Wrecked but not Ruined

The Indian allowed the faintest possible smile to curl his lips for a moment and then with a slight inclination of his head, but without uttering a word, turned abruptly and went off at a long swinging pace into the woods.

“’Pon my word, Flo,” said McLeod, “your pantomime has been most effective, but I have doubts as to whether he understands you to have invited him to be our hunter, or commanded him to go about his business.”

“I think we’ve seen the last of him,” said Kenneth, somewhat gloomily.

“He will return,” said Flora, with decision.

“Well, time will show,” rejoined McLeod, “meanwhile we will delay the trip to Jenkins Creek for a day, and I’ll go have a talk with Roderick about that lucky insurance business.”

Time did settle the matter of the Indian’s intentions almost sooner than had been expected, for that same evening he returned with a further supply of fresh meat and laid it down at Flora’s feet. Nothing, however, would prevail on him to remain and sup with the party. Having received a small supply of powder and shot in payment, he at once turned away and re-entered his native wilderness.

Thus day by day for about a week the silent man made his appearance every evening with fresh supplies, and, we might almost say, disappeared after delivering them. One day Kenneth determined to offer to accompany him on his next appearance. Accordingly he prepared his gun, rolled up his blanket and strapped it on his shoulders, and when the Indian arrived in the evening as usual, he presented himself equipped for the chase.

The Indian expressed some surprise in his looks, and at first seemed to object to Kenneth’s companionship, but at length gave in and they entered the forest together.

It seemed at first as if the red man wished to test the physical powers of his white brother, for he led him over hill and dale, through swamp and brake, during the greater part of that night. Fortunately there was bright moonlight. But Kenneth was stout of frame and enduring in spirit; he proved to be quite a match for the redskin.

At last they encamped under a tall pine, and, after a hearty supper, sat staring at each other and smoking in silence until sleep induced them to lie down. Next morning by daybreak Kenneth was roused by his companion, who, after a hasty meal, led him another long march through a wild but beautiful country, where several partridges and rabbits were shot by the Indian, and a great many more were missed by Kenneth, much to the amusement of his companion.

Towards evening the red man turned his steps in the direction of the tarpaulin tent.

Chapter Eleven

An Adventure and a Surprise

That evening the elder McLeod and Flora had adventure which nearly cost them their lives.

As the sun began to descend, Roderick, who was recovering fast under the influence of good-cheer and good nursing, begged Flora to go out and walk with her father, as she had not left his side all day.

She consented, and sauntered with her father in the direction of the seashore.

Now it so happened that a brown bear, of a species which is still to be found on the uninhabited parts of the Labrador coast, had selected that hour and that locality for his own evening promenade! At a certain part of the slight track which had been formed by the McLeods in their visits to the shore, the bushes were very thick, and here, on rounding a bend in the track, they met the bear face to face. Had there been some little space between them, the animal would probably have turned and fled; but, being taken by surprise, he stood fast.

McLeod and his daughter stood aghast on seeing the monster. The former was unarmed, with the exception of a small hunting-knife and a stout walking-stick. In the first rush of his feelings he suddenly flung his stick at the bear, and with so true an aim, that the heavy head struck it exactly on the point of its nose. Nothing could have been more unfortunate, for the creature’s rage was at once excited. With a savage growl he rose on his hind legs in the attitude of attack.

“Quick! run back, Flo, I’ll check him here,” cried McLeod, drawing the little hunting-knife.

But poor Flora was incapable of running. White with terror she stood gazing at the bear as if fascinated. Her father, seeing this, stepped in front of her with that overwhelming rush of determination which is sometimes felt by courageous men when under the influence of despair, for he felt that with such a weapon he might as well have assailed an elephant.

At that moment the well-known voice of Kenneth was heard to utter a tremendous shout close at hand. Almost at the same instant a sharp crack was heard, and the bear fell at McLeod’s feet, shot through the heart.

We need scarcely say that it was a ball from the gun of the Indian which had thus opportunely put an end to the bear’s career, and still less need we remark that profuse and earnest were the thanks bestowed on him by the whole party.

