The course of true love, curiously enough, runs smooth for once; and
the curtain falls.
Time rolled on, and with it the sunbeams of summer went—the snowflakes
of winter came. Needles of ice began to shoot across the surface of Red
River, and gradually narrowed its bed. Crystalline trees formed upon
the window-panes. Icicles depended from the eaves of the houses. Snow
fell in abundance on the plains; liquid nature began rapidly to
solidify, and not many weeks after the first frost made its appearance
everything was (as the settlers expressed it) “hard and fast.”
Mr. Kennedy, senior, was in his parlour, with his back to a blazing
wood-fire that seemed large enough to roast an ox whole. He was
standing, moreover, in a semi-picturesque attitude, with his right hand
in his breeches pocket and his left arm round Kate’s waist. Kate was
dressed in a gown that rivalled the snow itself in whiteness. One
little gold clasp shone in her bosom; it was the only ornament she
wore. Mr. Kennedy, too, had somewhat altered his style of costume. He
wore a sky-blue, swallow-tailed coat, whose maker had flourished in
London half-a-century before. It had a velvet collar about five inches
deep, fitted uncommonly tight to the figure, and had a pair of bright
brass buttons, very close together, situated half-a-foot above the
wearer’s natural waist. Besides this, he had on a canary-coloured vest,
and a pair of white duck trousers, in the fob of which _evidently_
reposed an immense gold watch of the olden time, with a bunch of seals
that would have served very well as an anchor for a small boat.
Although the dress was, on the whole, slightly comical, its owner, with
his full, fat, broad figure, looked remarkably well in it,
nevertheless.
It was Kate’s marriage-day, or rather marriage-evening; for the sun had
set two hours ago, and the moon was now sailing in the frosty sky, its
pale rays causing the whole country to shine with a clear, cold,
silvery whiteness.
The old gentleman had been for some time gazing in silent admiration on
the fair brow and clustering ringlets of his daughter, when it suddenly
occurred to him that the company would arrive in half-an-hour, and
there were several things still to be attended to.
“Hello, Kate!” he exclaimed, with a start, “we’re forgetting ourselves.
The candles are yet to light, and lots of other things to do.” Saying
this, he began to bustle about the room in a state of considerable
agitation.
“Oh, don’t worry yourself, dear father!” cried Kate, running after him
and catching him by the hand. “Miss Cookumwell and good Mrs.
Taddipopple are arranging everything about tea and supper in the
kitchen, and Tom Whyte has been kindly sent to us by Mr. Grant, with
orders to make himself generally useful, so _he_ can light the candles
in a few minutes, and you’ve nothing to do but to kiss me and receive
the company.” Kate pulled her father gently towards the fire again, and
replaced his arm round her waist.
“Receive company! Ah, Kate, my love, that’s just what I know nothing
about. If they’d let me receive them in my own way, I’d do it well
enough; but that abominable Mrs. Taddi-what’s her name-has quite addled
my brains and driven me distracted with trying to get me to understand
what she calls _etiquette_.”
Kate laughed, and said she didn’t care _how_ he received them, as she
was quite sure that, whichever way he did it, he would do it pleasantly
and well.
At that moment the door opened, and Tom Whyte entered. He was thinner,
if possible, than he used to be, and considerably stiffer, and more
upright.
“Please, sir,” said he, with a motion that made you expect to hear his
back creak (it was intended for a bow)—“please, sir, can I do hanythink
for yer?”
“Yes, Tom, you can,” replied Mr. Kennedy. “Light these candles, my man,
and then go to the stable and see that everything there is arranged for
putting up the horses. It will be pretty full to-night, Tom, and will
require some management. Then, let me see—ah yes, bring me my pipe,
Tom, my big meerschaum.—I’ll sport that to-night in honour of you,
Kate.”
“Please, sir,” began Tom, with a slightly disconcerted air, “I’m
afeared, sir, that—um—”
“Well, Tom, what would you say? Go on.”
“The pipe, sir,” said Tom, growing still more disconcerted—“says I to
cook, says I, ‘Cook, wot’s been an’ done it, d’ye think?’ ‘Dun know,
Tom,’ says he, ‘but it’s smashed, that’s sartin. I think the gray
cat—’”
“What!” cried the old trader, in a voice of thunder, while a frown of
the most portentous ferocity darkened his brow for an instant. It was
only for an instant, however. Clearing his brow quickly, he said with a
smile, “But it’s your wedding-day, Kate, my darling. It won’t do to
blow up anybody to-day, not even the cat.—There, be off, Tom, and see
to things. Look sharp! I hear sleigh-bells already.”
As he spoke Tom vanished perpendicularly, Kate hastened to her room,
and the old gentleman himself went to the front door to receive his
guests.
The night was of that intensely calm and still character that
invariably accompanies intense frost, so that the merry jingle of the
sleigh-bells that struck on Mr. Kennedy’s listening ear continued to
sound, and grow louder as they drew near, for a considerable time ere
the visitors arrived. Presently the dull, soft tramp of horses’ hoofs
was heard in the snow, and a well-known voice shouted out lustily, “Now
then, Mactavish, keep to the left. Doesn’t the road take a turn there?
Mind the gap in the fence. That’s old Kennedy’s only fault. He’d rather
risk breaking his friends’ necks than mend his fences!”
“All right, here we are,” cried Mactavish, as the next instant two
sleighs emerged out of the avenue into the moonlit space in front of
the house, and dashed up to the door amid an immense noise and clatter
of bells, harness, hoofs, snorting, and salutations.
“Ah, Grant, my dear fellow!” cried Mr. Kennedy, springing to the sleigh
and seizing his friend by the hand as he dragged him out. “This is kind
of you to come early. And Mrs. Grant, too. Take care, my dear madam,
step clear of the haps; now, then—cleverly done” (as Mrs. Grant tumbled
into his arms in a confused heap). “Come along now; there’s a capital
fire in here.—Don’t mind the horses, Mactavish—follow us, my lad; Tom
Whyte will attend to them.”
Uttering such disjointed remarks, Mr. Kennedy led Mrs. Grant into the
house, and made her over to Mrs. Taddipopple, who hurried her away to
an inner apartment, while Mr. Kennedy conducted her spouse, along with
Mactavish and our friend the head clerk at Fort Garry, into the
parlour.
“Harry, my dear fellow, I wish you joy,” cried Mr. Grant, as the former
grasped his hand. “Lucky dog you are. Where’s Kate, eh? Not visible
yet, I suppose.”
“No, not till the parson comes,” interrupted Mr. Kennedy, convulsing
his left cheek.—“Hollo, Charley, where are you? Ah! bring the cigars,
Charley.—Sit down, gentlemen; make yourselves at home—I say, Mrs.
Taddi—Taddi—oh, botheration—popple! that’s it—your name, madam, is a
puzzler-but-we’ll need more chairs, I think. Fetch one or two, like a
dear!”
As he spoke the jingle of bells was heard outside, and Mr. Kennedy
rushed to the door again.
“Good-evening, Mr. Addison,” said he, taking that gentleman warmly by
the hand as he resigned the reins to Tom Whyte. “I am delighted to see
you, sir (Look after the minister’s mare, Tom), glad to see you, my
dear sir. Some of my friends have come already. This way, Mr. Addison.”
The worthy clergyman responded to Mr. Kennedy’s greeting in his own
hearty manner, and followed him into the parlour, where the guests now
began to assemble rapidly.
“Father,” cried Charley, catching his sire by the arm, “I’ve been
looking for you everywhere, but you dance about like a
will-o’-the-wisp. Do you know I’ve invited my friends Jacques and
Redfeather to come to-night, and also Louis Peltier, the guide with
whom I made my first trip. You recollect him, father?”
“Ay, that do I, lad, and happy shall I be to see three such worthy men
under my roof as guests on this night.”
“Yes, yes, I know that, father; but I don’t see them here. Have they
come yet?”
“Can’t say, boy. By the way, Pastor Conway is also coming, so we’ll
have a meeting between an Episcopalian and a Wesleyan. I sincerely
trust that they won’t fight!” As he said this the old gentleman grinned
and threw his cheek into convulsions—an expression which was suddenly
changed into one of confusion when he observed that Mr. Addison was
standing close beside him, and had heard the remark.
“Don’t blush, my dear sir,” said Mr. Addison, with a quiet smile, as he
patted his friend on the shoulder. “You have too much reason, I am
sorry to say, for expecting that clergymen of different denominations
should look coldly on each other. There is far too much of this
indifference and distrust among those who labour in different parts of
the Lord’s vineyard. But I trust you will find that my sympathies
extend a little beyond the circle of my own particular body. Indeed,
Mr. Conway is a particular friend of mine; so I assure you we won’t
fight.”
