On the following day at noon, the spot on which the late combat had
taken place became the theatre of a stirring and animated scene. Fort
Garry, and the space between it and the river, swarmed with voyageurs,
dressed in their cleanest, newest, and most brilliant costume. The
large boats for the north, six in number, lay moored to the river's
bank, laden with bales of furs, and ready to start on their long voyage.
Young men, who had never been on the road before, stood with animated
looks watching the operations of the guides as they passed critical
examination upon their boats, overhauled the oars to see that they were
in good condition, or with crooked knives (a species of instrument in
the use of which voyageurs and natives are very expert) polished off the
top of a mast, the blade of an oar, or the handle of a tiller. Old men,
who had passed their lives in similar occupations, looked on in
silence--some standing with their heads bent on their bosoms, and an
expression of sadness about their faces, as if the scene recalled some
mournful event of their early life, or possibly reminded them of wild,
joyous scenes of other days, when the blood coursed warmly in their
young veins, and the strong muscles sprang lightly to obey their will;
when the work they had to do was hard, and the sleep that followed it
was sound--scenes and days that were now gone by for ever. Others
reclined against the wooden fence, their arms crossed, their thin white
hair waving gently in the breeze, and a kind smile playing on their
sunburned faces, as they observed the swagger and coxcombry of the
younger men, or watched the gambols of several dark-eyed little
children--embryo buffalo-hunters and voyageurs--whose mothers had
brought them to the fort to get a last kiss from papa, and witness the
departure of the boats.
Several tender scenes were going on in out-of-the-way places--in angles
of the walls and bastions, or behind the gates--between youthful couples
about to be separated for a season. Interesting scenes these of pathos
and pleasantry--a combination of soft glances and affectionate, fervent
assurances; alternate embraces (that were _apparently_ received with
reluctance, but _actually_ with delight), and proffers of pieces of
calico and beads and other trinkets (received both _apparently_ and
_actually_ with extreme satisfaction) as souvenirs of happy days that
were past, and pledges of unalterable constancy and bright hopes in days
that were yet to come.
A little apart from the others, a youth and a girl might be seen
sauntering slowly towards the copse beyond the stable. These were
Charley Kennedy and his sister Kate, who had retired from the bustling
scene to take a last short walk together, ere they separated, it might
be for years, perhaps for ever! Charley held Kate's hand, while her
sweet little head rested on his shoulder.
"O Charley, Charley, my own dear, darling Charley, I'm quite miserable,
and you ought not to go away; it's very wrong, and I don't mind a bit
what you say, I shall die if you leave me!" And Kate pressed him
tightly to her heart, and sobbed in the depth of her woe.
"Now, Kate, my darling, don't go on so! You know I can't help it--"
"I _don't_ know," cried Kate, interrupting him, and speaking
vehemently--"I don't know, and I don't believe, and I don't care for
anything at all; it's very hard-hearted of you, and wrong, and not
right, and I'm just quite wretched!"
Poor Kate was undoubtedly speaking the absolute truth; for a more
disconsolate and wretched look of woe-begone misery was never seen on so
sweet and tender and lovable a little face before. Her blue eyes swam
in two lakes of pure crystal, that overflowed continually; her mouth,
which was usually round, had become an elongated oval; and her nut-brown
hair fell in dishevelled masses over her soft cheeks.
"O Charley," she continued, "why _won't_ you stay?"
"Listen to me, dearest Kate," said Charley, in a very husky voice.
"It's too late to draw back now, even if I wished to do so; and you
don't consider, darling, that I'll be back again soon. Besides, I'm a
man now, Kate, and I must make my own bread. Who ever heard of a man
being supported by his old father?"
"Well, but you can do that here."
"Now, don't interrupt me, Kate," said Charley, kissing her forehead;
"I'm quite satisfied with _two short_ legs, and have no desire whatever
to make my bread on the top of _three long_ ones. Besides, you know I
can write to you--"
"But you won't; you'll forget."
"No, indeed, I will not. I'll write you long letters about all that I
see and do; and you shall write long letters to me about--"
"Stop, Charley," cried Kate; "I won't listen to you. I hate to think of
it."
