Chapter 3 CHAPTER III.

WHERE CAN HE BE?–A HEART REVELATION.

"Where can he be?" sighed Mrs. Jones, as she looked anxiously out of the little cabin window. Many times a day had she done the same, save that she thought the question, but did not utter it, as now. Her husband had been away for more than a week, and no tidings from him. What could it mean? When would he return? Had any evil befallen him? These and similar inquiries were continually arising in her mind, filling her with disquiet. She was one of those singularly-constituted persons who are given to presentiments, and who, when they are under the spell of a deep, controlling conviction that something unusual is to transpire,–a persuasion that comes to them, not through reason or evidence, or the probabilities of things, but, as some express it, "as if a voice had spoken to them" when no human being was near, or by a secret whispering to the soul by some unseen and seemingly superhuman authority,–when she had such a presentiment it never deceived her. 36 For some time she had foreboded trouble. The foreboding grew upon her till its dark shadow cast a gloom upon all her feelings; it thrilled her at times with fear. She would start at the veriest trifles, as if affrighted. Particularly at night did she cower under the feeling, and of late it had been hard for her to sleep; and when she slept, it was wakefully: often would she start up, and look around to see that all was right, then fall asleep again. And yet she did not apprehend danger to herself particularly. Sometimes she feared for her husband; but the growing feeling was, that trouble for the settlers was at hand, and a terrible fear of the Indians rested upon her.

It was far into the night now, and the lone watcher felt too uneasy to retire. The moon shone with great brilliancy, and she sat without a light, busying herself with some coarse sewing. The children were peacefully sleeping, and not a sound was to be heard save their breathing, and the whisper of the wind outside. The silence was painful to her, and she arose and peered out of the window again. Everything looked weird and ghastly. What a solitude! For miles over the smooth prairie not a human habitation was to be seen. In the other direction stood the mysterious forest. How black and dismal seemed the trunks of the trees in the shimmering 37 moonbeams! She gazed timidly at their indistinct outlines, with strained eye.

"How foolish I am!" she murmured; but, as she turned from the window, her attention was fixed once more upon the forest; for it seemed to her that a dark object moved along its outskirts. "It's only the trees!" she said, striving to reassure herself.

But in a moment more an ox appeared; then a dark figure followed, and another, and another, walking in single file. As the strange procession emerged more fully into view, she saw that the forms behind the ox were those of Indians; they were driving off the settlers' cattle. As their route lay near the cabin, fear that they would pay her a visit, for a moment quite paralyzed her. It was but for a moment, however; the instinct of the mother was roused. Her children might be murdered. She glanced again at the advancing savages, and then, softly opening the door,–which, fortunately, was on the other side of the cabin,–she returned with the axe, the only weapon of defence at hand, and, with flashing eyes, and a deadly resolution depicted on her face, which seemed turned to marble, silently awaited the onslaught. But the savages, in their soft moccasins, glided noiselessly by, like so many snakes. They did not appear to notice the cabin, and were soon out of sight. When 38 they were gone, Mrs. Jones sat down, feeling as weak as before she had felt strong. The reaction was too great, and, a faintness coming on, her head sank upon the side of the bed where Tom lay. This aroused him, and he called, repeatedly,–

"Mother! mother!"

"Hush," she whispered, at last; "they'll hear you!"

"Who?" whispered Tom, alarmed.

The mother kept perfectly still, listening intently, until satisfied that the danger was really past; then she related to her son what she had seen, and what her fears had been.

"But, mother," said Tom, confidently, "there are no signs of trouble from them. They wouldn't dare to attack the settlers; for they have always been beaten by the white man. Besides, there are not many near us. You see that these have not harmed us; they only stole an ox. Why, mother, don't you know that there has been no Indian war for a good many years, and that the Indians have been growing weaker and weaker all the time, and going farther and farther off?"

This was plausible; and Tom only expressed the views of the settlers. Mrs. Jones knew that there was no reason for her anxiety, except her fears, and she had not ventured to express them 39 to any one before; for she was aware, such was the prevalent feeling on this subject, that it would expose her to ridicule. But now she only shook her head, and said,–

"I wish your father was safe at home."

"Why, mother, you don't worry about him–do you?" exclaimed Tom, in amazement. "The Indians always liked him, and he can go anywhere over the prairies and through the woods without guide or compass, and not get lost. And he's a great marksman, you know: it wouldn't do for an Indian to get in the way of his rifle."

"But, Tom," said the mother, taking his hand, and suddenly changing the subject, "why is it that you don't get better faster? Your skin is real hot, and you look feverish. The doctor said you ought to have been out before this." Tom looked down, but did not reply. "Tom," continued she, tenderly, "something is troubling your mind. I have known it for some time. Don't you love your mother well enough to make her your confidant? What is the matter, my son?"

Still the lad did not reply; but his heart was deeply moved by this unexpected and loving attack upon the citadel that held his secret secure, as he had supposed. Soon the tears began to stream from his eyes, and he sobbed aloud.

Mrs. Jones's eyes closed, and her lips moved 40 as if she were in prayer; upon which Tom, after she had ceased, asked, softly,–

"Mother, are you a Christian?"

"That is a serious question, my son," said she. "I sometimes hope that I am one; but it is a great thing to be a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ. But why do you ask?"

"O," replied he, embarrassed, "I don't just know why. I know you're good enough to be a Christian; but you never spoke to us children about it, and–I didn't know what to think."

Mrs. Jones seemed pained by the answer, and said,–

"Tom, I know I have been negligent in this matter." Then she added, hesitatingly, "But your father does not feel as I do about it; and I have scarcely felt like instructing the children contrary to his views. I have ever tried to please him in everything; perhaps I have carried this too far."

