See Transcriber’s Notes at end of text.
[Illustration: “Lucy * * * watched intently a boat pushing out from
a bay farther up the shore.” (Page 159.)]
_The House of Cariboo
AND OTHER
Tales from Arcadia,
BY
A. PAUL GARDINER.
Author of “Vacation Incidents,” “The Fifth
Avenue Social Trust,” etc.
Illustrated by Robert A. Graef.
A. P. Gardiner, Publisher, New York.
1900._
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY
A. P. GARDINER.
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
THE ARCHIPELAGO, 11
ALONG THE FRONT, 16
THE HOUSE OF CARIBOO.
CHAP. I. THE CAMERONS AT THE FRONT, 31
CHAP. II. BARBARA AND DAN AT HOME, 43
CHAP. III. ON THE WAY TO THE GOLD FIELDS, 46
CHAP. IV. INTO THE CARIBOO MOUNTAINS, 50
CHAP. V. AT THE FOUR CORNERS, 54
CHAP. VI. DONALD VISITS THE GOSSIP CLUB, 63
CHAP. VII. IN THE MINING CAMP, 72
CHAP. VIII. LECLARE’S STORY: THE INITIALED TREE, 80
CHAP. IX. LECLARE’S STORY: THE CHRISTMAS TREE, 89
CHAP. X. ADIEU TO THE MINING CAMP, 96
CHAP. XI. NICK PERKINS THE MONEY LENDER, 101
CHAP XII. BARBARA IN THE CHILCOTEN VALLEY, 110
CHAP. XIII. THE MORTGAGE COMES DUE, 115
CHAP. XIV. BLAKELY CONSULTS CAMERON’S LAWYER, 121
CHAP. XV. CAMERON’S RESOLVE, 126
CHAP. XVI. THE RETURN OF THE GOLD DIGGERS, 131
CHAP. XVII. CAMERON OUTLINES HIS POLICY, 136
CHAP. XVIII. THE ICE RAFT, 143
CHAP. XIX. LECLARE TO PROSPECT IN ARCADIA, 153
CHAP. XX. LUCY VISITS THE ARCHIPELAGO, 157
CHAP. XXI. UNDER THE INITIALED TREE, 166
CHAP. XXII. THE MYSTERY OF THE CORNER STONES, 171
CHAP. XXIII. FRASER CONFERS WITH PERKINS, 175
CHAP. XXIV. PERKINS AGAIN OUTWITTED, 182
CHAP. XXV. DONALD BAN AT THE FRONT, 188
CHAP. XXVI. CAMERON’S TASK COMPLETED, 195
THE GROWING MASKINONGE, 200
List of Full Page Illustrations.
“Lucy * * * watched intently a boat pushing out
from a bay farther up the shore.” (Page 159.) _Frontispiece._
“I had run across Jimmie, one day, while prospecting
for water lilies,” 22
“‘Now, Nick Perkins, if you have got anything to
say to me personally, just come down here in
the road and I’ll talk to you,’” 68
“‘Speak, Edmond!’ gasped Cameron. ‘What have
you behind your back? It’s gold! gold!—I
know it!’” 76
“As the hour of the sale approached, they assembled
at the east end of the broad veranda,” 188
“‘Well, it’s pretty bad,’ said Du Ponté, ‘but Ribbon
needs you the worst of any of us,’” 212
_The Archipelago._
As the eagle stirs up her nest upon the crags and forces her young
over the confines of the inadequate abode, it is then that they spread
their wings and soar away to freedom and independence. So is it with
the great river of rivers, the St. Lawrence. Born among the Northwest
Lakes, and sheltered there for a time, resenting intrusion, it steals
away unnoticed from the watershed expanse. Threading its course through
the marshes and lowlands, it gathers momentum as it speeds onward,
till, the volume growing too great for its confining banks, its waters
rebel, and breaking from control, spread forth into the boisterous
storm-tossed Erie. Here they are disrupted and buffeted about, driven
by the winds and carried onward by a terrible undertow. Now drawn
through a narrow, deep channel, swiftly they pass the cities on the
shore. Too quickly they are speeding to heed or be disturbed longer
by the warring of the elements. Down to the very brink of the awful
precipice ahead they charge with ever-increasing speed, then over the
Niagara, pouring far beneath into the seething, boiling caldrons.