And her tears burst forth again with fresh violence. This time
Charley's heart sank too. The lump in his throat all but choked him; so
he was fain to lay his head upon Kate's heaving bosom, and weep along
with her.
For a few minutes they remained silent, when a slight rustling in the
bushes was heard. In another moment a tall, broad-shouldered,
gentlemanly man, dressed in black, stood before them. Charley and Kate,
on seeing this personage, arose, and wiping the tears from their eyes,
gave a sad smile as they shook hands with their clergyman.
"My poor children," said Mr Addison, affectionately, "I know well why
your hearts are sad. May God bless and comfort you! I saw you enter
the wood, and came to bid you farewell, Charley, my dear boy, as I shall
not have another opportunity of doing so."
"O dear Mr Addison," cried Kate, grasping his hand in both of hers, and
gazing imploringly up at him through a perfect wilderness of ringlets
and tears, "do prevail upon Charley to stay at home; please do!"
Mr Addison could scarcely help smiling at the poor girl's extreme
earnestness.
"I fear, my sweet child, that it is too late now to attempt to dissuade
Charley. Besides, he goes with the consent of his father; and I am
inclined to think that a change of life for a _short_ time may do him
good. Come, Kate, cheer up! Charley will return to us again ere long,
improved, I trust, both physically and mentally."
Kate did _not_ cheer up, but she dried her eyes, and endeavoured to look
more composed; while Mr Addison took Charley by the hand, and, as they
walked slowly through the wood, gave him much earnest advice and
counsel.
The clergyman's manner was peculiar. With a large, warm, generous
heart, he possessed an enthusiastic nature, a quick, brusque manner, and
a loud voice, which, when his spirit was influenced by the strong
emotions of pity or anxiety for the souls of his flock, sank into a
deep, soft bass of the most thrilling earnestness. He belonged to the
Church of England, but conducted service very much in the Presbyterian
form, as being more suited to his mixed congregation. After a long
conversation with Charley, he concluded by saying:--
"I do not care to say much to you about being kind and obliging to all
whom you may meet with during your travels, nor about the dangers to
which you will be exposed by being thrown into the company of wild and
reckless, perhaps very wicked, men. There is but _one_ incentive to
every good, and _one_ safeguard against all evil, my boy, and that is
the love of God. You may perhaps forget much that I have said to you;
but remember this, Charley, if you would be happy in this world, and
have a good hope for the next, centre your heart's affection on our
blessed Lord Jesus Christ; for believe me, boy, _His_ heart's affection
is centred upon you."
As Mr Addison spoke, a loud hollo from Mr Kennedy apprised them that
their time was exhausted, and that the boats were ready to start.
Charley sprang towards Kate, locked her in a long, passionate embrace,
and then, forgetting Mr Addison altogether in his haste, ran out of the
wood, and hastened towards the scene of departure.
"Good-bye, Charley!" cried Harry Somerville, running up to his friend
and giving him a warm grasp of the hand. "Don't forget me, Charley. I
wish I were going with you, with all my heart; but I'm an unlucky dog.
Good-bye." The senior clerk and Peter Mactavish had also a kindly word
and a cheerful farewell for him as he hurried past.
"Good-bye, Charley, my lad!" said old Mr Kennedy, in an _excessively_
loud voice, as if by such means he intended to crush back some unusual
but very powerful feelings that had a peculiar influence on a certain
lump in his throat. "Goodbye, my lad; don't forget to write to your
old--Hang it!" said the old man, brushing his coat-sleeve somewhat
violently across his eyes, and turning abruptly round as Charley left
him and sprang into the boat.--"I say, Grant, I--I--What are you staring
at, eh?" The latter part of his speech was addressed, in an angry tone,
to an innocent voyageur, who happened accidentally to confront him at
the moment.
"Come along, Kennedy," said Mr Grant, interposing, and grasping his
excited friend by the arm--"come with me."
"Ah, to be sure!--yes," said he, looking over his shoulder and waving a
last adieu to Charley. "Good-bye, God bless you, my dear boy!--I say,
Grant, come along; quick, man, and let's have a pipe--yes, let's have a
pipe." Mr Kennedy, essaying once more to crush back his rebellious
feelings, strode rapidly up the bank, and entering the house, sought to
overwhelm his sorrow in smoke: in which attempt he failed.