“We must christen you Sharpeye after this lucky shot,” said Kenneth, when the excitement had subsided. “Now, Sharpeye,” he added, taking his red friend by the arm, “you must stay and sup with us to-night. Come along, whether you understand me or not, I’ll take no denial.”

If the Indian did not understand the language of his friends he evidently understood their pantomime, for he made no further objection to remain, but accompanied them to the camp, and sat silently smoking at their fire, which was kindled in front of the tent door, so that the sick man might enjoy the blaze as well as the companionship.

While thus engaged they were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of another Indian, who advanced quietly into the circle of light, and sat down.

“A messenger, no doubt,” said McLeod, after the first salutation.

A messenger he indeed proved to be, for after casting a furtive look, not unmingled with surprise and suspicion, at his brother redskin, he opened a small bag which hung at his girdle, and delivered to McLeod senior a very dirty-looking letter.

“Ha! from Gambart,” he exclaimed, reading the inscription. “Let us see what— Hallo! Sharpeye, where are you off to?”

This question was called forth in consequence of the red man rising quietly and throwing his gun on his shoulder. Instead of replying, however, he turned abruptly and walked off into the woods.

“The most unaccountable man I ever knew,” exclaimed Kenneth. “I shouldn’t wonder if this messenger and he are implacable foes, and can’t bear to sit at the same fire together.”

The remark which Kenneth began half in jest, was finished in earnest, for he had not done speaking when the messenger also arose and glided into the woods.

“Get the gun ready,” said McLeod, unfolding the letter, “there’s no saying what these fellows may do when their blood’s up.”

Kenneth obeyed, while his father read the letter, which, as the reader has no doubt guessed was that written by Gambart at his imperious little wife’s command.

“I was sure there must be some satisfactory explanation of the matter,” said Flora, when her father had finished reading.

“So was I,” said Kenneth, examining the priming of his gun.

The elder McLeod felt and looked uncomfortable. “What is it all about?” asked Roderick, from the tent.

“Oh, nothing particular,” answered his father, “except that there have been some mistakes and foolish concealments in connection with a certain Reginald Redding, whom I fear I have been rather hasty in judging.”

“Well, that needn’t trouble you,” returned Roderick, “for you’ve only to explain the mistakes and confess your haste.”

“Hm! I suppose I must,” said McLeod, “and I rather think that Flora will—”

A deep blush and an imploring look from Flora stopped him.

Just then a rustle was heard among the leaves outside the circle of the camp-fire’s light, and Kenneth cocked his gun as Sharpeye stalked forward and sat solemnly down by the fire.

“I hope you haven’t killed him, Sharpeye,” said Kenneth, looking with some anxiety at the Indian’s girdle, as though he expected to see a fresh and bloody scalp hanging there.

Of course the Indian gave no answer, but the minds of all were immediately relieved by seeing the messenger return and sit down as he had done before, after which he opened his bag, and, drawing out another letter, handed it to McLeod.

“What! another letter? Why did you not deliver it with the first? Forgot, I suppose—eh! What have we here? It’s from—I do believe, it’s from Reginald Redding. The Indian must have called at the Cliff Fort in passing, but however he got it, here it is, so I’ll read it:—

“‘Dear Sir,’ (Hm, rather friendly, considering),—‘After leaving you on the occasion of our last unsatisfactory meeting,’ (I should think it was), ‘it occurred to me that such indignation on your part,’ (not to mention his own!) ‘must have been the result of some mistake or misapprehension. After some reflection I recalled to mind that on the night I first met you, and learned that the name of your property in Partridge Bay was Loch Dhu, the sudden entrance of the messenger with the sad and startling news of the wreck prevented my telling you that I had become the purchaser of that property, and that, strange though it may seem to you, I did not up to that moment know the name of the person from whom I had bought it. This ignorance was owing to a fancy of my friend, Mr Gambart, to conceal the name from me—a fancy which I am still unable to account for, but which doubtless can be explained by himself. If this “silence” on my part is, as I think probable, the cause of your supposing that I intentionally “deceived” you, I trust that you will find this explanation sufficient to show that you have been labouring under a mistake.’ (No doubt I was.) ‘If, on the other hand, I am wrong in this conjecture, I trust that you will do me the justice to point out the so-called deception of which I am supposed to be guilty, in order that I may clear myself from a false imputation.’”

