We turn now to "the enemy"--the McLeods. The father and his two sons
sat in a rude shanty, on a bench and an empty keg, drinking tea out of
tin cans. They were all stalwart, dark-haired, grave-visaged
mountaineers of Scotland. Unitedly they would have measured at least
eighteen feet of humanity. The only difference between the father and
the sons was that a few silver hairs mingled with the black on the head
of the former, and a rougher skin covered his countenance. In other
respects he seemed but an elder brother.
"Ian," he said to his first-born, as he refilled his tin can with tea,
"how many more timbers have you to prepare for the dam?"
"Six," replied the son laconically.
"It seems to me," observed Kenneth, the second son, "that if the frost
holds much longer we shall be thrown idle, for everything is ready now
to begin the works."
"Idle we need not be," returned the father, "as long as there is timber
to fell in the forest. We must prepare logs to be sawn as well as the
mill to saw them."
"I can't help thinking, father," said Ian, "that we did not act wisely
in spending all the remainder of our cash in an order for goods from
England. We should have waited to see how the mill paid before setting
up a store. Besides, I have my doubts as to the wood-cutters or other
people passing this out-o'-the-way spot in sufficient numbers to make a
store pay for many a day to come, and even if they do, people coming up
the coast will have the Fur Company's store at the Cliff Fort to go to
for supplies."
"It's too late to think of these things now," retorted the elder McLeod;
"we have made the venture, and must go through with it. Our case shows
the folly of taking the advice of a friend, of whose wisdom one is not
well assured. No doubt Gambart meant to do us a service, and fancied
that he knew this coast well, but it is quite plain that he was
mistaken, for I have no doubt now, from the situation of the place, that
there will be little or no traffic here for a long time to come."
"So, then, we might as well have thrown the remnant of our wrecked
fortunes into the sea," said Kenneth gravely.
"Not quite," returned the father, with a smile. "If we can only manage
to hold on for a year or two, we shall be sure to succeed, for there can
be no question that the tide of immigration is beginning to set in this
direction, but it does not flow fast, and our great difficulty in the
meantime will be the want of ready cash."
"Act in haste and repent at leisure," said Ian.
"One can scarcely be said to act in haste," retorted his father, "who is
almost forced into a course of action. My chief mistake was in putting
too much trust in Gambart."
"Well," said Kenneth, rising and stretching his huge frame as he placed
a hatchet on his shoulder, "there's nothing like a good breakfast for
giving a man heart to face difficulties. I'll away to work. What a
pity that we may not raise some of our timbers on the other side of the
creek, for it is admirably adapted to our purpose. Don't you think we
might, father?"
"No," replied the elder McLeod, "the other side belongs to the
fur-traders, whose rights must be respected."
Ian and his father soon followed Kenneth to the scene of their labours.
The spot was a wild one, but in many respects it was well-suited to the
purpose, for which these adventurers had chosen it. The coast line at
Jenkins Creek was precipitous. Cliffs, crowned with pines, rose in some
places perpendicularly from the shingly beach of the gulf, and elsewhere
the ground was very rugged. The creek itself was a mere streamlet which
ran a short course from the mountains of the interior, brawling down a
wild gully of inconsiderable extent. Near its mouth was a cascade,
divided by a small rock or islet. It was between this rock and the
south shore that the McLeods purposed to erect their dam when the ice
should have cleared away, and here, in the meantime, the three men
busied themselves in cutting and shaping the necessary timbers, and
forming the rougher parts of the machinery of the mill.
They toiled steadily till noon, and then returned to their log-hut for
dinner, which consisted of cold pork, hot tea, biscuit, and salt butter.
They were still in the midst of this meal when the door opened and a
man entered, carrying under his arm a pair of long snow-shoes, which he
had just taken off.
"Glad to see you, Bellew, we had expected you earlier," said the elder
McLeod, rising and shaking hands with the trapper.
"I would have been earlier," replied Bellew, handing a letter to McLeod,
"but for a redskin whom I met on the way, who delayed me somewhat. He
tells me something about a wreck having been seen by some of his tribe,
a good bit down the gulf, but what between the difficulty of makin' out
his lingo, and his stupidity, or unwillingness to communicate all he
knew, I have found out very little about it. This only I feel pretty
sure of, that a wreck must have occurred, and that, from something he
said, there may perhaps be some poor fellows lying on the shore there."
"If so, they will surely perish in such weather," said McLeod, "and the
least we can do is to go and try to rescue them."
"No need for you to go," said the trapper, "I will go alone with a small
supply of provisions, and see whether it be true. If I find any of 'em
alive I can make them comfortable enough for a short time, and then
return here for such help as may be required."
"You'll start at once, then?" asked McLeod.
"Yes, at once."
"Here, have something to eat first," said Kenneth, pointing to the
viands.
Jonas Bellew accepted the invitation. At once he sat down, and ate in
silence heartily, while the elder McLeod read the letter.
"Have you bad news?" asked Ian, as he watched his father's face.
"Not exactly bad, but it's disappointing. This is from Gambart.--
Listen.
