Wrecked but not Ruined, R. M. Ballantyne [uplifting book club books .txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Wrecked but not Ruined, R. M. Ballantyne [uplifting book club books .txt] 📗». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“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.
Meanwhile, Reginald Redding—still breathing defiance to the clan of McLeod, with his heart steeled against all softer influences, and with all his bristles erect—arrived at Jenkins Creek.
Seeing no one about the door of the hut, he passed it with an indignant frown, and proceeded direct to the cascade, where, from a considerable distance, he had observed the three settlers as they busily plied their axes.
A thaw had set in. The little cascade was beginning to roar ominously, almost savagely, behind the curtain of ice which had concealed almost the whole of it during winter. The ice on the edge of the Saint Lawrence had already given way, and was being swept out to sea in variously-sized fields and masses. Everything gave indication that the reign of winter had come to an end, that the short-lived spring had laid its warm hand on the whole region, and that summer was not far distant. Summer acts its part with promptitude in those regions.
Men out there are usually vigorous in taking advantage of the change; the McLeods were making the most of their time when the fur-trader approached.
“It should be getting near supper-time,” said the elder McLeod, looking at the sun.
“Not far from it,” said Kenneth, flinging down his axe and wiping the perspiration from his brow, as he glanced in the same direction, “what a comfort it is to have Flo to look after meals; it makes one feel—hallo! who come here?—see, two men, rounding the cliff just above the house.”
The elder McLeod made no reply, but waited until the strangers were sufficiently near to be addressed; then, touching his cap, he said, “Good evening,” heartily.
To this Reginald Redding replied, “Good evening,” stiffly, while his man bestowed a gaze of unmistakable scorn all round.
A little surprised, but not much alarmed, by their manner, McLeod said that it was an unusual pleasure to meet with strangers in such an out-of-the-way place; that he and his sons, having finished their day’s work, were about to return to their hut for supper, and that he would be more than delighted if they would take “pot-luck” with them.
Redding, who was by nature of a kindly sociable disposition, felt rather put out by this reception, especially when the invitation was pressed on him with much cordiality by Kenneth, as well as by Ian. Even the scorn on Le Rue’s lip began to melt away like the snow! But the fur-trader felt that the interests of his employers were at stake; besides, had he not said to others, had he not vowed to himself, that he would not give way an inch—no, not so much as a hair’s-breadth—to these long-legged interlopers, who, now that he beheld them, were evidently fur-traders in disguise,—men who made use of a so-called saw-mill as a mere blind to divert attention from the real object they had in view.
“Sir,” said Redding, with quiet dignity, “I am the Fur Company’s agent in this district, in charge of the Cliff Fort.”
Had Redding been in charge of the Rock of Gibraltar, with its mighty armament of heavy guns, he could not have assumed an air of greater importance.
“I am glad to hear it,” replied McLeod, more and more perplexed by the youth’s manner, “because I have been anxious for some days to consult you as to the exact boundary line of your Company’s reserve.”
“If you will accompany me to the creek,” replied Redding, pointing to the islet on which the McLeods had already marked off a portion of rock and planted a couple of stakes, “I will enlighten you on that point.”
“Willingly,” answered McLeod, preparing to follow with his two sons.
“Hah!” thought Redding, as he drew near the spot and observed the stakes, “not a doubt of it; inches indeed; they have encroached feet—feet—if not yards on our property.”
He gave no audible sound, however, to his thoughts, until the party had reached the islet, which was connected with the mainland by a plank, then he turned to McLeod with the air of a man who has resolved to wage war to the knife for his rights. Le Rue, seeing his master in this mood, drew himself up, compressed his lips, and darkened his frown.
“The line of demarcation,” said Redding slowly, but with much decision of tone and manner, “runs exactly down the centre of this stream and cuts precisely across the centre of this rock. