Several months after the events narrated in the last chapter a very
merry party was assembled in Mr William Gambart's drawing-room at
Partridge Bay.
The party was small, by reason of the drawing-room not being large, but
it was very select and remarkably hearty. Plump little Gambart was
there, beaming with good-will. His plump little partner was also there,
radiant with matronly smiles, his plump little daughters too, bewitching
with youthful beauty, set off by indescribable flounces, combined with
flutterings of white lace. Their aspect was also rendered more
captivating and charmingly confused by ribbons, rings, and ringlets, for
the reader must remember that we write of those good old times before
the introduction of that severely classic style of hair-dressing which
converts now nine-tenths of the fair sex into human cockatoos.
Among the guests assembled were McLeod and his three sons, clad, not in
the half trapper halt Indian style in which they were introduced to the
reader, but in superfine broadcloth garments, the admirable fit of which
suggested the idea that they must have been sewed on in Regent Street,
London, and sent out to Canada with their owners in them, in separate
boxes, labelled "this side up, with care." There was also present Mr
Bob Smart, smarter in personal appearance than he had ever been before,
in virtue of a blue surtout with brass buttons which had lain for many
years on sale in the store at the Cliff Fort, but never had been bought
because the Indians who coveted were too poor to purchase it, and no
other human being in his senses would have worn it, its form being
antique, collar exceedingly high, sleeves very tight, and the two brass
buttons behind being very close together and unreasonably high up. But
Bob was not particular. Nothing, he said, would prevent him being at
that party. He saw as well as felt that he looked like a maniac in the
blue coat, but not possessing a dress-coat, and being possessed of moral
heroism, he shut his mental eyes, ignored taste and feeling, put on the
coat, and went.
Jonas Bellew was also there, in a new blue cloth capote, scarlet belt,
and moccasins, in which he looked every inch a man, if not a gentleman.
Sometimes in the kitchen, often in the pantry, occasionally in the
passages, and always in the way, for he was excitedly abrupt in his
motions, might have been seen the face and figure of Francois Le Rue.
Francois was obviously performing the part of a waiter, for he wore a
badly-fitting suit of black, white cotton gloves three sizes too large,
and pumps, with white socks, besides which he flourished a white napkin
as if it were a war-banner, and held on tenaciously to a cork-screw.
The pretty face of Elise was also there, assisting to spread moral
sunshine on the party and fair cloths on all the tables. A close
observer might have noted that wherever Elise shone there Le Rue took
occasion to sun himself!
Deep in the mysterious regions of the back-kitchen--which bore as much
resemblance to civilised back-kitchens as an English forest does to the
"back-woods"--Mister Rooney might have been seen, much dirtier than
other people owing to the nature of his culinary occupations and his
disregard of appearances. A huge favour, once white, but now dirty,
decorated the Irishman's broad chest. Similar favours (not dirty) were
pinned to the breasts of all the guests, giving unmistakable evidence
that the occasion was a wedding.
"Hooroo! ye descendant of an expatriated frog," cried Rooney, staggering
under the weight of an enormous pot, "come here, won't 'ee, an' lind a
hand. Wan would think it was yer own weddin' was goin' on. Here, slew
round the crane, ye excitable cratur."
"Preehaps mes own veddin' vill foller ver' quick," said Le Rue, with a
sly glance at Elise, as he assisted Rooney to suspend the big pot on its
appropriate hook.
"Troth then. I can't compliment the taste o' the poor girl as takes
'ee," replied Rooney, with a still slyer glance at Elise.
The girl referred to remarked that no girl in her senses would accept
either of them as a gift, and went off tossing her head.