"My dear McLeod,--I have just heard that the flour-mill in this place
which you were so anxious to purchase has come unexpectedly into the
market, owing to the sudden death of its owner. It is to be had cheap
too--at a very much lower figure than you offered before leaving
Partridge Bay. I strongly advise you to secure it without delay.
This letter goes by Sam Smalls to Bellew the trapper, who will
doubtless deliver it to you. You'd better send him straight back with
your reply."
"Humph! good advice this time," said Ian when his father ceased to read,
"if we could only take it. 'Tis hard to have every penny we possess
locked up, with such a chance before us. Couldn't we borrow, in the
meantime, from Gambart himself?"
"I will never purchase property with borrowed capital," replied the
elder McLeod.
"Well, it can't be helped," said Ian, consoling himself with another
slice of cold pork.
"Now I'm ready to start," said Bellew, rising and wiping his mouth with
the cuff of his capote.
In a few minutes the trapper, on snow-shoes, and with a pack of
provisions on his back, was striding down the coast at a pace that soon
left the Creek far behind him.
Three days after this incident the trio at Jenkins Creek were aroused,
while sitting at their mid-day meal, by the tinkle of sleigh-bells.
Their sitting-room window was filled chiefly with parchment, but there
was one square of it filled with glass. Through this, as from a
loop-hole, the inmates could reconnoitre any one who approached their
hut.
"Two dog-sleighs!" exclaimed Ian, turning from the loop-hole with a look
of surprise.
"Flora and Elise!" cried Kenneth and his father, in the same breath, as
they started up eagerly and hastened to the door.
They were right. Flora, jumping out of the furs of a vehicle which
resembled a slipper-bath, and was drawn by four panting dogs, ran into
the hut, exclaiming, "Dear father," and threw her arms round the neck of
the elder McLeod, who was not slow to return the embrace. Elise entered
with smiling face, and curtsied to the young men, who advanced and shook
her heartily by the hand.
"Hould their hids, Mister Kenneth," exclaimed the driver of the foremost
sleigh, as he sought to undo the traces of the dogs. "Sure they're all
alike--horses or dogs, they never _will_ lay still when they're wanted
to; bad luck to 'em intirely. Me heart is all but broke. There--git
along wid ye."
"Don't be hard on them, Rooney," said Kenneth, laughing, "they seem to
have done good service."
"True for ye," replied Rooney, "it wouldn't have bin aisy to git the
ladies down here widout 'em, the snow was so soft wi' the thaw that it
nigh tore the snow-shoes off me feet, an' my poor legs is at laist three
inches longer than whin I set out, if not four."
"Well, Flo," said Ian, "although I know you to be a resolute girl, I
didn't believe you would undertake a journey over a country without a
road at such a season of the year."
"I _knew_ she would come," said her father, patting the girl's head
tenderly, "but didn't expect her quite so soon."
"That's just the reason why I came," said Flora, bustling about the room
in search of a reasonably clean spot, on which to deposit her fur cap
and muff; "I wanted to take you by surprise, you dear old duck. Here,
Elise, take these things and put them on a bed, or something of that
sort, if there is one in the house. I declare there is not a spot in
this room that is not covered with smoke and grease. How can you be so
dirty? It is high time that Elise and I came to put your house in
order. You needn't laugh, Kenneth, you ought to be ashamed of
yourselves. This is dinner-time, I fancy. Have you any to spare for
us? Let me see--but stay; first tell me how you have been and what you
have done, and--"
"Please, Miss," said the maid, returning from a little side-room, "there
isn't a spot clean enough to put your things on. The beds are no better
than the chairs and tables."
"Oh you dirty thing!" said Flora, seating herself on her father's knee,
and gazing remonstratively into his face.
A quiet smile played on the dark visage of the elder McLeod as he kissed
her, and said:--
"How could you expect us, Flo, to keep things very tidy in a place like
this, where we've had to work hard with our axes every day and all day,
and no woman to help us in domestic affairs? Why, sometimes we've been
so tired at the end of a day, that instead of cleaning up, we have
tumbled into bed, boots and all! But there _is_ one little corner of
our otherwise dirty hut which we have reserved for lady-visitors. See
here!"
He rose, unlocked a little door in a corner of the dining-hall, and
throwing it open, disclosed to the astonished gaze of his visitors a
small apartment which was a perfect marvel of cleanliness and propriety.
True, it was a very simple and, what may be styled, a home-made
apartment. The walls, floor, and ceiling were of unpainted wood, but
the wood was perfectly fresh, and smelt pleasantly of resin. The window
was preposterously small, with only four squares of glass in it, and it
was curtained with mere calico, but the calico was rose-coloured, which
imparted a delightfully warm glow to the room, and the view from the
window of pine-woods and cliffs, and snow-fields, backed by the distant
sea, was magnificent. Two little beds in the corner furthest from the
window looked so snug that the tendency of beholders to lie down and go
to sleep forthwith was only overcome by a sensation of fear lest the
fairies, to whom they unquestionably belonged, might object. There was
a rather clumsily-made chest of drawers in one corner, the workmanship
of Kenneth; a book-shelf fashioned by Ian; and a table, with three
chairs, made by McLeod senior.