"Mother, were you praying just now?"

"Yes," said she, hesitatingly.

"And were you praying for me?"

"Yes, my son."

Tom was silent for a while, and then said,–

"Mother, since I heard the preacher, I have many times wished I were a Christian; that is, if–if–the Bible is true. But there are some 41 things that I don't understand, and they are right in my way."

"What are they, Tom?" He colored, and said,–

"I don't like to tell you, for I am afraid you will think me very bad. But I thought some time I would like to ask some one about it who knows more than I do. You believe that there is a God, mother?"

"With all my heart."

"And that he is pleased with those who do good, and angry with those who do wrong?"

"Certainly, Tom."

"Well, it seems hard, if this is true, that he should let me get hurt so the other morning, as I was trying to shoot the hens for you, and you needed them so much, when there's Jo Priest, and ever so many more, swearing, ugly fellows, that go a gunning almost all the time, and kill things just for the fun of it, and they get plenty of game, and never get injured;" and the lad spoke bitterly.

"My child," said the mother, "there are many things hard to be understood about God's dealings with us, and I am afraid that a great part of them seem harder than they really are, because we are so ignorant. But you know how I am situated. I don't hear any preaching, nor see those that do, very often; and it's not to be 42 expected that I can clear up these things, as they can."

"I wish," interrupted Tom, petulantly, "that the preacher was here. I'd like to ask him; but perhaps he wouldn't like to talk with a poor ignorant boy like me."

"Well," continued the mother, "I know here"–and she placed her hand upon her heart–"that all God does is just right, however dark it seems, and that satisfies me."

Tom was impressed by his mother's faith, but soon objected,–

"Mother, do you think we can always trust our feelings? You said a little while ago that you felt that there would be trouble with the Indians; but nobody expects that. And now you say that you feel that all God does is right. Now, if you are wrong about the Indians, and about father's being in danger from them, how can you be sure that your feelings are right about God?"

"Tom," replied she, "I have a great many impressions that come to nothing. But there are some that never do. And I know that God does right; for I feel that he does; and, Tom, we shall see about the Indians;" and she sighed heavily, and rose, and gazed long and earnestly off over the prairie, and towards the woods. 43 Then, seating herself on the bedside, she said, gently,–

"My son, you haven't told me all your troubles yet. Hadn't you better hold nothing back from me?"

The lad turned away at this, deeply touched again; "for," thought he, "her feelings are right about me; perhaps they are about God;" and her persevering and delicate solicitude pierced his very soul.

"Mother," said he, at length, struggling with emotion, "I don't want to grow up ignorant and useless. And I don't want the children and us all to be so poor and despised;" and the tears came again, and the mother's mingled with his. "I can't bear to have it so, and I won't," he added, rising in bed, and speaking with excited energy.

"Ah, my poor child," said the mother, "I knew it was that that lay on your mind, and took away your appetite, and made you so unhappy. And I have been praying for a long while that you might feel so."

"You didn't want me to be miserable–did you, mother?" asked Tom, in surprise.

"God forbid, Tom. But I couldn't wish you to grow up contented with such a life. I have felt that you might do a great deal of good in the world, and I wished you to see it." 44

"But, mother, how can I have things different?"

"Tom," returned she, looking searchingly at him, "how have you thought to make them different?" The boy averted his face again, and made no reply for a moment, and then said, softly,–

"I had decided to go away and get learning, and earn my living, and try to be somebody."

"And when did you think of starting?"

"The morning," answered he, with an unsteady voice, "that I got hurt with the gun."

"And were you going off without letting me know it, Tom?"

"Yes, mother; but I expected to write back, and tell you all about it."

"Tom," returned the mother, tenderly, "you asked me, a little while ago, why it was that God let you get hurt that morning when you were trying to kill the hens for the family, while those bad boys go uninjured. I believe God's ways were right in this. Why, my dear child, you are better to me, and more necessary to me, at present, than many prairie hens; and you might have harmed yourself more by going from home than you were by the powder. You meant it well, Tom; but you reasoned about going away, just as you reasoned about God's dealings with you, like a child. Tom, you are necessary now to my comfort, and perhaps my life. I am not 45 over strong, and any great trouble might be too much for me. I am afraid nights now, but I feel safer when you are here. And you help me a great deal about house, and in the care of the children. Your father is away so much I have to depend on you. And what if, when you are away, the cabin should take fire,–and you know our stove is none of the tightest,–or if we should have trouble with the savages? And who would get the wood up for us during the cold winter that is coming? God took too good care of us, Tom, to let you forsake us that morning. Besides, Tom, you wouldn't have succeeded."

"Why not?" asked Tom, faintly.

"You hadn't decent clothes to go in, nor any recommendations. Your life had been very different from that you proposed to enter upon, and you hadn't a cent of money to help you on your way. The chances were, that you would have suffered, and, instead of helping us, as you do now, you would have been a source of sorrow, anxiety, and expense to us. Is it not so?" Tom saw that his mother understood the case; but his heart sank as his air-castle fell, and he wept anew. "But do not misunderstand me, Tom, as you did God's dealings with you. What I say brings to you a great disappointment. It seems almost cruel in me thus to cut off your hopes of being something better in the world. 46 Tom, it does not follow, because you were going too soon, and God permitted an accident to stop you, that the time may never come for you to realize your hopes so far as they are right. You say you wish to be useful. You are useful now, very useful. Be contented to help at home for the present, and God will, I doubt not, open something better for you in his own good time." And, kissing him, she lay down upon her bed for a short nap before the day should break.

* * *