Snowflakes and Sunbeams Part 36

"Keep back, friends," cried Jacques, who perceived their intentions, and stepped hastily between them.--"Come here, lads," he continued, turning to his companions; "surround Misconna. He is _our_ prisoner, and must ha' fair justice done him, accordin' to white law."

They fell back in silence on observing the guide's determined manner; but as they hurried the wretched culprit towards the house, one of the Indians pressed close upon their rear, and before anyone could prevent him, dashed his tomahawk into Misconna's brain. Seeing that the blow was mortal, the traders ceased to offer any further opposition; and the Indians rus.h.i.+ng upon his body, bore it away amid shouts and yells of execration to their canoes, to one of which the body was fastened by a rope, and dragged through the water to point of land which jutted out into the lake near at hand. Here they lighted a fire and burned it to ashes.

There seems to be a period in the history of every one when the fair aspect of this world is darkened--when everything, whether past, present, or future, a.s.sumes a hue of the deepest gloom; a period when, for the first time, the sun, which has shone in the mental firmament with more or less brilliancy from childhood upwards, entirely disappears behind a cloud of thick darkness, and leaves the soul in a state of deep melancholy; a time when feelings somewhat akin to despair pervade us, as we begin gradually to look upon the past as a bright, happy vision, out of which we have at last awakened to view the sad realities of the present, and look forward with sinking hope to the future. Various are the causes which produce this, and diverse the effects of it on differently const.i.tuted minds; but there are few, we apprehend, who have not pa.s.sed through the cloud in one or other of its phases, and who do not feel that this _first_ period of prolonged sorrow is darker, and heavier, and worse to bear, than many of the more truly grievous afflictions that sooner or later fall to the lot of most men.

Into a state of mind somewhat similar to that which we have endeavoured to describe, our friend Charley Kennedy fell immediately after the events just narrated. The sudden and awful death of his friend Mr.

Whyte fell upon his young spirit, unaccustomed as he was to scenes of bloodshed and violence, with overwhelming power. From the depression, however, which naturally followed he would probably soon have rallied had not Harry Somerville's wound in the shoulder taken an unfavourable turn, and obliged him to remain for many weeks in bed, under the influence of a slow fever; so that Charley felt a desolation creeping over his soul that no effort he was capable of making could shake off.

It is true he found both occupation and pleasure in attending upon his sick friend; but as Harry's illness rendered great quiet necessary, and as Hamilton had been sent to take charge of the fis.h.i.+ng-station mentioned in a former chapter, Charley was obliged to indulge his gloomy reveries in silence. To add to his wretchedness he received a letter from Kate about a week after Mr. Whyte's burial, telling him of the death of his mother.

Meanwhile, Redfeather and Jacques--both of whom at their young master's earnest solicitation, agreed to winter at Stoney Creek--cultivated each other's acquaintance sedulously. There were no books of any kind at the outpost, excepting three Bibles--one belonging to Charley, and one to Harry, the third being that which had been presented to Jacques by Mr.

Conway the missionary. This single volume, however, proved to be an ample library to Jacques and his Indian friend. Neither of these sons of the forest was much accustomed to reading, and neither of them would have for a moment entertained the idea of taking to literature as a pastime; but Redfeather loved the Bible for the sake of the great truths which he discovered in its inspired pages, though much of what he read was to him mysterious and utterly incomprehensible. Jacques, on the other hand, read it, or listened to his friend, with that philosophic gravity of countenance and earnestness of purpose which he displayed in regard to everything; and deep, serious, and protracted were the discussions they entered into, as night after night they sat on a log, with the Bible spread out before them, and read by the light of the blazing fire in the men's house at Stoney Creek. Their intercourse, however, was brought to an abrupt conclusion by the unexpected arrival, one day, of Mr. Conway the missionary in his tin canoe. This gentleman's appearance was most welcome to all parties. It was like a bright ray of suns.h.i.+ne to Charley to meet with one who could fully sympathise with him in his present sorrowful frame of mind. It was an event of some consequence to Harry Somerville, inasmuch as it provided him with an amateur doctor who really understood somewhat of his physical complaint, and was able to pour balm, at once literally and spiritually, into his wounds. It was an event productive of the liveliest satisfaction to Redfeather, who now felt a.s.sured that his tribe would have those mysteries explained which he only imperfectly understood himself; and it was an event of much rejoicing to the Indians themselves, because their curiosity had been not a little roused by what they heard of the doings and sayings of the white missionary, who lived on the borders of the great lake. The only person, perhaps, on whom Mr. Conway's arrival acted with other than a pleasing influence was Jacques Caradoc. This worthy, although glad to meet with a man whom he felt inclined both to love and respect, was by no means gratified to find that his friend Redfeather had agreed to go with the missionary on his visit to the Indian tribe, and thereafter to accompany him to the settlement on Playgreen Lake. But with the stoicism that was natural to him, Jacques submitted to circ.u.mstances which he could not alter, and contented himself with a.s.suring Redfeather that if he lived till next spring he would most certainly "make tracks for the great lake," and settle down at the missionary's station along with him. This promise was made at the end of the wharf of Stoney Creek the morning on which Mr. Conway and his party embarked in their tin canoe--the same tin canoe at which Jacques had curled his nose contemptuously when he saw it in process of being constructed, and at which he did not by any means curl it the less contemptuously now that he saw it finished. The little craft answered its purpose marvellously well, however, and bounded lightly away under the vigorous strokes of its crew, leaving Charley and Jacques on the pier gazing wistfully after their friends, and listening sadly to the echoes of their parting song as it floated more and more faintly over the lake.