Just then a cheer was heard in the lobby, and Elise, Le Rue, and Rooney
rushed out in time to see Flora McLeod like an April day--all smiles and
tears--handed into a gig; she was much dishevelled by reason of the
various huggings she had undergone from sundry bridesmaids and
sympathetic female friends, chief among whom was a certain Mrs Crowder,
who in virtue of her affection for the McLeod family, her age, and her
deafness, had constituted herself a compound of mother and grandmamma to
Flora. The gig was fitted to hold only two. When Flora was seated,
Reginald Redding--also somewhat dishevelled owing to the hearty, not to
say violent, congratulations of his male friends--jumped in, seized the
reins and cracked his whip. The horse being a young and spirited
animal, performed a series of demivolts which caused all the ladies to
scream, threw the gig into convulsions, and old Mrs Crowder almost into
fits. Thereafter it shot away like an arrow, amid ringing cheers and a
shower of old slippers.
This was the last of Redding and Flora for that day, but it was by no
means the last of the party. In those regions at that time (whatever
they may do in those regions nowadays) wedding parties were peculiarly
festive scenes, in which dancing was one of the means by which not only
the young but the middle-aged were wont to let off superabundant steam,
and a violin more or less cracked and vigorously played was the
instrument which created inspiration. It would take a volume to tell of
all that was said and done on that great and memorable occasion--how the
plump little Miss Gambarts fluttered about like erratic flowers, or like
captivating comets drawing a long tail of the Partridge Bay young men
after them; how, as the evening wore on, all social distinctions were
swept away and the servants were invited to exchange duty in the kitchen
for dancing in the hall; how Le Rue danced so often with Elise and made
his admiration of her so obvious that she became quite ashamed of him
and cast him off in favour of any one else who asked her; how Jonas
Bellew was prevailed on to ask Mrs Crowder to dance a Scotch reel with
him, which she not only agreed to do but did to the delight of Jonas and
the admiration of all the company; how Mister Rooney volunteered to
dance the sailor's hornpipe, and acquitted himself so well, despite the
inability of the violinist to play the proper tune, that his performance
was greeted with rapturous applause; how the floor at last began to show
symptoms of giving way, and how their only musician did finally give
way, from sheer exhaustion, and thus brought matters to an abrupt close.
But all this, and a great deal more that we have not told, was as
nothing compared to the "feast of reason and the flow of soul," that
occurred at the supper, a meal which had been expressly reserved as a
last resource when the violinist should break down. Another volume, at
least, would be required to record it all.
There was food of course in profusion, and there was also, which is not
always so common, splendid sauce in the form of appetite. There were
also songs and toasts; and speeches which would have done credit to the
halls of more civilised lands, in all of which the performers exhibited
every phase of human nature, from the sublime to the ridiculous.
At this stage of the proceedings McLeod senior conducted himself with
that manly straightforward vigour which had characterised him during the
earlier part of the festivities, though he faltered a little and almost
broke down when, in a speech, he referred to Flora as a bright sunbeam
whom God in His love had permitted to shine upon his path for many
years, who in prosperity had doubled his joys, and who in adversity had
taught him that the Hearer and Answerer of prayer not only can, but does
bring good out of evil, of which fact he was a living instance that day,
for it was the loss of his goods by shipwreck which had enabled him, at
a critical moment in his affairs, to make a fresh start in life, that
had now placed him on the road to prosperity, so that "_Wrecked but not
Ruined_" he thought, might be appropriately adopted as his family motto.
It was this wreck also which had, in a great measure, brought him into
intimate acquaintance with the man who had saved his daughter's life, as
well as his own (cheers), and who had that day carried off a prize
(renewed cheers), a jewel (enthusiastic cheers, in which the ladies
attempted to transcend the gentlemen), he repeated, a prize, the true
value of which was fully known only to himself.
Here the remainder of the speech--of which a few emphasised words, such
as blessings, health, prosperity, etcetera, were heard--was lost in a
burst of continuous cheering, which suddenly terminated in an uproarious
shout of laughter when Le Rue accidentally knocked the neck off a bottle
of beer, whose contents spouted directly and violently into his face!
