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 substitute, 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 pronounced 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 circumstances, 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 butter 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 passage
with a loud crash. Mr. Kennedy shut the door gently, and returned to
his chair, patting Kate on the head as he passed.
“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, lass—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 passing 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 passed 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.
“Father, dear, dear father!” said Charley, as he loosened his grasp,
and, still holding him by both hands, looked earnestly into his face
with swimming eyes.
Old Mr. Kennedy seemed to have lost his powers of speech. He gazed at
his son for a few seconds in silence—then suddenly threw his arms
around him and engaged in a species of wrestle which he intended for an
embrace.
“O Charley, my boy! you’ve come at last—God bless you! Let’s look at
you. Quite changed: six feet; no, not quite changed—the old nose; black
as an Indian. O Charley, my dear boy! I’ve been waiting for you for
months; why did you keep me so long, eh? Hang it, where’s my
handkerchief?” At this last exclamation Mr. Kennedy’s feelings quite
overcame him; his full heart overflowed at his eyes, so that when he
tried to look at his son, Charley appeared partly magnified and partly
broken up into fragments. Fumbling in his pocket for the missing
handkerchief, which he did not find, he suddenly seized his fur cap, in
a burst of exasperation, and wiped his eyes with that. Immediately
after, forgetting that it was a cap he thrust it into his pocket.
“Come, dear father,” cried Charley, drawing the old man’s arm through
his, “let us go home. Is Kate there?”
“Ay, ay,” cried Mr. Kennedy, waving his hand as he was dragged away,
and bestowing, quite unwittingly, a back-handed slap on the cheek to
Harry Somerville—which nearly felled that youth to the ground. “Ay, ay!
Kate, to be sure, darling. Yes, quite right, Charley; a pipe—that’s it,
my boy, let’s have a pipe!” And thus, uttering coherent and broken
sentences, he disappeared through the doorway with his long-lost and
now recovered son.
Meanwhile Harry and Jacques continued to pace quietly before the house,
waiting patiently until the first ebullition of feeling, at the meeting
of Charley with his father and sister, should be over. In a few minutes
Charley ran out.
“Hollo, Harry! come in, my boy; forgive my forgetfulness, but—”
“My dear fellow,” interrupted Harry, “what nonsense you are talking! Of
course you forgot me, and everybody and everything on earth, just now;
but have you seen Kate? is—”
“Yes, yes,” cried Charley, as he pushed his friend before him, and
dragged Jacques after him into the parlour.—“Here’s Harry, father, and
Jacques.—You’ve heard of Jacques, Kate?”
“Harry, my, dear boy;” cried Mr. Kennedy, seizing his young friend by
the hand; “how are you, lad? Better, I hope.”
At that moment Mr. Kennedy’s eye fell on Jacques, who stood in the
doorway, cap in hand, with the usual quiet smile lighting up his
countenance.
“What! Jacques—Jacques Caradoc!” he cried, in astonishment.
“The same, sir; you an’ I have know’d each other afore now in the way
o’ trade,” answered the hunter, as he grasped his old bourgeois by the
hand and wrung it warmly. Mr. Kennedy, senior, was so overwhelmed by
the combination of exciting influences to which he was now subjected,
that he plunged his hand into his pocket for the handkerchief again,
and pulled out the fur hat instead, which he flung angrily at the cat;
then using the sleeve of his coat as a substitute, he proceeded to put
a series of abrupt questions to Jacques and Charley simultaneously.
In the meantime Harry went up to Kate and _stared_ at her. We do not
mean to say that he was intentionally rude to her. No! He went towards
her intending to shake hands, and renew acquaintance with his old
companion; but the moment he caught sight of her he was struck not only
dumb, but motionless. The odd part of it was that Kate, too, was
affected in precisely the same way, and both of them exclaimed
mentally, “Can it be possible?” Their lips, however, gave no utterance
to the question. At length Kate recollected herself, and blushing
deeply, held out her hand, as she said,—
“Forgive me, Har—Mr. Somerville; I was so surprised at your altered
appearance, I could scarcely believe that my old friend stood before
me.”
Harry’s cheeks crimsoned as he seized her hand and said: “Indeed,
Ka—a—Miss—that is, in fact, I’ve been very ill, and doubtless have
changed somewhat; but the very same thought struck me in regard to
yourself, you are so—so—”
Fortunately for Harry, who was gradually becoming more and more
confused, to the amusement of Charley, who had closely observed the
meeting of his friend and sister, Mr. Kennedy came up.
“Eh! what’s that? What did you say _struck_ you, Harry, my lad?”
“_You_ did, father, on his arrival,” replied Charley, with a broad
grin, “and a very neat back-hander it was.”
“Nonsense, Charley,” interrupted Harry, with a laugh.—“I was just
saying, sir, that Miss Kennedy is so changed that I could hardly
believe it to be herself.”
“And I had just paid Mr. Somerville the same compliment, papa,” cried
Kate, laughing and blushing simultaneously.