After surging still onward through jagged, walled raceways, then
emerging into a lake of whirling eddies, till finally fought out
to exhaustion, the once rampant waters of the tumultuous Erie flow
peacefully into the haven of the Lake of Ontario. Here at rest,
landlocked by the grape-bearing vineyards of the Niagara and the
peach groves of the Canadian Paradise of the West, the St. Lawrence
is again reinforced, and again its voyage onward to the sea is begun,
this time marked by the dignity of a well-organized body. The blue
waters, through their separate channels, glide majestically down their
course, passing the islands in their midst with a happy smile and
ripples of sunlight laughter. Touching at the wharfs of the numerous
cottagers and lapping the white shining sides of the pleasure craft
among the Thousand Islands, onward heedlessly flows the beautiful river
increasing in strength.
Once more before reaching the haven of the Archipelago, the water
channels of the great river are bidden to struggle with one another,
to fight for supremacy and swiftness, and demonstrate to the other
creatures of nature the mighty forces hidden at other times beneath the
tranquil surface of her smiling face. The rapids of the Sioux are now
left behind and we come to that part of the majestic river included
in these sketches, which territorial lines have placed within the
borders of our friendly Canadian ally, the Lake St. Francis. Beginning
immediately after the subsiding of the waters from their turbulent
passage through the rapids of the Sioux, the river spreads out till
its confining banks are in places ten miles apart. There in this wide
expanse stretching across toward the blue irregular mountain line of
the Adirondacks, far to the southward, then eastward till the vision
meets the water line, lie the islands grouped for beauty by nature’s
gardener, called by the writer the Arcadian Archipelago.
The very atmosphere of this enchanted region compels the thoughts of
peace and freedom. A restful idleness pervades the life of its people;
and while they fish and row about through the islands of the group,
picnicking with their friends of the Cameron or McDonald Clan from the
“Gore,” little do they care for the tending of the farm, the harvesting
of the crops, or the speeding of time. The only “walking delegate”
whose ruling they recognize, is the rising or setting sun. Upon the
interval of time, for them there are no restrictions.
Free from the cares of business, ignorant of the affairs of political
intriguing, and shielded by happiness from all social strife, these
primitive inhabitants of the Archipelago live on as does the flowering
plant-life of the district. They bask in the sun of the Spring and
Summer seasons, only to hide away again for months from the Winter’s
snows and the icy winds of December and March. As life among the people
of Glengarry and the settlers at the “Front” over on the mainland,
goes happily on, unchanged by the passing social fads of the century,
so also upon the St. Francis Islands nature still retains her original
tenants and social customs. The Indians from the tribe of St. Regis at
the reservation on the mainland guard with a jealous care their coveted
hunting grounds from possession by the white men; and neither thus far
has the woodsman’s axe nor the painted cottage of the “first settler”
succeeded in gaining an entree into the sacred confines of the St.
Francis Archipelago.
_Along the Front._
[Illustration: _ALONG THE FRONT_]
Along The Front the north bank of the river skirting the Arcadian
Archipelago is high and terraced up from the water’s edge to the
roadway, which follows the indentations of the shore line westward to
the county seat of Glengarry. Over this road the country folk from the
interior townships make their weekly pilgrimages to market the products
of their farms. Facing this road also, and looking out upon the broad
river, dotted with wooded islands, are the farm-houses, the small
church, and the dilapidated remains of what was once a prosperous boat
landing called The Front. In the palmy days of river freighting this
little weather-beaten hamlet had some excuse for a hope of life, but
now that river navigation all over the world has been paralleled with
the modern steel-winged carriers, time and neglect have stamped their
impress upon the deserted buildings and docks, which at one time in the
long ago had shown fair signs of a prolonged life.
From Castle Island, as we look across the boat channel and over the
intervening strips of rush banks to the mainland, the remains of the
business part of The Front present a deserted and uninviting appearance.
