I saw at once that my father was not pleased, and now for the first time, I felt the chilling influence of his disapproval of my plans. He had never approved the forward movement into Kentucky, believing it to have been worked up by land companies, that they might line their pockets at the expense of the lives of the settlers.
"I have never grudged your services in the cause of our independence, Donald," he said, "nor would I your life even, were the sacrifice of it necessary; but I cannot feel it our duty to give you up a victim to the scalping knife of some savage, in order that this rash project of the premature settlement of Kentucky should be encouraged. Have we not already more land than we can protect, and properly cultivate? The Kentucky settlers would do much better to move back over the mountains 'til our independence has been won--when Virginia will be able to establish posts, garrison them adequately, and furnish sufficient protection to make emigrating to Kentucky other than wanton self-destruction. Why not stay with us, lad, since you are honorably released from service for a while?--you'll never know how much we've missed you these three long years."
"Father," I replied, laying my hand on his, and inwardly reproaching myself bitterly for my comparative indifference, now that I realized how much my long absence had really meant to him, "if my word had not been given, if I had not already taken service for this expedition, it would be my pleasure to make my own wishes second to yours. But now, father, it is too late. I cannot honorably draw back. Moreover, I must join in the search for Ellen. I could never stay quietly at home as long as there is uncertainty as to her fate. And I think I can unite the two duties, follow Clark and make constant search for Ellen from the mountains to the mouth of the Ohio. Thomas will go with me, I think. He'd far better do that than some of the rash things he is contemplating."
"It will almost break his mother's heart, but she deserves it," spoke my father, harshly for him, who was usually calm and mild in his judgments.
I think at this time I had more tolerance for Aunt Martha than any one in the family, except my mother. To my mind Ellen had not been blameless, and Aunt Martha's harshness was to have been expected from her character, and the spirit in which she had received the child. I put much of the blame on Uncle Thomas for his unmanly meekness, and part on the neighborhood for not speaking out its sympathy for the child until too late. And when I thought of her probable sufferings, and dangers, I almost ground my teeth in impotent rage with them all.