Mr. Kennedy thrust his hands into his pockets, frowned portentously as
he looked from one to the other, and said slowly, “_Miss_ Kennedy,
_Mr._ Somerville!” then turning to his son, remarked, “That’s something
new, Charley, lad; that girl is _Miss_ Kennedy, and that youth there is
_Mr._ Somerville!”
Charley laughed loudly at this sally, especially when the old gentleman
followed it up with a series of contortions of the left cheek, meant
for violent winking.
“Right, father, right; it won’t do here. We don’t know anybody but Kate
and Harry in this house.”
Harry laughed in his own genuine style at this.
“Well, Kate be it, with all my heart,” said he; “but, really, at first
she seemed so unlike the Kate of former days that I could not bring
myself to call her so.”
“Humph!” said Mr. Kennedy. “But come, boys, with me to my smoking-room,
and let’s have a talk over a pipe, while Kate looks after dinner.”
Giving Charley another squeeze of the hand, and Harry a pat on the
shoulder, the old gentleman put on his cap (with the peak behind), and
led the way to his glass divan in the garden.
It is perhaps unnecessary for us to say that Kate Kennedy and Harry
Somerville had, within the last hour, fallen deeply, hopelessly,
utterly, irrevocably, and totally in love with each other. They did not
merely fall up to the ears in love. To say that they fell over head and
ears in it would be, comparatively speaking, to say nothing. In fact,
they did not fall into it at all. They went deliberately backwards,
took a long race, sprang high into the air, turned completely round,
and went down head first into the flood, descending to a depth utterly
beyond the power of any deep-sea lead to fathom, or of any human mind
adequately to appreciate. Up to that day Kate had thought of Harry as
the hilarious youth who used to take every opportunity he could of
escaping from the counting-room and hastening to spend the afternoon in
rambling through the woods with her and Charley. But the instant she
saw him a man, with a bright, cheerful countenance, on which rough
living and exposure to frequent peril had stamped unmistakable lines of
energy and decision, and to which recent illness had imparted a
captivating touch of sadness—the moment she beheld this, and the
undeniable scrap of whisker that graced his cheeks, and the slight
_shade_ that rested on his upper lip, her heart leaped violently into
her throat, where it stuck hard and fast, like a stranded ship on a
lee-shore.
In like manner, when Harry beheld his former friend a woman, with
beaming eyes and clustering ringlets and—(there, we won’t attempt
it!)—in fact, surrounded by every nameless and namable grace that makes
woman exasperatingly delightful, his heart performed the same eccentric
movement, and he felt that his fate was sealed; that he had been sucked
into a rapid which was too strong even for his expert and powerful arm
to contend against, and that he must drift with the current now,
_nolens volens_, and run it as he best could.
When Kate retired to her sleeping-apartment that night, she endeavoured
to comport herself in her usual manner; but all her efforts failed. She
sat down on her bed, and remained motionless for half-an-hour; then she
started and sighed deeply; then she smiled and opened her Bible, but
forgot to read it; then she rose hastily, sighed again, took off her
gown, hung it up on a peg, and returning to the dressing-table sat down
on her best bonnet; then she cried a little, at which point the candle
suddenly went out; so she gave a slight scream, and at last went to bed
in the dark.
Three hours afterwards, Harry Somerville, who had been enjoying a cigar
and a chat with Charley and his father, rose, and bidding his friends
good-night, retired to his chamber, where he flung himself down on a
chair, thrust his hands into his pockets, stretched out his legs, gazed
abstractedly before him, and exclaimed—“O Kate, my exquisite girl,
you’ve floored me quite that!”
As he continued to sit in silence, the gaze of affection gradually and
slowly changed into a look of intense astonishment as he beheld the
gray cat sitting comfortably on the table, and regarding him with a
look of complacent interest, as if it thought Harry’s style of
addressing it was highly satisfactory—though rather unusual.
“Brute!” exclaimed Harry, springing from his seat and darting towards
it. But the cat was too well accustomed to old Mr. Kennedy’s sudden
onsets to be easily taken by surprise. With a bound it reached the
floor, and took shelter under the bed, whence it was not ejected until
Harry, having first thrown his shoes, soap, clothes-brush, and
razor-strop at it, besides two or three books and several miscellaneous
articles of toilet, at last opened the door (a thing, by the way, that
people would do well always to remember before endeavouring to expel a
cat from an impregnable position), and drew the bed into the middle of
the room. Then, but not till then, it fled, with its back, its tail,
its hair, its eyes—in short, its entire body—bristling in rampant
indignation. Having dislodged the enemy, Harry replaced the bed, threw
off his coat and waistcoat, untied his neckcloth, sat down on his chair
again, and fell into a reverie; from which, after half-an-hour, he
started, clasped his hands, stamped his foot, glared up at the ceiling,
slapped his thigh, and exclaimed, in the voice of a hero, “Yes, I’ll do
it, or die!”