First we see the dilapidated dock; then a disheveled freight building;
near by in a small bay, is a broken-down boat house, sadly twisted by
the “ice shoves” in the Spring of the year. Next we can see the old
brown, weather-discolored tavern with an extension reaching out toward
the east. A dance hall it was, and below, the beaux of old Glengarry
stabled their horses, while they danced overhead to the music of the
bagpipes until dawn of day. Sad, as he views the scene, must be the
thoughts of one of these gallants returning to his native home. In the
palmy days of The Front he had proudly escorted the farmer’s comely
lassie through the corridors of the tavern and up the broad stairs
to the dance hall, pleased with his choice of a partner and happy in
the simplicity of his surroundings. To-day, the name on the sign-board
over the entrance is no longer readable. The plank steps, once strong
and unbending, have rotted away at the ends and the centre, until
now, for the use of the laborer’s family who occupy the old shell as
their living apartments, broken pieces of plank for steps are held up
by stones placed one upon the other. The dance hall in the extension
presents the sorriest appearance to the visitor approaching from the
water’s side. A woodyard with jagged, uncut logs and little heaps of
chips picked up here and there from the chopper’s axe, fills the yard
and what was once the stabling-shed for the chafing steeds of the
Glengarry lads. The gable end of the hall is all awry; the archways
beneath and the supporting posts have leaned over, tired as it were,
of the long, weary wait against the time when they will be no longer
asked to support their useless burden. Doves, unmolested, fly in and
out through the broken panes of the windows, and strut and coo along
the weather-checked vane of the roof. Where once the droning of the
bagpipes re-echoed through the full length of the building, it is now
the buzzing of the bumble-bee and the tenor singing wasps that we hear
as they swarm around their hive-nests suspended from the rafters.
Gone forever from the old tavern are the good times of yore, and like
the business prosperity at the landing, they have followed the noisy
rivermen down the stream to return again no more to The Front.
To describe the surviving enterprises at The Front—there are, first,
the government post-office; then the buckboard stage line plying
between The Front and the station to the railway two miles inland; and,
lastly, the boat builder’s plant in the bay. It would seem that the
traveling public were charitably inclined toward the ancient buckskin
mare and the driver of the mail coach, for daily the old nag is hitched
to the buckboard; the canvas mail-sack is rolled up and tucked into
the pocket of the driver’s linen-dusterlike coat, and without ever a
passenger to tax the strength of the old mare or the comfort of the
driver, they jog along together to the station, then back. The return
pouch is extracted from the folds of the accommodating coat, handed
over to the official postmaster, and the business event of the day at
The Front is closed.
Down by the water’s edge, with one corner of its base, as if from
a misstep, dipping down into the stream, is the plant of the boat
builder. Across at Castle Island each season his couple of boats,
the result of his Winter’s employment, are disposed of; then after
re-calking the two which he had sold the previous season, and had
re-purchased at secondhand prices, he awaits through the long Summer
days, the arrival of trade.
Each day as I looked across at The Front, my field glasses refused
to change the sameness of the scene or setting by even discovering
a venturesome pedestrian sauntering down the dusty road, or a child
running an errand for an industrious housewife to the post-office
or general store. Curiosity had about decided me to make a visit of
investigation, but before an opportunity to act came, I was told a
caller wished to see me.
“I am from The Front, aye, sir, just yonder acrost, and three farms
up from the post-office is where I live. Jimmie MacPherson—James T.
MacPherson is my right name, but they call me Jimmie around here. Of
course, I mean,” he added apologetically, “they do over at the cheese
factory and the wheelwright shop. You city folks here on the island,
from New York, don’t know me, so I’m telling you my full name, but you
can call me Jimmie, too, if you like that better.”
“All right, Jimmie,” said I, “that sounds more like getting on
together. Have a seat here on the veranda, or we will go down on the
dock, just as you say.” I thought the presence of ladies near by might
interfere with the free discussion of the subject about which Jimmie
had thought it necessary to call.
[Illustration: “I had run across Jimmie, one day, while prospecting for
water lilies.”]
“On the veranda,” replied Jimmie, and a mischievous twinkle was in
his eyes, as he shaded them from the glare of the morning sun with
the rough fingers of his right hand. “You will see by my complexion,”
he continued in a humorous strain, “that I am not used to being out
in the sun. The field corn grows so fast along The Front that we are
constantly in the shade while out promenading.” Then he turned his
shining countenance on me to confirm what he had said. An honest face
it was, covered with an unkempt, fiery red beard. His skin was burned
and blistered in spots extending from the shade mark on the forehead
made by his greasy felt hat till lost in perspective in the dense
undergrowth of the lower chin and neck.