“Well, father, that clears up the matter sufficiently, doesn’t it?” said Kenneth.

“It does, unquestionably,” replied McLeod, “especially when coupled with the letter from Gambart, which has so strangely reached us at the same time with that of Redding. Well well, after all, things looked bad to me at first. I’m sorry, however, that I gave way to temper when we met, for the explanation might have come at that time; but the hot-headed young fellow gave way to temper too!”

McLeod said this in the tone of a man who, while admitting his fault, looks about for palliating circumstances.

“However,” he continued, rising and folding the letter, “I must write at once to let him know that his explanation is satisfactory, and that—that—”

“That you apologise for your haste,” said Flora, with a laugh.

“Certainly not,” replied McLeod stoutly. “I forgive him for getting angry with me, but I am not called on to ask forgiveness for being indignant with a man whom I supposed I had good reason to believe was a deceiver.”

“It is not necessary to ask forgiveness when no offence was meant,” said Sharpeye, in good English, as he suddenly rose, and, advancing to the elder McLeod, held out his hand.

McLeod gazed at the Indian for a moment in silent amazement.

“I fear,” continued Sharpeye, with a smile, “that I have to ask your forgiveness for having ventured really to practise deception on you.”

He removed a dark wig as he spoke, and revealed to the astonished gaze of the McLeods the light curly hair of Reginald Redding!

“Miraculous apparition!” exclaimed McLeod, grasping the proffered hand, “can I venture to believe my eyes?”

He glanced, as if for sympathy, to the spot where Flora had been seated; but Flora, for reasons best known to herself, had quietly retired to the interior of the tarpaulin tent and was just then absorbed in her duties as nurse to the invalid.

Chapter Twelve

The Last

Several months after the events narrated in the last chapter a very merry party was assembled in Mr William Gambart’s drawing-room at Partridge Bay.

The party was small, by reason of the drawing-room not being large, but it was very select and remarkably hearty. Plump little Gambart was there, beaming with good-will. His plump little partner was also there, radiant with matronly smiles, his plump little daughters too, bewitching with youthful beauty, set off by indescribable flounces, combined with flutterings of white lace. Their aspect was also rendered more captivating and charmingly confused by ribbons, rings, and ringlets, for the reader must remember that we write of those good old times before the introduction of that severely classic style of hair-dressing which converts now nine-tenths of the fair sex into human cockatoos.

Among the guests assembled were McLeod and his three sons, clad, not in the half trapper halt Indian style in which they were introduced to the reader, but in superfine broadcloth garments, the admirable fit of which suggested the idea that they must have been sewed on in Regent Street, London, and sent out to Canada with their owners in them, in separate boxes, labelled “this side up, with care.” There was also present Mr Bob Smart, smarter in personal appearance than he had ever been before, in virtue of a blue surtout with brass buttons which had lain for many years on sale in the store at the Cliff Fort, but never had been bought because the Indians who coveted were too poor to purchase it, and no other human being in his senses would have worn it, its form being antique, collar exceedingly high, sleeves very tight, and the two brass buttons behind being very close together and unreasonably high up. But Bob was not particular. Nothing, he said, would prevent him being at that party. He saw as well as felt that he looked like a maniac in the blue coat, but not possessing a dress-coat, and being possessed of moral heroism, he shut his mental eyes, ignored taste and feeling, put on the coat, and went.

Jonas Bellew was also there, in a new blue cloth capote, scarlet belt, and moccasins, in which he looked every inch a man, if not a gentleman. Sometimes in the kitchen, often in the pantry, occasionally in the passages, and always in the way, for he was excitedly abrupt in his motions, might have been seen the face and figure of François Le Rue. François was obviously performing the part of a waiter, for he wore a badly-fitting suit of black, white cotton gloves three sizes too large, and pumps, with white socks, besides which he flourished a white napkin as if it were a war-banner, and held on tenaciously to a cork-screw.

The pretty face of Elise was also there, assisting to spread moral sunshine on the party and fair cloths on all the tables. A close observer might have noted that wherever Elise shone there Le Rue took occasion to sun himself!