The touch of feeling displayed in McLeod's speech filled little Mr
Gambart with an irresistible desire to start to his legs and "claim his
rights." He regarded himself, in connection with Mrs Gambart, he said,
with a winning smile at his fair partner, as the author and authoress
(humanly speaking of course) of the whole affair, by which he meant the
affair that had just come off so auspiciously. He had seen, and Mrs
Gambart had seen, from the very first, that Mr Redding was deeply in
love with Flora McLeod (as how could he be otherwise), that he, Mr
Gambart, (including Mrs Gambart), foresaw that in selling Loch Dhu to
Mr Redding he was virtually sending it back to the McLeod family; that
unless he had concealed the name of the owners at first he could not
have effected the sale, for Mr Redding at that time thought the McLeods
were--were--. Here an awful frown from Mrs Gambart, intimating that he
(Gambart) was touching on subjects which he had no right to make public,
threw him into confusion, out of which condition he delivered himself,
amidst some laughter and much applause, by a bold and irrelevant
continuation of the subject, to the effect that, knowing all that and a
great deal more besides, he (including Mrs Gambart) had not only
effected a sale which, he might say, was the main-sail that had caught
the breezes of prosperity by which the craft of the McLeods, so to
speak, had been blown so happily that day into the Partridge Bay haven
of felicity (tremendous cheering, during which Gambart wiped his bald
head and flushed face, and collected himself). Moreover, he continued,
it was he who, against McLeod's will, had bought Barker's Mill (hear
hear! from Bob Smart, who thought he was quoting poetry), and although,
of course, he had not known that the goods in the _Betsy_ were insured
(at this point another frown pulled him up and made him reckless), he
nevertheless would stoutly hold against any man (cheers) or woman
(cheers and laughter), that he, including Mrs Gambart, had had a finger
in the pie, which, after simmering for a considerable time (the pie, not
the finger) in the oven of--of (cheers) ah! had that night been done
(brown, from Bob Smart) _to a turn_ (severely), and been dished up in
such splendid style that a more auspicious climax could--could--
The remainder was drowned in vociferous cheering, in which Mr Gambart
himself joined, shook hands with the guests on each side of him, sat
down, and blew his nose.
It was at this point that Bob Smart, overcome by a gush of feeling,
burst into a song, the burden of which was that the light of former days
being faded, their glories past and shaded, and the joys of other days
being too bright to last, it was not worth while doing more than making
a simple statement of these facts without expressing a decided opinion
either one way or another in regard to them.
As he sang this rather pretty song in the voice of a cracked tea-kettle,
a thrill of delight ran through the company when deaf Mrs Crowder,
being ignorant of what was going on, suddenly said that as there seemed
to be a pause in the flow of soul, she, although a woman, would venture
to express a sentiment, if not to propose a toast. This was of course
received with a shout of joy, which effectually quenched Mr Smart. In
a sweet tremulous little voice the old lady said, "let us wish, with all
our hearts, that health, happiness, charity, and truth may dwell as long
as it shall stand, under the roof-tree of Loch Dhu!"
Of course this called McLeod to his legs again, after which there were
more speeches and more songs--both grave and gay--until "nature's sweet
restorer, balmy sleep," began gently to tickle the guests, reminding
them that felicity is not less enhanced by occasions of exuberant mirth
than by periods of tranquil repose.
What more can we say, good reader, than that old Mrs Crowder's wish was
fulfilled to the letter, for a large family, trained by Redding and
Flora to respect the laws of God and love the name of Jesus, caused the
roof-tree of Loch Dhu to ring full many a year thereafter with joyous
tones, that were the direct result of "health, happiness, charity, and
truth."
McLeod senior dwelt hard by, and was made glad, as well as thoughtful,
by the sight. Ian and Kenneth made a comfortable livelihood out of the
saw-mill at Jenkins Creek, which ultimately became a populous
settlement, whither the young Reddings went annually in summer to enjoy
themselves, in which enjoyment they were greatly aided by Jonas Bellew
the trapper. Roderick was equally prosperous with Barker's Mill at
Partridge Bay. Rooney continued to the end of his days in the service
of his old master, while Le Rue and Elise, a happy couple, became
respectively butler and cook at Loch Dhu, over the door of which
establishment Redding had engraved his father-in-law's favourite
motto--"Wrecked but not Ruined."