I had run across Jimmie one day while prospecting for water lilies, at
the mouth of a small creek which emptied its waters by a circuitous
route into one of the channels of the large river, to be found over
in the region of Hoag Island and the Dead Channel. Jimmie on that
morning was cocked up in the stern seat of his flat-bottomed punt. Two
wooden pins acting as oar locks, stuck into the sides of the boat and
recently whittled to a whiteness of the wood, were the only relief in
color to that of the boat and crew. Jimmie was the captain and the
crew consisted of the spaniel dog, whose brown coat corresponded so
closely to the coloring of the metal and stock of the beautiful modern
shot gun, and the entire costume of Jimmie and his river craft, that as
he lay alongside of a reed-bank filled with dried cat-tail I had nearly
run him down before making the discovery.
“Good morning, stranger,” said Jimmie, in a calm, well-inflected voice.
A smile seemed to be playing all about his face. Bristling in the
sun was his red kinky beard, shining his face as though rubbed to a
polish, the shabby felt hat reaching out modestly to the line in the
middle of his forehead. He was perched on the seat, crowded back into
the stern of the boat, and the water spaniel, proud and important,
moved with ease between the rowing seat and the perch upon which his
master sat making observations. Looking more closely at my discovery
before making any reply to his salutation, I saw on his feet a pair
of “contract-made” shoes, rivets and buckles prominently in sight,
which had from long usage taken on a shape resembling an elephant’s
foot in miniature, all instep and few toes; a pair of blue jeans, a
negligee shirt, a leather strap making upward and diagonally across
the chest for a wire nail on the band of the trousers at the back, and
a four-in-hand tie of undefinable pattern, the quilting of which had
suffered a sad displacement and was clinging in shreds to the original
band encircling his neck, which had been tenderly preserved by the
spinach-fringe of unfading brightness.
“Hello,” said I, in return of salute. “Shooting out of season?”
At that instant I was not conscious of the significance of my remark,
which had popped out spontaneously with my first sight of Jimmie and
his crew.
“No,” he replied. “I heard up along The Front that there were some good
dory holes in this channel, so I thought I would come up in here and
see if I could find the fish weeds. Then I would know for myself.”
“Oh, I see!” said I. “Good scheme, isn’t it?” Then we each laughed a
little and seemed to understand each other better after that. My boat
had drifted up alongside, and curiosity led me to ask permission to
examine the modern gun of beautiful finish and workmanship, a striking
contrast to the attire, at least, of the owner.
“A good gun, stranger,” remarked Jimmie.
“Yes, and an expensive one, I should think, any way. What use have you
for such a gun?” I said, as I returned it to him.
“Well, you see,” began Jimmie, “a gun is like some other things. When
you need one, you need it pretty bad, and then you can’t have too good
a one, and that’s why I have one like this.” For an instant I imagined
I was out in the Pan Handle country of Texas and that the advice of
my friend would be good to follow. But, no! Here I was in a boat in
Arcadia on the peaceful Lake St. Francis. Then looking again quickly
toward the boat and crew at my left, I was met by a broad grin from its
occupant.
“Jimmie,” I said, “you’re the sort I always want to know. Come over to
Castle Island to-morrow and we will ‘talk it over.’”
Since meeting Jimmie down in the rush banks, I had heard more about him
from the guides on the Island, and I knew his call this morning would
prove both interesting and entertaining.
Jimmie, they told me, had at one time directed the political affairs
of the County Glengarry. That is, he had been employed as secretary
by the representative in Parliament from his district. This gentleman
could neither read nor write nor compose a speech to be delivered
before his constituents. With him Jimmie spent several months at the
Canadian Capital, where in his capacity as secretary, he had been
writing speeches for his chief which were supposed to be delivered
before the representatives in Parliament, but which instead, his wily
employer had directed should be sent home for publication in the county
newspaper for the edification of the voters who had made him their
representative. Jimmie had schooled his charge “The Member” in the
civilities and court etiquette necessary to be employed toward his
brother “members.” He had also trained him, the while exercising great
tact and patience, how to make use of the most approved mannerisms
and figures of speech while addressing the speaker of the house. The
extent of the oratorical effort, Jimmie insisted with his pupil, must
not exceed the few phrases necessary for the seconding of a motion put
by a colleague, or a perfunctory motion to adjourn.
