Wrecked but not Ruined, R. M. Ballantyne [uplifting book club books .txt] 📗

That evening the elder McLeod and Flora had adventure which nearly cost them their lives.

As the sun began to descend, Roderick, who was recovering fast under the influence of good-cheer and good nursing, begged Flora to go out and walk with her father, as she had not left his side all day.

She consented, and sauntered with her father in the direction of the seashore.

Now it so happened that a brown bear, of a species which is still to be found on the uninhabited parts of the Labrador coast, had selected that hour and that locality for his own evening promenade! At a certain part of the slight track which had been formed by the McLeods in their visits to the shore, the bushes were very thick, and here, on rounding a bend in the track, they met the bear face to face. Had there been some little space between them, the animal would probably have turned and fled; but, being taken by surprise, he stood fast.

McLeod and his daughter stood aghast on seeing the monster. The former was unarmed, with the exception of a small hunting-knife and a stout walking-stick. In the first rush of his feelings he suddenly flung his stick at the bear, and with so true an aim, that the heavy head struck it exactly on the point of its nose. Nothing could have been more unfortunate, for the creature’s rage was at once excited. With a savage growl he rose on his hind legs in the attitude of attack.

“Quick! run back, Flo, I’ll check him here,” cried McLeod, drawing the little hunting-knife.

But poor Flora was incapable of running. White with terror she stood gazing at the bear as if fascinated. Her father, seeing this, stepped in front of her with that overwhelming rush of determination which is sometimes felt by courageous men when under the influence of despair, for he felt that with such a weapon he might as well have assailed an elephant.

At that moment the well-known voice of Kenneth was heard to utter a tremendous shout close at hand. Almost at the same instant a sharp crack was heard, and the bear fell at McLeod’s feet, shot through the heart.

We need scarcely say that it was a ball from the gun of the Indian which had thus opportunely put an end to the bear’s career, and still less need we remark that profuse and earnest were the thanks bestowed on him by the whole party.

“We must christen you Sharpeye after this lucky shot,” said Kenneth, when the excitement had subsided. “Now, Sharpeye,” he added, taking his red friend by the arm, “you must stay and sup with us to-night. Come along, whether you understand me or not, I’ll take no denial.”

If the Indian did not understand the language of his friends he evidently understood their pantomime, for he made no further objection to remain, but accompanied them to the camp, and sat silently smoking at their fire, which was kindled in front of the tent door, so that the sick man might enjoy the blaze as well as the companionship.

While thus engaged they were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of another Indian, who advanced quietly into the circle of light, and sat down.

“A messenger, no doubt,” said McLeod, after the first salutation.

A messenger he indeed proved to be, for after casting a furtive look, not unmingled with surprise and suspicion, at his brother redskin, he opened a small bag which hung at his girdle, and delivered to McLeod senior a very dirty-looking letter.

“Ha! from Gambart,” he exclaimed, reading the inscription. “Let us see what— Hallo! Sharpeye, where are you off to?”

This question was called forth in consequence of the red man rising quietly and throwing his gun on his shoulder. Instead of replying, however, he turned abruptly and walked off into the woods.

“The most unaccountable man I ever knew,” exclaimed Kenneth. “I shouldn’t wonder if this messenger and he are implacable foes, and can’t bear to sit at the same fire together.”

The remark which Kenneth began half in jest, was finished in earnest, for he had not done speaking when the messenger also arose and glided into the woods.

“Get the gun ready,” said McLeod, unfolding the letter, “there’s no saying what these fellows may do when their blood’s up.”

Kenneth obeyed, while his father read the letter, which, as the reader has no doubt guessed was that written by Gambart at his imperious little wife’s command.

“I was sure there must be some satisfactory explanation of the matter,” said Flora, when her father had finished reading.

“So was I,” said Kenneth, examining the priming of his gun.

The elder McLeod felt and looked uncomfortable. “What is it all about?” asked Roderick, from the tent.

