Nattie Nesmith/Chapter 5

by Sophia Homespun

 

Chapter V.

Not Found.

R. STONE was met at the door by his wife, who looked at him with an eager, inquiring gaze.

"You have had no success," she said.

"I have not yet found Nattie," he returned; "but have received one or two suggestions from a little friend of hers, Hattie Hartwell. She says that Nattie has a spot on the roof of the house, which she haunts."

"That is quite absurd, I think," said Susan; "and, of course, you don't expect to find her there after such a night as the last. If so, I would not give much for her life. She must have caught her death, in that pouring rain."

"I do'nt expect to find Nattie there," said Mr. Stone; "yet, I am just going to look at the place; it may afford some trace of her. How is mother now?"

"She has taken a light breakfast, but seems weak, and not inclined to conversation."

"That is better for us. After dinner, I shall find opportunity to go for Tiny, if she still wishes it. I wonder how I can most easily reach the rear of the house."

"You had better ask Biddy," said his wife.

Bridget was called, and the question put to her.

"Shure, an' there's a door just here in the shed, as goes right out there; but it has been banked up with snow iver so long, an' I think ye'd better be afther goin' round by the front street, sir."

"Show me the door of which you speak, Biddy," said Mr. Stone.

"That I will," said the Irish girl; "but I can tell you, it hasn't been opened this whole long winter."

Bridget led the way to the shed, and soon exclaimed, in surprise:

"Oh! shure as I draw my breath, here's the door unhasped, a swingin' wide, and the snow bank quite melted away!"

Mr. Stone hurried on.

"Don't step out, Biddy," he said; "'tis true, the snow has's unk away very much, but it is still deep. You will get your feet wet if you go out."

"Somebody has been out here," said Biddy. "I can see the tracks all along close to the house. Really, Mr. Stone, I'm afraid we've had thieves aboot us, when we were asleep."

"I trust, not, Biddy," said the gentleman, stepping out, and carefully following the tracks till he came to the apple-tree, which stood near where the shed joined the house. They were the tracks of a child's heeled boot, and Nattie's, beyond a doubt. At the base of the tree, the snow was trodden considerably, as if the child had made several attempts to mount to the tree limbs before she was successful. Mr. Stone ascended to the roof. As he did so, a small bright fragment of shawl fringe, clinging between the projecting shingles, attracted his notice. He carefully disengaged it, and then looked about him. It must, indeed, have been quite a cozy spot in summer, when the great apple-tree spread over it a grateful shade. He found nut shells, apple cores, and the mildewed remains of a story book, beneath the projecting eaves; but no Nattie,—only evidences that she had been there, and that lately, as well as in more remote times. He got down and followed the steps, but they gained the street.

Nattie, had, then, when she left the house, made her way through the back shed door, climbed to her old resort, the roof, where she, no doubt, waited the fall of evening, and then descended to hasten on her way; who could tell whither? Hattie Hartwell had's aid that she would not dare pass a night alone. Yet she was evidently alone when she set forth on her journey.

Mr. Stone started to walk back by the way he came, and encountered his wife at the apple-tree.

"Nattie really went this way, it seems," she said; "these are her tracks; I should know them anywhere, for she had a peculiar way of treading her boots. Have you traced her to the street."

"Yes, but no farther."

"Could you tell which way she turned when she got there?"

"Her little feet seem to have been undecided, at first; there are tracks in both directions, though, at last, she seems to have taken the way which leads soonest from the village to the country."

"Have you been up to the roof?" said the wife.

"I have."

"Do you think that Nattie was there last night?"

"Yes; and I will show you the evidence."

He drew the shawl fringe from his pocket. His wife caught it, eagerly.

"This is a shred of the blanket which we supposed that she had worn away, over her shoulders," she said.

"I found it hanging to a shingle on the roof," said Mr. Stone. "I think that she climbed up here, stayed till it got dark, and then came down to hurry on her way."

"Where can the poor, misguided girl have gone?"

"Well, that is a mystery; and things begin to look serious, Susan. It is my belief that she is not within the limits of the village."

"Perhaps she has made way with herself," suggested the wife, shuddering, as she spoke.

"I do not think that," was the response. "Nattie would not, lightly, harm herself. I wish I could feel as well assured that she has not come to harm."

Mr. Stone spoke these words in a troubled voice.

"What are you going to do next?" asked his wife. She was beginning to feel not only perplexed, but anxious.

"I had thought to send out the town-crier, and wait the result, but amin doubt whether it is not best to telegraph to father, without more delay."

"I think that I would do so, Austin," answered the wife, "and also send out the crier. Though father's business is important, his family is first in his estimation; and I think that he would blame us, if we failed to send him carly intelligence of an occurrence like this."