Deep in the mysterious regions of the back-kitchen—which bore as much resemblance to civilised back-kitchens as an English forest does to the “back-woods”—Mister Rooney might have been seen, much dirtier than other people owing to the nature of his culinary occupations and his disregard of appearances. A huge favour, once white, but now dirty, decorated the Irishman’s broad chest. Similar favours (not dirty) were pinned to the breasts of all the guests, giving unmistakable evidence that the occasion was a wedding.

“Hooroo! ye descendant of an expatriated frog,” cried Rooney, staggering under the weight of an enormous pot, “come here, won’t ’ee, an’ lind a hand. Wan would think it was yer own weddin’ was goin’ on. Here, slew round the crane, ye excitable cratur.”

“Preehaps mes own veddin’ vill foller ver’ quick,” said Le Rue, with a sly glance at Elise, as he assisted Rooney to suspend the big pot on its appropriate hook.

“Troth then. I can’t compliment the taste o’ the poor girl as takes ’ee,” replied Rooney, with a still slyer glance at Elise.

The girl referred to remarked that no girl in her senses would accept either of them as a gift, and went off tossing her head.

Just then a cheer was heard in the lobby, and Elise, Le Rue, and Rooney rushed out in time to see Flora McLeod like an April day—all smiles and tears—handed into a gig; she was much dishevelled by reason of the various huggings she had undergone from sundry bridesmaids and sympathetic female friends, chief among whom was a certain Mrs Crowder, who in virtue of her affection for the McLeod family, her age, and her deafness, had constituted herself a compound of mother and grandmamma to Flora. The gig was fitted to hold only two. When Flora was seated, Reginald Redding—also somewhat dishevelled owing to the hearty, not to say violent, congratulations of his male friends—jumped in, seized the reins and cracked his whip. The horse being a young and spirited animal, performed a series of demivolts which caused all the ladies to scream, threw the gig into convulsions, and old Mrs Crowder almost into fits. Thereafter it shot away like an arrow, amid ringing cheers and a shower of old slippers.

This was the last of Redding and Flora for that day, but it was by no means the last of the party. In those regions at that time (whatever they may do in those regions nowadays) wedding parties were peculiarly festive scenes, in which dancing was one of the means by which not only the young but the middle-aged were wont to let off superabundant steam, and a violin more or less cracked and vigorously played was the instrument which created inspiration. It would take a volume to tell of all that was said and done on that great and memorable occasion—how the plump little Miss Gambarts fluttered about like erratic flowers, or like captivating comets drawing a long tail of the Partridge Bay young men after them; how, as the evening wore on, all social distinctions were swept away and the servants were invited to exchange duty in the kitchen for dancing in the hall; how Le Rue danced so often with Elise and made his admiration of her so obvious that she became quite ashamed of him and cast him off in favour of any one else who asked her; how Jonas Bellew was prevailed on to ask Mrs Crowder to dance a Scotch reel with him, which she not only agreed to do but did to the delight of Jonas and the admiration of all the company; how Mister Rooney volunteered to dance the sailor’s hornpipe, and acquitted himself so well, despite the inability of the violinist to play the proper tune, that his performance was greeted with rapturous applause; how the floor at last began to show symptoms of giving way, and how their only musician did finally give way, from sheer exhaustion, and thus brought matters to an abrupt close.

But all this, and a great deal more that we have not told, was as nothing compared to the “feast of reason and the flow of soul,” that occurred at the supper, a meal which had been expressly reserved as a last resource when the violinist should break down. Another volume, at least, would be required to record it all.