Then with the “spread-eagle” speeches he had prepared for the press
agents of the counties which he and his employer were representing,
affairs at the Capital, Jimmie had congratulated himself, were going on
swimmingly.
One night, however, as the Quixotic member came to Jimmie’s room
for final directions as to his movements in Parliament for the next
day’s session, he found his instructor boisterously delivering before
an imaginary audience, one of his pet political speeches. Paying no
attention to his caller, Jimmie proceeded with the speech—the needed
appropriations which he demanded from the government to benefit the
industries situated in the great manufacturing town, The Front, which
he had the honor to represent, and the extensive dredging operations
which were necessary to widen the channel to accommodate the lake and
river craft, constantly increasing their volume of business, which
could be proven by the congested condition of the docks, to be seen any
day in the boating season at The Front, etc.
Poor Jimmie! The strain on his mental faculties had been too great.
“Crazy,” the doctors were cruel enough to say. So they took him back to
The Front, gentle of manner, but the enlarged idea he had created in
his brain of the condition of the business affairs at The Front never
parted company with him.
“I have come over this morning,” began Jimmie, after we had seated
ourselves by the woodbine, “to extend to you a welcome and the
courtesies of the people of The Front. I have been instructed by
the members of the Board of Trade to offer you and your friends the
free use of the docks of the port opposite here. The use of the
Assembly Hall attached to the Hustings has been unanimously granted
by the members of the Town Council, and also arrangements have been
consummated whereby passes can be secured to visit the extensive
boat-building plant situated directly opposite on the mainland. I
am also authorized to say that between the hours of ten and twelve,
morning, the cheese manufacturing industry, during week days, and
the church at Glen Water, Sundays, will be open to visitors from the
Island. Now, my friend,” continued Jimmie, rising and placing his
hand upon the back of the chair for good oratorical effect, “come
over to The Front. You are welcome, we are not too busy a people to
miss seeing you when you do come. In fact, I can assure you that you
will feel well repaid for the effort. Why, stop and think, my dear
sir,” he went on, his eyes snapping with excitement and his features
twitching with nervousness, “progress and prosperity are within our
grasp. The grandest water-way of the whole world passes our very door.
Manufactories are already at work in our midst, and the eye of Capital
is upon us. Great, I say, yes, wonderful are the inducements we offer
for visitors coming among us. Again I say, come over to The Front. You
will not find yourself alone. Leading capitalists from all over the
world have been to see us. The truth is you can’t tell whom you may
meet while you are over there.”
“Thank you, Jimmie, thank you. Good morning,” I said. “You can expect
me.” Then bowing and hesitating as though he had received an unexpected
check from the Speaker of the House of Parliament, he seemed to wish to
say more, but with a rare courtesy of manner, he bowed himself out of
my presence, then joining his brown spaniel dog, who awaited his master
on the shore, they got into their boat and rowed back to The Front.
[Illustration]
_The House of Cariboo._
CHAPTER I.
_The Camerons at the Front._
On a rise of ground at “The Front” called the “Nole” stands the Cariboo
House, conspicuously alone.
There, fronting the river channel which separates Castle Island from
the mainland, its tinned mansard roof and the golden ball on the summit
of the flag-staff blazing in the morning’s sun, the marble castle of
the Archipelago shares with the mighty St. Lawrence, the admiration of
the tourists.
Then as the guests at the Island gather upon the quay at sunset, the
tall marble columns and overhanging gables of the House of Cariboo,
frown down upon the waters of the placid river, casting shadows of
ugly proportions that reach across to the very pier upon which the
spectators are standing, and as they linger, fascinated by the glories
of nature, they look again, and behold! outlined against the gold and
copper edged clouds strewn over the horizon, they see projecting itself
heavenward, the green-latticed observatory, and from its vane reaching
up into the clouds is the gilded sphere on the flag-pole still blazing
from the setting sun, while all else on earth below has grown dark and
silent.