“Right, right” cried Mr. Kennedy, giving the clergy man an energetic
grasp of the hand; “I like to hear you speak that way. I must confess
that I’ve been a good deal surprised to observe, by what one reads in
the old-country newspapers, as well as by what one sees even hereaway
in the backwood settlements, how little interest clergymen show in the
doings of those who don’t happen to belong to their own particular
sect; just as if a soul saved through the means of an Episcopalian was
not of as much value as one saved by a Wesleyan, or a Presbyterian, or
a Dissenter. Why, sir, it seems to me just as mean-spirited and selfish
as if one of our chief factors was so entirely taken up with the doings
and success of his own particular district that he didn’t care a
gun-flint for any other district in the Company’s service.”
There was at least one man listening to these remarks whose naturally
logical and liberal mind fully agreed with them. This was Jacques
Caradoc, who had entered the room a few minutes before, in company with
his friend Redfeather and Louis Peltier.
“Right, sir! That’s fact, straight up and down,” said he, in an
approving tone.
“Ha! Jacques, my good fellow, is that you?—Redfeather, my friend, how
are you?” said Mr. Kennedy, turning round and grasping a hand of
each.—“Sit down there, Louis, beside Mrs. Taddi—eh?—ah!—popple.—Mr.
Addison, this is Jacques Caradoc, the best and stoutest hunter between
Hudson’s Bay and Oregon.”
Jacques smiled and bowed modestly as Mr. Addison shook his hand. The
worthy hunter did indeed at that moment look as if he fully merited Mr.
Kennedy’s eulogium. Instead of endeavouring to ape the gentleman, as
many men in his rank of life would have been likely to do on an
occasion like this, Jacques had not altered his costume a hair-breadth
from what it usually was, excepting that some parts of it were quite
new, and all of it faultlessly clean. He wore the usual capote, but it
was his best one, and had been washed for the occasion. The scarlet
belt and blue leggings were also as bright in colour as if they had
been put on for the first time; and the moccasins, which fitted closely
to his well-formed feet, were of the cleanest and brightest yellow
leather, ornamented, as usual, in front. The collar of his blue-striped
shirt was folded back a little more carefully than usual, exposing his
sun-burned and muscular throat. In fact, he wanted nothing, save the
hunting-knife, the rifle, and the powder-horn, to constitute him a
perfect specimen of a thorough backwoodsman.
Redfeather and Louis were similarly costumed, and a noble trio they
looked as they sat modestly in a corner, talking to each other in
whispers, and endeavouring, as much as possible, to curtail their
colossal proportions.
“Now, Harry,” said Mr. Kennedy, in a hoarse whisper, at the same time
winking vehemently, “we’re about ready, lad. Where’s Kate, eh? shall we
send for her?”
Harry blushed, and stammered out something that was wholly
unintelligible, but which, nevertheless, seemed to afford infinite
delight to the old gentleman, who chuckled and winked tremendously,
gave his son-in-law a facetious poke in the ribs, and turning abruptly
to Miss Cookumwell, said to that lady, “Now, Miss Cookumpopple, we’re
all ready. They seem to have had enough tea and trash; you’d better be
looking after Kate, I think.”
Miss Cookumwell smiled, rose, and left the room to obey; Mrs.
Taddipopple followed to help, and soon returned with Kate, whom they
delivered up to her father at the door. Mr. Kennedy led her to the
upper end of the room; Harry Somerville stood by her side, as if by
magic; Mr. Addison dropped opportunely before them, as if from the
clouds; there was an extraordinary and abrupt pause in the hum of
conversation, and ere Kate was well aware of what was about to happen,
she felt herself suddenly embraced by her husband, from whom she was
thereafter violently torn and all but smothered by her sympathising
friends.
Poor Kate! she had gone through the ceremony almost
mechanically—recklessly, we might be justified in saying; for not
having raised her eyes off the floor from its commencement to its
close, the man whom she accepted for better or for worse might have
been Jacques or Redfeather for all that she knew.
Immediately after this there was heard the sound of a fiddle, and an
old Canadian was led to the upper end of the room, placed on a chair,
and hoisted, by the powerful arms of Jacques and Louis, upon a table.
In this conspicuous position the old man seemed to be quite at his
ease. He spent a few minutes in bringing his instrument into perfect
tune; then looking round with a mild, patronising glance to see that
the dancers were ready, he suddenly struck up a Scotch reel with an
amount of energy, precision, and spirit that might have shot a pang of
jealousy through the heart of Neil Gow himself. The noise that
instantly commenced, and was kept up from that moment, with but few
intervals, during the whole evening, was of a kind that is never heard
in fashionable drawing-rooms. Dancing in the backwood settlements _is_
dancing. It is not walking; it is not sailing; it is not undulating; it
is not sliding; no, it is _bona-fide_ dancing! It is the performance of
intricate evolutions with the feet and legs that make one wink to look
at; performed in good time too, and by people who look upon _all_ their
muscles as being useful machines, not merely things of which a select
few, that cannot be dispensed with, are brought into daily operation.