Winter came, but no ray of suns.h.i.+ne broke through the dark cloud that hung over Stoney Creek. Harry Somerville, instead of becoming better, grew worse and worse every day, so that when Charley despatched the winter packet, he represented the illness of his friend to the powers at headquarters as being of a nature that required serious and immediate attention and change of scene. But the word _immediate_ bears a slightly different signification in the backwoods to what it does in the lands of railroads and steamboats. The letter containing this hint took many weeks to traverse the waste wilderness to its destination; months pa.s.sed before the reply was written, and many weeks more elapsed ere its contents were perused by Charley and his friend. When they did read it, however, the dark cloud that had hung over them so long burst at last; a ray of suns.h.i.+ne streamed down brightly upon their hearts, and never forsook them again, although it did lose a little of its brilliancy after the first flash. It was on a rich, dewy, cheerful morning in early spring when the packet arrived, and Charley led Harry, who was slowly recovering his wonted health and spirits, to their favourite rocky resting-place on the margin of the lake. Here he placed the letter in his friend's hand with a smile of genuine delight. It ran as follows:--

MY DEAR SIR,--Your letter containing the account of Mr. Somerville's illness has been forwarded to me, and I am instructed to inform you that leave of absence for a short time has been granted to him. I have had a conversation with the doctor here, who advises me to recommend that, if your friend has no other summer residence in view, he should spend part of his time in Red River settlement. In the event of his agreeing to this, I would suggest that he should leave Stoney Creek with the first brigade in spring, or by express canoe if you think it advisable.--I am, etc.

"Short but sweet--uncommonly sweet!" said Harry, as a deep flush of joy crimsoned his pale cheeks, while his own merry smile, that had been absent for many a weary day, returned once more to its old haunt, and danced round its accustomed dimples like a repentant wanderer who has been long absent from and has at last returned to his native home.

"Sweet indeed!" echoed Charley. "But that's not all; here's another lump of sugar for you." So saying, he pulled a letter from his pocket, unfolded it slowly, spread it out on his knee, and, looking up at his expectant friend, winked.

"Go on, Charley; pray don't tantalize me."

"Tantalize you! My dear fellow, nothing is farther from my thoughts.

Listen to this paragraph in my dear old father's letter:--

"'So you see, my dear Charley, that we have managed to get you appointed to the charge of Lower Fort Garry, and as I hear that poor Harry Somerville is to get leave of absence, you had better bring him along with you. I need not add that my house is at his service as long as he may wish to remain in it.'

"There! what think ye of that, my boy?" said Charley, as he folded the letter and returned it to his pocket.

"I think," replied Harry, "that your father is a dear old gentleman, and I hope that you'll only be half as good when you come to his time of life; and I think I'm so happy to-day that I'll be able to walk without the a.s.sistance of your arm to-morrow; and I think we had better go back to the house now, for I feel, oddly enough, as tired as if I had had a long walk. Ah, Charley, my dear fellow, that letter will prove to be the best doctor I have had yet. But now tell me what you intend to do."