“Oh, nothing particular,” answered his father, “except that there have been some mistakes and foolish concealments in connection with a certain Reginald Redding, whom I fear I have been rather hasty in judging.”

“Well, that needn’t trouble you,” returned Roderick, “for you’ve only to explain the mistakes and confess your haste.”

“Hm! I suppose I must,” said McLeod, “and I rather think that Flora will—”

A deep blush and an imploring look from Flora stopped him.

Just then a rustle was heard among the leaves outside the circle of the camp-fire’s light, and Kenneth cocked his gun as Sharpeye stalked forward and sat solemnly down by the fire.

“I hope you haven’t killed him, Sharpeye,” said Kenneth, looking with some anxiety at the Indian’s girdle, as though he expected to see a fresh and bloody scalp hanging there.

Of course the Indian gave no answer, but the minds of all were immediately relieved by seeing the messenger return and sit down as he had done before, after which he opened his bag, and, drawing out another letter, handed it to McLeod.

“What! another letter? Why did you not deliver it with the first? Forgot, I suppose—eh! What have we here? It’s from—I do believe, it’s from Reginald Redding. The Indian must have called at the Cliff Fort in passing, but however he got it, here it is, so I’ll read it:—

“‘Dear Sir,’ (Hm, rather friendly, considering),—‘After leaving you on the occasion of our last unsatisfactory meeting,’ (I should think it was), ‘it occurred to me that such indignation on your part,’ (not to mention his own!) ‘must have been the result of some mistake or misapprehension. After some reflection I recalled to mind that on the night I first met you, and learned that the name of your property in Partridge Bay was Loch Dhu, the sudden entrance of the messenger with the sad and startling news of the wreck prevented my telling you that I had become the purchaser of that property, and that, strange though it may seem to you, I did not up to that moment know the name of the person from whom I had bought it. This ignorance was owing to a fancy of my friend, Mr Gambart, to conceal the name from me—a fancy which I am still unable to account for, but which doubtless can be explained by himself. If this “silence” on my part is, as I think probable, the cause of your supposing that I intentionally “deceived” you, I trust that you will find this explanation sufficient to show that you have been labouring under a mistake.’ (No doubt I was.) ‘If, on the other hand, I am wrong in this conjecture, I trust that you will do me the justice to point out the so-called deception of which I am supposed to be guilty, in order that I may clear myself from a false imputation.’”

“Well, father, that clears up the matter sufficiently, doesn’t it?” said Kenneth.

“It does, unquestionably,” replied McLeod, “especially when coupled with the letter from Gambart, which has so strangely reached us at the same time with that of Redding. Well well, after all, things looked bad to me at first. I’m sorry, however, that I gave way to temper when we met, for the explanation might have come at that time; but the hot-headed young fellow gave way to temper too!”

McLeod said this in the tone of a man who, while admitting his fault, looks about for palliating circumstances.

“However,” he continued, rising and folding the letter, “I must write at once to let him know that his explanation is satisfactory, and that—that—”

“That you apologise for your haste,” said Flora, with a laugh.

“Certainly not,” replied McLeod stoutly. “I forgive him for getting angry with me, but I am not called on to ask forgiveness for being indignant with a man whom I supposed I had good reason to believe was a deceiver.”

“It is not necessary to ask forgiveness when no offence was meant,” said Sharpeye, in good English, as he suddenly rose, and, advancing to the elder McLeod, held out his hand.

McLeod gazed at the Indian for a moment in silent amazement.

“I fear,” continued Sharpeye, with a smile, “that I have to ask your forgiveness for having ventured really to practise deception on you.”

He removed a dark wig as he spoke, and revealed to the astonished gaze of the McLeods the light curly hair of Reginald Redding!

“Miraculous apparition!” exclaimed McLeod, grasping the proffered hand, “can I venture to believe my eyes?”

He glanced, as if for sympathy, to the spot where Flora had been seated; but Flora, for reasons best known to herself, had quietly retired to the interior of the tarpaulin tent and was just then absorbed in her duties as nurse to the invalid.