"Oh, how kind of you," said Flora to her father, when she afterwards sat
with him alone in this boudoir, and looked round on everything with the
deepest interest.
"Well, it was natural that I should get ready a comfortable place for my
only flower."
"Your _only_ flower," exclaimed Flora, "why, what do you call Ian, and
Kenneth, and Roderick?"
"Not flowers, certainly," replied her father, pulling her down on his
knee; "they may be regarded as useful vegetables, if you will, but they
are scarcely flowers that one likes to fondle."
"There, now, sir, you have fondled me enough at present, so tell me all
about yourself and your doings."
"Tell me first, Flo, how it fared with you by the way."
"Oh, that is soon told. After you left me I remained with old Mrs
Crowder in peaceful serenity until Rooney came back from Quebec, and
then I consulted with him as to the possibility of getting down here
before the close of winter. Being an old nor'-wester, and an Irishman,
he had his answer ready. `Sure,' said he, `there's nothin' aisier. The
masther bade me go down to Jenkins Creek wi' the things as soon as
possible, which or'narily mains faster than yer able, so I meant to be
off to-morrow be daybreak on fut, wid a sled behind me. But if your
ladyship intinds to honour me wid yer company, this is how we cud do it.
I'll hire a sleigh an' drive ye down to Sam Small's hut. I know that
Sam has got one or two sleds and teams of dogs, for, like myself, he's
an owld nor'-wester, an' likes to revive owld memories by takin' a trip
now an' then in the owld fashion. There's no road av coorse, but dogs
ain't like horses; they don't have no need of roads, so that don't
matter. I'll git owld Bogus, the Injin, to help. He an' I can bate the
tracks wid our snowshoes, and the dogs 'ill follow kindly, an' so we'll
all go down to the creek together.'"
"Well," continued Flora, "this plan was carried out at once. We started
next day and got on famously in the sledge. We had only one upset. It
might have been an awkward one, for the horse was very restive when he
got off the track into the deep snow, but fortunately, just at the time,
up came two travellers, one of them _such_ a handsome man! and they got
us out of our difficulty."
"Were you in danger, my pet?" asked McLeod.
"Not exactly in danger, except the danger of having to walk at night
through the forest, and without snow-shoes."
"Hm! not such a small danger that as you seem to think, Flo," said
McLeod gravely. "However, these gentlemen got you out of the scrape--
well, go on."
"Well, on we went, came to Sam Small's hut, slept there, got two
dog-sledges, slept at the hut of Jonas Bellew in Boulder Creek, whose
door we were obliged to break open, for he wasn't at home--and, here we
are."
"Well, my pet, here you are likely to remain for some time to come.
It's not exactly as fine a residence as you've been accustomed to, but
there are many worse."
"Worse," exclaimed Flora, "there couldn't be many better--in the
circumstances. I regard it as a small palace. Dear father," she added,
"don't let our reverses weigh so heavily on you. Think of your
favourite saying, `It's an ill wind that blows no good.' Perhaps good
may be in the wind somewhere for us."
"Ay, and I'll think of one of _your_ favourite sayings too, Flo, `Every
cloud has a silver lining.'"
"But I've got a better saying than that _now_, father," said Flora, with
sudden earnestness, "the saying that dear mother was so fond of quoting
from the Bible before she died: `Come unto me, all ye that labour and
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Oh, father, that word
comforts me now, for I have gone to Jesus and have pleaded with Him His
own promise that whatever we shall ask in His name God will give it to
us."
"Bless you, Flo," said her father tenderly, "and what did you ask for,--
success in our new enterprise?"
"No, I asked for guidance in every step of it, for that is certain to
lead to success."
"Do you feel sure of getting an answer to that prayer, Flo?" asked
McLeod, gazing at his daughter with a perplexed expression.
"Quite sure," replied Flo confidently, "because God, who cannot lie, has
promised."
"Now, what will you say if we fail in this enterprise?" asked her
father.
"That my prayer has been answered," replied Flo.
"What? if he guides us to failure will you count that an answer?"
"Yes, indeed I will. More than that, I will count our failure to be
success, for whatever God leads us to _must_ be success if we commit our
ways to Him."
"That's a convenient doctrine," replied McLeod, with a slight smile, as
he called to remembrance several conversations he had had with infidels
during his travels, "and no one will ever be able to refute you, for,
whatever betide, you will still be able to maintain, logically, that you
have received an answer."
"Just so, father, and why not? Is not that convenient doctrine, as you
call it, in accordance with the word of God Himself, who says that
`_all_ things work together for good to them that love Him?'"
"You have learned to talk like your dear mother, Flo," said McLeod,
rising; "we will continue this subject another time. At present I must
away to work with the boys."
He left the room hastily, and his daughter, calling in the assistance of
Elise, proceeded to arrange her little boudoir in a somewhat more
sedate, though by no means less joyful, frame of mind than that in which
she had made her entry into her new and unquestionably humble residence.