Charley a.s.sisted his friend to rise, and led him slowly back to the house, as he replied,--

"Do, my boy? that's soon said. I'll make things square and straight at Stoney Creek. I'll send for Hamilton and make him interim commander-in-chief. I'll write two letters--one to the gentleman in charge of the district, telling him of my movements; the other (containing a screed of formal instructions) to the miserable mortal who shall succeed me here. I'll take the best canoe in our store, load it with provisions, put you carefully in the middle of it, stick Jacques in the bow and myself in the stern, and start, two weeks hence, neck and crop, head over heels, through thick and thin, wet and dry, over portage, river, fall, and lake, for Red River settlement!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Old friends and scenes--Coming events cast their shadows before.

Mr. Kennedy, senior, was seated in his own comfortable arm-chair before the fire, in his own cheerful little parlour, in his own snug house, at Red River, with his own highly characteristic breakfast of buffalo steaks, tea, and pemmican before him, and his own beautiful, affectionate daughter Kate presiding over the tea-pot, and exercising unwarrantably despotic sway over a large gray cat, whose sole happiness seemed to consist in subjecting Mr. Kennedy to perpetual annoyance, and whose main object in life was to catch its master and mistress off their guard, that it might go quietly to the table, the meat-safe, or the pantry, and there--deliberately--steal!

Kate had grown very much since we saw her last. She was quite a woman now, and well worthy of a minute description here; but we never could describe a woman to our own satisfaction. We have frequently tried and failed; so we subst.i.tute, in place, the remarks of Kate's friends and acquaintances about her--a criterion on which to form a judgment that is a pretty correct one, especially when the opinion p.r.o.nounced happens to be favourable. Her father said she was an angel, and the only joy of his life. This latter expression, we may remark, was false; for Mr.

Kennedy frequently said to Kate, confidentially, that Charley was a great happiness to him; and we are quite sure that the pipe had something to do with the felicity of his existence. But the old gentleman said that Kate was the _only_ joy of his life, and that is all we have to do with at present. Several ill-tempered old ladies in the settlement said that Miss Kennedy was really a quiet, modest girl--testimony this (considering the source whence it came) that was quite conclusive. Then old Mr. Grant remarked to old Mr. Kennedy, over a confidential pipe, that Kate was certainly, in his opinion, the most modest and the prettiest girl in Red River. Her old school companions called her a darling. Tom Whyte said "he never seed nothink like her nowhere." The clerks spoke of her in terms too glowing to remember; and the last arrival among them, the youngest, with the slang of the "old country" fresh on his lips, called her a _stunner!_ Even Mrs. Grant got up one of her half-expressed remarks about her, which everybody would have supposed to be quizzical in its nature, were it not for the frequent occurrence of the terms "good girl," "innocent creature,"

which seemed to contradict that idea. There were also one or two hapless swains who said nothings, but what they _did_ and _looked_ was in itself unequivocal. They went quietly into a state of slow, drivelling imbecility whenever they happened to meet with Kate; looked as if they had become shockingly unwell, and were rather pleased than otherwise that their friends should think so too; and upon all and every occasion in which Kate was concerned, conducted themselves with an amount of insane stupidity (although sane enough at other times) that nothing could account for, save the idea that their admiration of her was inexpressible, and that _that_ was the most effective way in which they could express it.

"Kate, my darling," said Mr. Kennedy, as he finished the last mouthful of tea, "wouldn't it be capital to get another letter from Charley?"

"Yes, dear papa, it would indeed. But I am quite sure that the next time we shall hear from him will be when he arrives here, and makes the house ring with his own dear voice."

"How so, girl?" said the old trader with a smile. It may as well be remarked here that the above opening of conversation was by no means new; it was stereotyped now. Ever since Charley had been appointed to the management of Lower Fort Garry, his father had been so engrossed by the idea, and spoke of it to Kate so frequently, that he had got into a way of feeling as if the event so much desired would happen in a few days, although he knew quite well that it could not, in the course of ordinary or extra-ordinary circ.u.mstances, occur in less than several months. However, as time rolled on he began regularly, every day or two, to ask Kate questions about Charley that she could not by any possibility answer, but which he knew from experience would lead her into a confabulation about his son, which helped a little to allay his impatience.