There was food of course in profusion, and there was also, which is not always so common, splendid sauce in the form of appetite. There were also songs and toasts; and speeches which would have done credit to the halls of more civilised lands, in all of which the performers exhibited every phase of human nature, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

At this stage of the proceedings McLeod senior conducted himself with that manly straightforward vigour which had characterised him during the earlier part of the festivities, though he faltered a little and almost broke down when, in a speech, he referred to Flora as a bright sunbeam whom God in His love had permitted to shine upon his path for many years, who in prosperity had doubled his joys, and who in adversity had taught him that the Hearer and Answerer of prayer not only can, but does bring good out of evil, of which fact he was a living instance that day, for it was the loss of his goods by shipwreck which had enabled him, at a critical moment in his affairs, to make a fresh start in life, that had now placed him on the road to prosperity, so that “Wrecked but not Ruined” he thought, might be appropriately adopted as his family motto. It was this wreck also which had, in a great measure, brought him into intimate acquaintance with the man who had saved his daughter’s life, as well as his own (cheers), and who had that day carried off a prize (renewed cheers), a jewel (enthusiastic cheers, in which the ladies attempted to transcend the gentlemen), he repeated, a prize, the true value of which was fully known only to himself.

Here the remainder of the speech—of which a few emphasised words, such as blessings, health, prosperity, etcetera, were heard—was lost in a burst of continuous cheering, which suddenly terminated in an uproarious shout of laughter when Le Rue accidentally knocked the neck off a bottle of beer, whose contents spouted directly and violently into his face!

The touch of feeling displayed in McLeod’s speech filled little Mr Gambart with an irresistible desire to start to his legs and “claim his rights.” He regarded himself, in connection with Mrs Gambart, he said, with a winning smile at his fair partner, as the author and authoress (humanly speaking of course) of the whole affair, by which he meant the affair that had just come off so auspiciously. He had seen, and Mrs Gambart had seen, from the very first, that Mr Redding was deeply in love with Flora McLeod (as how could he be otherwise), that he, Mr Gambart, (including Mrs Gambart), foresaw that in selling Loch Dhu to Mr Redding he was virtually sending it back to the McLeod family; that unless he had concealed the name of the owners at first he could not have effected the sale, for Mr Redding at that time thought the McLeods were—were—. Here an awful frown from Mrs Gambart, intimating that he (Gambart) was touching on subjects which he had no right to make public, threw him into confusion, out of which condition he delivered himself, amidst some laughter and much applause, by a bold and irrelevant continuation of the subject, to the effect that, knowing all that and a great deal more besides, he (including Mrs Gambart) had not only effected a sale which, he might say, was the main-sail that had caught the breezes of prosperity by which the craft of the McLeods, so to speak, had been blown so happily that day into the Partridge Bay haven of felicity (tremendous cheering, during which Gambart wiped his bald head and flushed face, and collected himself). Moreover, he continued, it was he who, against McLeod’s will, had bought Barker’s Mill (hear hear! from Bob Smart, who thought he was quoting poetry), and although, of course, he had not known that the goods in the Betsy were insured (at this point another frown pulled him up and made him reckless), he nevertheless would stoutly hold against any man (cheers) or woman (cheers and laughter), that he, including Mrs Gambart, had had a finger in the pie, which, after simmering for a considerable time (the pie, not the finger) in the oven of—of (cheers) ah! had that night been done (brown, from Bob Smart) to a turn (severely), and been dished up in such splendid style that a more auspicious climax could—could—

The remainder was drowned in vociferous cheering, in which Mr Gambart himself joined, shook hands with the guests on each side of him, sat down, and blew his nose.

It was at this point that Bob Smart, overcome by a gush of feeling, burst into a song, the burden of which was that the light of former days being faded, their glories past and shaded, and the joys of other days being too bright to last, it was not worth while doing more than making a simple statement of these facts without expressing a decided opinion either one way or another in regard to them.

As he sang this rather pretty song in the voice of a cracked tea-kettle, a thrill of delight ran through the company when deaf Mrs Crowder, being ignorant of what was going on, suddenly said that as there seemed to be a pause in the flow of soul, she, although a woman, would venture to express a sentiment, if not to propose a toast. This was of course received with a shout of joy, which effectually quenched Mr Smart. In a sweet tremulous little voice the old lady said, “let us wish, with all our hearts, that health, happiness, charity, and truth may dwell as long as it shall stand, under the roof-tree of Loch Dhu!”

Of course this called McLeod to his legs again, after which there were more speeches and more songs—both grave and gay—until “nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” began gently to tickle the guests, reminding them that felicity is not less enhanced by occasions of exuberant mirth than by periods of tranquil repose.