Years have passed since the older inhabitants of Glengarry paused
and looked in bewilderment as they traveled the roadway on The Front
past the House of Cariboo. Even now, after listening to the preceding
generation tell and retell stories of Aladdin interest of the House of
Cariboo, the children of the countryside pass hurriedly on their way to
the district school, never once turning to gaze at the mansion, brought
as if from fairyland and put down in the midst of their unpretentious
rural surroundings, till at a safe distance, when they loiter and,
looking backward, unconsciously relieve their disturbed little minds by
breaking off the heads of the bobbing daisies, till urged further along
on their way by the passing of time.
There are in Glengarry County, as you might reasonably suppose, many
families whose direct ancestors, if you cared to trace them, would lead
you at once to the lochs, lowlands or mountain passes of the Scottish
Isle. The Clans of the McDonalds, the Camerons and the MacPhersons,
have each sent a goodly representation to sustain in the new land of
the Canadas the glory of their families in the Scottish hills of their
fathers.
There were in the beginning, at The Front in Glengarry, one Andy
Cameron, and his two brothers, called “Andy’s Dan,” and “Laughing
Donald Cameron.” Many another family of Camerons lived in Glengarry,
but there was no mistaking these three brothers. Dan, who made his home
with Andy Cameron and his wife, never left the premises of the little
farm on the “Nole” unless Andy and his wife went along too, and this
becoming the understood thing among the neighbors at The Front and the
storekeepers at the county town of Glengarry, Dan Cameron came to be
known as Andy’s Dan. The distinction was understood, his pedigree was
recorded in the minds of the people of the neighborhood, and he was
forever out of danger of being confused with the other Dan Camerons of
his neighborhood. Simple Dan, kind-hearted Dan, and most of all Andy’s
Dan.
Laughing Donald had taken up a small farm from the government when he
and his timid, frail wife first came to Glengarry, and poor Donald
never seemed to be any more successful in getting clear from the taxes
levied each year upon him than he was in clearing the few acres he
possessed of the tree stumps, that were the bane of his life during
seed-time and harvesting.
A few years of land holding by Laughing Donald in Glengarry had been
an added expense to Andy, who loaned from his own little store of
savings each year to keep his brother from the long-reaching clutch of
the county tax gatherer; but always laughingly indifferent when he knew
his crop yield was miserably poor, Donald became known to the country
people, and at the village where he and his sickly wife went to trade
their dried apples and carpet-rags for groceries, as Laughing Donald
Cameron. He laughed if he was greeted kindly, and he also laughed with
the same apparent degree of happiness if a hard-hearted merchant told
him his produce was not worth the buying. So Laughing Donald filled
a niche, whose personality was all his own, and neither was he ever
confounded with others of his name in the County Glengarry.
Tilling the ground on his small farm on The Front seemed very hard
work to Donald Cameron. His gentle wife, since their coming to the new
land of the Canadas, had pined for the associations of her Scottish
hills; her health had failed with the broken spirit till she was now
pronounced an invalid. For her, the delicacies of life could not be
provided, and sickness and misfortune speedily came to their humble
home. Soon two of the children of Laughing Donald were buried in the
churchyard at The Front and the illness of his wife continued.
Andy Cameron had noted with increasing solicitude the inroads being
made by sickness and death into the home of his brother. Unpaid bills
were accumulating and the hand of misfortune was close upon the head of
the luckless Donald. Andy had seen his lawyer friend up at the county
village, then consulting his wife Barbara, a mortgage was first made on
his own farm at the “Nole,” and Donald’s obligations were paid in full.
But then the doctor’s bill came next to Donald, for weeks and months of
medical attendance upon his invalid wife, and, still laughing in his
childish way, he brought it, as if amused at the impossible amount, and
handed it to Andy.
“Go back home, Donald,” was Andy’s reply. “Take good care of your poor
wife. The doctor must be paid.” And then Andy made another trip up to
the village. At the lawyer’s he arranged for the money and then for
the mortgage which was this time to be placed upon Donald’s little farm.
That night, as Andy journeyed homeward from the town, he recalled how
he and his wife and Dan, his simple-minded brother, had struggled to
clear their little farm of debt; how they had stumped the land and
builded barns and stables, and fenced in the meadows for their cattle;
how happy they had been when they had paid off the last of the tax
debt; and how proudly he walked up the church aisle upon a Sunday,
and sat in the end of the pew at the head of his little family and
afterwards greeted his neighbors around the church door, as they stood
gossiping after service. But now to think what he had been compelled to
do. Donald was his brother, though, and was not poor Donald in trouble?