Consequently the thing was done with an amount of vigour that was
conducive to the health of performers, and productive of satisfaction
to the eyes of beholders. When the evening wore on apace, however, and
Jacques’s modesty was so far overcome as to induce him to engage in a
reel, along with his friend Louis Peltier, and two bouncing young
ladies whose father had driven them twenty miles over the plains that
day in order to attend the wedding of their dear friend and former
playmate, Kate—when these four stood up, we say, and the fiddler played
more energetically than ever, and the stout backwoodsmen began to warm
and grow vigorous, until, in the midst of their tremendous leaps and
rapid but well-timed motions, they looked like very giants amid their
brethren, then it was that Harry, as he felt Kate’s little hand
pressing his arm, and observed her sparkling eyes gazing at the dancers
in genuine admiration, began at last firmly to believe that the whole
thing was a dream; and then it was that old Mr. Kennedy rejoiced to
think that the house had been built under his own special directions,
and he knew that it could not by any possibility be shaken to pieces.
And well might Harry imagine that he dreamed; for besides the
bewildering tendency of the almost too-good-to-be-true fact that Kate
was really Mrs. Harry Somerville, the scene before him was a
particularly odd and perplexing mixture of widely different elements,
suggestive of new and old associations. The company was miscellaneous.
There were retired old traders, whose lives from boyhood had been spent
in danger, solitude, wild scenes and adventures, to which those of
Robinson Crusoe are mere child’s play. There were young girls, the
daughters of these men, who had received good educations in the Red
River academy, and a certain degree of polish which education always
gives; a very _different_ polish, indeed, from that which the
conventionalities and refinements of the Old World bestow, but not the
less agreeable on that account—nay, we might even venture to say, all
the _more_ agreeable on that account. There were Red Indians and
clergymen; there were one or two ladies of a doubtful age, who had come
out from the old country to live there, having found it no easy matter,
poor things, to live at home; there were matrons whose absolute silence
on every subject save “yes” or “no” showed that they had not been
subjected to the refining influences of the academy, but whose hearty
smiles and laughs of genuine good-nature proved that the storing of the
brain has, after all, _very_ little to do with the best and deepest
feelings of the heart. There were the tones of Scotch reels
sounding—tones that brought Scotland vividly before the very eyes; and
there were Canadian hunters and half-breed voyageurs, whose moccasins
were more accustomed to the turf of the woods than the boards of a
drawing-room, and whose speech and accents made Scotland vanish away
altogether from the memory. There were old people and young folk; there
were fat and lean, short and long. There were songs too—ballads of
England, pathetic songs of Scotland, alternating with the French
ditties of Canada, and the sweet, inexpressibly plaintive canoe-songs
of the voyageur. There were strong contrasts in dress also: some wore
the home-spun trousers of the settlement, a few the ornamented leggings
of the hunter. Capotes were there—loose, flowing, and picturesque; and
broad-cloth tail-coats were there, of the last century, tight-fitting,
angular—in a word, detestable; verifying the truth of the proverb that
extremes meet, by showing that the _cut_ which all the wisdom of
tailors and scientific fops, after centuries of study, had laboriously
wrought out and foisted upon the poor civilised world as perfectly
sublime, appeared in the eyes of backwoodsmen and Indians utterly
ridiculous. No wonder that Harry, under the circumstances, became
quietly insane, and went about committing _nothing_ but mistakes the
whole evening. No wonder that he emulated his father-in-law in abusing
the gray cat, when he found it surreptitiously devouring part of the
supper in an adjoining room; and no wonder that, when he rushed about
vainly in search of Mrs. Taddipopple, to acquaint her with the cat’s
wickedness, he, at last, in desperation, laid violent hands on Miss
Cookumwell, and addressed that excellent lady by the name of Mrs.
Poppletaddy.
