Читать книгу The Best Ballantyne Westerns - R. M. Ballantyne - Страница 32

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Old friends and scenes—Coming events cast their shadows before.

Mr Kennedy, senior, was seated in his own comfortable armchair 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 teapot, and exercising unwarrantably despotic sway over a large grey 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 see’d 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 nothing, 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 dispatched. 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 teapot 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 teapot—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!” he exclaimed, “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 backhanded 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 incoherent 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, 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 the 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 nameable 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, hang 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 flat!”

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 grey 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 hen, “Yes, I’ll do it, or die!”