"I will go at once to the telegraph office, and also call on the town-crier. You had better return to mother, and keep her as quiet as possible."

"I will do so. And, husband, remember to tell the crier when he goes his rounds, to avoid this street, else mother might hear his call, and thus learn of Nattie's loss."

"True," said Mr. Stone. "I will recollect the caution, and try to have him avoid anything that would be likely to bring disquiet to her."

He hastened away, and Susaa returned to her mother's bed-side. The invalid seemed rather restless, and looking up at her daughter, inquiringly, said:

"Things seem very strange to me to-day, Susan; I can't account for it."

"How do they seem, mother?" asked Susan, with a misgiving at her heart, and averting her eyes as she spoke.

"That is what I can't describe. I seem to want to talk, yet I don't."

"Because you fear that it will tire you, I suppose."

"No; rather because I have a feeling that you don't wish to hear me."

The sick woman again lifted her eyes to her daughter's face, and found it suffused with a blush.

"Why, mother," she hastened to say, at the same time trying to laugh away her confusion, "you know that we always like to hear you talk; but now we think that you are very low, and wish to spare you the least worriment."

"I am not aware that I am any weaker than I have been before," she answered; "though I may be deceived in regard to myself. It is possible that I may even drop away soon; if I thought that, I should wish to see all my family together once more, before I left them. Your father is, I suppose, two hundred miles away; but he could soon reach home. All the children, save Robert, are near at hand. I don't know why he ever went to that distant wilderness in the Indian country. I fear that I shall never see him again."

"Mother, the doctor assured us that he does not consider you in imminent danger, or we should have sent for father, and brother's family ere this," responded Susan; "still, if you feel a strong desire for their presence, I will tell Austin, and he shall send for them without more delay."

"I hardly think it best," the invalid answered.

"I presume that my strange feelings are only sick fancies. Hark! what is that?"

It was the voice of the town-crier, as he passed the windows. Either Mr. Stone had forgotten to give the caution, or the man had mistaken the street. Susan was ready to sink to the floor. The crier was shouting at the top of his voice:

"Strayed from home yesterday evening, about six o'clock—"

At this point, the poor, startled daughter gained the window, and, by a slight tap, attracted the man's attention. She then made an imploring gesture, and shook her head at him. He seemed to understand, and stopped his cry.

"Why! what are you doing, Susan?" asked the sick one, who saw the movements of her daughter from the bed. "Why did you stop the crier? I wanted to hear who was lost; perhaps it is somebody whom I know."

"I thought that his terrible voice would disturb you, mother," said the daughter. "I don't see why they have such persons."

"Why, they are very useful sometimes. I hope he will come back this way again, for I want to hear what he says."

Susan now went into the kitchen to assist Biddy in preparing dinner.

"Ah, Miss Susan," said the girl, "it is not for the likes o' me to be spakin' to my betters, but I fears it is ill with Miss Nattie, for I was dhramin' fearsome dhrames of her all the blessed night through. One time she was hangin' on a tree, another, she was drownin' in a pond, and then agin the evil spirit was runnin' away with her as fast as iver he could. Shure, an' I've aboot made up my miad that I'll never lay eyes on the darlint agin."

"I wouldn't talk about it thus, Biddy," said Susan; "it only makes you feel worse. While all is uncertainty, we are apt to imagine many dreadful things not likely to be true. I trust that Nattie is safe and well, and will before long return to us.

"I hope you are right, Miss Susan," said Biddy, lifting off the potato kettle; "but to think it was only yesterday that she was here with the same blessed dinner-pot in her two little hands! Shure, it seems a wake since then. Throuble makes long days, don't it, Miss Susan?"

Mr. Stone now came in, and his wife took him aside to tell him that the crier had been on their street, and her mother had heard enough to understand that some person was lost.

"You had better not go into her room while the incident is fresh in her mind," said the wife, "for I fear that she will ask you directly if you know who is missing? I have had to evade her questions as best I could, and am getting tired of their concealment. I hope father will arrive before another evening, for I would rather that he should break the tidings to her than to perform the task myself."

"I shall expect father Nesmith by noon to-morrow," Mr. Stone responded. "I have some advertisements to post, as Idrive out this afternoon."

"I don't know whether you had better go for Tiny or not," said Susan; "mother has not mentioned her in particular to-day. The sight of Tiny might lead her to call at once for Nattie."

"I will do as you think best, wife," said Mr. Stone.

Susan prepared a light meal for her mother, and sent Biddy to the sick-room with it, telling her not to stop a moment, so fearful was she that the unguarded girl might, in some way, make the dreaded disclosure.