Were we courageous enough to make the attempt, we would endeavour to
describe that joyful evening from beginning to end. We would tell you
how the company’s spirits rose higher and higher, as each individual
became more and more anxious to lend his or her aid in adding to the
general hilarity; how old Mr. Kennedy nearly killed himself in his
fruitless efforts to be everywhere, speak to everybody, and do
everything at once, how Charley danced till he could scarcely speak,
and then talked till he could hardly dance; and how the fiddler,
instead of growing wearied, became gradually and continuously more
powerful, until it seemed as if fifty fiddles were playing at one and
the same time. We would tell you how Mr. Addison drew more than ever to
Mr. Conway, and how the latter gentleman agreed to correspond regularly
with the former thenceforth, in order that their interest in the great
work each had in hand for the _same_ Master might be increased and kept
up; how, in a spirit of recklessness (afterwards deeply repented of), a
bashful young man was induced to sing a song which in the present
mirthful state of the company ought to have been a humorous song, or a
patriotic song, or a good, loud, inspiriting song, or _anything_, in
short, but what it was—a slow, dull, sentimental song, about wasting
gradually away in a sort of melancholy decay, on account of
disappointed love, or some such trash, which was a false sentiment in
itself, and certainly did not derive any additional tinge of
truthfulness from a thin, weak voice, that was afflicted with chronic
flatness, and _edged_ all its notes. Were we courageous enough to go
on, we would further relate to you how during supper Mr. Kennedy
senior, tried to make a speech, and broke down amid uproarious
applause; how Mr. Kennedy, junior, got up thereafter—being urged
thereto by his father, who said, with a convulsion of the cheek, “Get
me out of the scrape, Charley, my boy”—and delivered an oration which
did not display much power of concise elucidation, but was replete,
nevertheless, with consummate impudence; how during this point in the
proceedings the gray cat made a last desperate effort to purloin a cold
chicken, which it had watched anxiously the whole evening, and was
caught in the very act, nearly strangled, and flung out of the window,
where it alighted in safety on the snow, and fled, a wiser, and, we
trust, a better cat. We would recount all this to you, reader, and a
great deal more besides; but we fear to try your patience, and we
tremble violently, much more so, indeed, than you will believe, at the
bare idea of waxing prosy.
Suffice it to say that the party separated at an early hour—a good,
sober, reasonable hour for such an occasion—somewhere before midnight.
The horses were harnessed; the ladies were packed in the sleighs with
furs so thick and plentiful as to defy the cold; the gentlemen seized
their reins and cracked their whips; the horses snorted, plunged, and
dashed away over the white plains in different directions, while the
merry sleigh-bells sounded fainter and fainter in the frosty air. In
half-an-hour the stars twinkled down on the still, cold scene, and
threw a pale light on the now silent dwelling of the old fur-trader.
Ere dropping the curtain over a picture in which we have sought
faithfully to portray the prominent features of those wild regions that
lie to the north of the Canadas, and in which we have endeavoured to
describe some of the peculiarities of a class of men whose histories
seldom meet the public eye, we feel tempted to add a few more touches
to the sketch; we would fain trace a little farther the fortunes of one
or two of the chief factors in our book. But this is not to be.
Snowflakes and sunbeams came and went as in days gone by. Time rolled
on, working many changes in its course, and among others consigning
Harry Somerville to an important post in Red River colony, to the
unutterable joy of Mr. Kennedy, senior, and of Kate. After much
consideration and frequent consultation with Mr. Addison, Mr. Conway
resolved to make another journey to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ
to those Indian tribes that inhabit the regions beyond Athabasca; and
being a man of great energy, he determined not to await the opening of
the river navigation, but to undertake the first part of his expedition
on snow-shoes. Jacques agreed to go with him as guide and hunter,
Redfeather as interpreter. It was a bright, cold morning when he set
out, accompanied part of the way by Charley Kennedy and Harry
Somerville, whose hearts were heavy at the prospect of parting with the
two men who had guided and protected them during their earliest
experience of a voyageur’s life, when, with hearts full to overflowing
with romantic anticipations, they first dashed joyously into the almost
untrodden wilderness.
During their career in the woods together, the young men and the two
hunters had become warmly attached to each other; and now that they
were about to part—it might be for years, perhaps for ever—a feeling of
sadness crept over them which they could not shake off, and which the
promise given by Mr. Conway to revisit Red River on the following
spring served but slightly to dispel.
On arriving at the spot where they intended to bid their friends a last
farewell, the two young men held out their hands in silence. Jacques
grasped them warmly.
“Mister Charles, Mister Harry,” said he, in a deep, earnest voice, “the
Almighty has guided us in safety for many a day when we travelled the
woods together; for which praised be His Holy Name! May He guide and
bless you still, and bring us together in this world again, if in His
wisdom He see fit.”
There was no answer save a deeply-murmured “Amen.” In another moment
the travellers resumed their march. On reaching the summit of a slight
eminence, where the prairies terminated and the woods began, they
paused to wave a last adieu; then Jacques, putting himself at the head
of the little party, plunged into the forest, and led them away towards
the snowy regions of the Far North.
THE END.