"Why, you see, father," she replied, "it is three months since we got his last, and you know there has been no opportunity of forwarding letters from Stoney Creek since it was despatched. Now, the next opportunity that occurs-"

"Mee-aow!" interrupted the cat, which had just finished two pats of fresh b.u.t.ter without being detected, and began, rather recklessly, to exult.

"Hang that cat!" cried the old gentleman, angrily, "it'll be the death o' me yet;" and seizing the first thing that came to hand, which happened to be the loaf of bread, discharged it with such violence, and with so correct an aim, that it knocked, not only the cat, but the tea-pot and sugar-bowl also, off the table.

"O dear papa!" exclaimed Kate.

"Really, my dear," cried Mr. Kennedy, half angry and half ashamed, "we must get rid of that brute immediately. It has scarcely been a week here, and it has done more mischief already than a score of ordinary cats would have done in a twelvemonth."

"But then the mice, papa--"

"Well, but--but--oh, hang the mice!"

"Yes; but how are we to catch them?" said Kate.

At this moment the cook, who had heard the sound of breaking crockery, and judged it expedient that he should be present, opened the door.

"How now, rascal!" exclaimed his master, striding up to him. "Did I ring for you, eh?"

"No, sir; but--"

"But! eh, but! no more 'buts,' you scoundrel, else I'll--"

The motion of Mr. Kennedy's fist warned the cook to make a precipitate retreat, which he did at the same moment that the cat resolved to run for its life. This caused them to meet in the doorway, and making a compound entanglement with the mat, they both fell into the pa.s.sage with a loud crash. Mr. Kennedy shut the door gently, and returned to his chair, patting Kate on the head as he pa.s.sed.

"Now, darling, go on with what you were saying; and don't mind the tea-pot--let it lie."

"Well," resumed Kate, with a smile, "I was saying that the next opportunity Charley can have will be by the brigade in spring, which we expect to arrive here, you know, a month hence; but we won't get a letter by that, as I feel convinced that he and Harry will come by it themselves."

"And the express canoe, Kate--the express canoe," said Mr. Kennedy, with a contortion of the left side of his head that was intended for a wink; "you know they got leave to come by express, Kate."

"Oh, as to the express, father, I don't expect them to come by that, as poor Harry Somerville has been so ill that they would never think of venturing to subject him to all the discomforts, not to mention the dangers, of a canoe voyage."

"I don't know that, la.s.s--I don't know that," said Mr. Kennedy, giving another contortion with his left cheek. "In fact, I shouldn't wonder if they arrived this very day; and it's well to be on the look-out, so I'm off to the banks of the river, Kate." Saying this, the old gentleman threw on an old fur cap with the peak all awry, thrust his left hand into his right glove, put on the other with the back to the front and the thumb in the middle finger, and bustled out of the house, muttering as he went, "Yes, it's well to be on the look-out for him."

Mr. Kennedy, however, was disappointed: Charley did not arrive that day, nor the next, nor the day after that. Nevertheless the old gentleman's faith each day remained as firm as on the day previous that Charley would arrive on that day "for certain." About a week after this, Mr. Kennedy put on his hat and gloves as usual, and sauntered down to the banks of the river, where his perseverance was rewarded by the sight of a small canoe rapidly approaching the landing-place. From the costume of the three men who propelled it, the cut of the canoe itself, the precision and energy of its movements, and several other minute points about it only apparent to the accustomed eye of a nor'-wester, he judged at once that this was a new arrival, and not merely one of the canoes belonging to the settlers, many of which might be seen pa.s.sing up and down the river. As they drew near he fixed his eyes eagerly upon them.

"Very odd," he exclaimed, while a shade of disappointment pa.s.sed over his brow: "it ought to be him, but it's not like him; too big--different nose altogether. Don't know any of the three.

Humph!--well, he's _sure_ to come to-morrow, at all events." Having come to the conclusion that it was not Charley's canoe, he wheeled sulkily round and sauntered back towards his house, intending to solace himself with a pipe. At that moment he heard a shout behind him, and ere he could well turn round to see whence it came, a young man bounded up the bank and seized him in his arms with a hug that threatened to dislocate his ribs. The old gentleman's first impulse was to bestow on his antagonist (for he verily believed him to be such) one of those vigorous touches with his clinched fist which in days of yore used to bring some of his disputes to a summary and effectual close; but his intention changed when the youth spoke.