And his invalid wife—Andy well knew that if a few of the luxuries of
life and the tender care which her timid, shrinking nature cried out
for, could only be given to her in ever so slight a degree, she would
no longer be a suffering invalid.
“Two years,” Andy remarked to himself, “was the time set before the
lawyer could foreclose on his own homestead, and the same time was set
for his brother, Laughing Donald.” Andy recalled as he rode slowly
homeward, that the storekeeper hesitated as he gave him the pound of
tea to be charged as before, and when he had asked for a dollar’s worth
of brown sugar, he had only been given half that amount. It was to be
charged also.
“Who were they that dared to think a Cameron would not pay a just bill!
Was not he a Cameron, the eldest of his brothers, and from the proudest
clan of all the Highland Tartans?”
Andy felt as he had never felt before. The latent pride of his
forefathers was stirred within him. Should they take the farm from his
brother Donald? Should they take his farm and that of his wife and the
home of his simple-minded brother Dan? “No, never!” determined Andy,
“not while I live to protect the innocent,” the cry went up from his
very soul. There was money to be had, wealth to be gotten, for life
must be preserved. To the gold fields of California, to the mountain
passes of the Rockies, or the far British Columbias, he would go, and
before the expiration of the mortgages he would return, and in the eyes
of his neighbors in Glengarry and among the storekeepers of the town,
the name of Andy’s Dan, Laughing Donald or Andy Cameron would stand
good for a great deal more than the pound of tea or the paltry dollar’s
worth of sugar they had refused him this very night upon which he had
made his resolve.
A day or two following the last trip Andy had made to the county town
in the interest of procuring more money, he thought it next important
that he consult his loyal but none too assertive spouse concerning the
execution of the resolve he had settled upon, through which he hoped to
clear the good name of Cameron in the county from the insults which had
been offered him, even so slightly, by the storekeepers in the town.
Barbara Cameron, the faithful wife to whom Andy went for encouragement
when he found that the burdens heaped upon him by the unfortunate
members of his family were greater than the resources of the combined
farms could support, listened with a heart full of sympathy while her
husband unfolded the plan by which he hoped to retrieve their waning
fortunes. Quietly, at first, he began to tell of the circumstances
which compelled him to place a mortgage upon their own little farm and
homestead. Then, arising in his excitement, he proceeded to relate
to her the cruel indignities heaped upon his unfortunate brother by
the avaricious tax gatherer, who seemed to take a special delight in
hunting him to earth; and how, to satisfy his demands, and to meet the
bills of the doctors and druggists, he had last of all been compelled
to mortgage Donald’s home. For, he explained, as he sadly looked
from the window over in its direction, he could not remain a passive
onlooker while the cruel hand of fate still pursued the family of the
helpless Donald, and a low fever slowly burned out the wick of life in
the feeble frame of his gentle wife.
Finally, with a rising inflection in his voice and a righteous
indignation of manner, Andy explained to his wife the nature of the
insults which he had had offered to him in the town, and that he, as a
Cameron, and the head of their little colony must resent the wrongs,
and maintain the dignity and pride of his forefathers. He would leave
her for perhaps two years, he said—he was going to the gold fields of
the Canadian Rocky Mountains. There in the Cariboo Hills, in the Canons
of the Rockies and in the shifting river beds of the melting glaziers,
he would dig for gold. He would hunt the shining flecks of dust, the
gold colored nuggets, seeking the wealth by which he hoped to retrieve
his darkening fortunes.
“We will sell our cows, Barbara.” His voice was lowered almost to a
whisper. “You and Dan shall have the money. The team of roans we must
part with, too, Barbara. Laughing Donald and his frail wife, you will
be kind to—and poor Dan, tell him always, Barbara, that Andy is coming
back soon—coming soon.”
With confiding faith, though she did not quite understand, Barbara felt
that if her husband said all this, it must be right for her to believe
it. Andy had brushed away with the back of his hand the tears upon his
weather-beaten cheeks awaiting her reply. She in her characteristic
way, made only this comment: “When will you start, Andy, think ye?”
[Illustration]