciplinarian, reckless of his own life, fearing neither God nor man, with but one object in life—the driving of the Indian and the French out of the country. Is this so?”
A moment’s hesitation, then Father Nat answered: “It is true. Until three years ago there was not a more God-fearing, braver, brighter lad along the length and breadth of the New England border than Roger Boscowen. He and Charles Langlade were cited as model young men; there were no better farmers, no better hunters than they, and their conduct was irreproachable. I seem to hear them still whistling as they went and came about the place. Roger is my only child, and somehow it grew to be a sort of accepted thing that in due time he should marry Loïs. You saw her to-day, the eldest Langlade girl; a sweeter woman it would be impossible to find on the face of the earth. They were very fond of each other: when the young men were at home the three were always together. Ah! those were happy days; but from the hour Charles Langlade left his home the change began. Roger struggled against it at first; but after the affair at Miamis, in which Old Britain was killed and Roger nearly met his death by the hand of Charles himself, he has been a changed man, sombre and stern. He told Loïs in a few words that all was over between them. What actually passed no one knows, but since that day, beyond a simple ‘good day’ or ‘good evening,’ they have never been seen to speak together. He has never recrossed the threshold of Alpha Marsh, and when he is at Omega Marsh, neither her mother nor Loïs comes here. He endures the younger ones, but he seldom looks at or speaks with them. He is rarely at home, and has not been to chapel for more than three years. When the minister would have exhorted him, he turned away with a bitter laugh. His heart is hardened, his whole nature is changed!”
And Nat shook the ashes out of his pipe and relapsed into silence.
“It is a sad story; something I had heard of it before coming here,” said Howe. “But cheer up, father. God’s ways are not man’s ways: it is hard for us to understand His dealings with us,—better not try; better in simple faith believe that what ‘He doeth is well done.’ I have heard Roger’s exploits spoken of as something marvellous. His knowledge of Indian warfare is so perfect that it is almost impossible for them to waylay him. It is averred that he could conduct an army through the forest on the darkest night. Probably had he continued to lead the life of an ordinary hunter he would never have attained this degree of perfection; and we need such a man now. Surely God has raised him up for our deliverance.”
“Maybe, maybe,” answered Father Nat; “Loïs has said as much, and she is far-sighted.”
“She seems a right noble woman,” said Howe. “Has she taken Roger’s desertion much to heart?”
“You have seen her; does she look like a love-sick girl?” said Father Nat, almost indignantly. “Nay, nay; our Loïs is a brave, God-fearing maiden. She never even winced at the pain he gave her, but went about her work as if naught had happened. And she has never changed; she keeps my house in order, and is her mother’s right hand. No one ever touches Roger’s things but herself; she comes and goes from early morning till late at night, and there is no shadow on her brow. Ah, she’s a bonnie woman, God bless her!” and Father Nat’s voice was husky.
“Truly she must be,” answered Howe; and, remembering the words she had spoken, “There are many things worse than death,” he recognised that here, at least, was one who had early learnt the lesson “to suffer and be strong.”
Suddenly the silence was broken by the loud barking of dogs, and men’s steps were heard coming across the courtyard, followed by a shrill whistle.
“It’s Roger!” said Nathaniel, rising. “I never thought he’d be back so soon; either he has found the rumours false or he wants more men.”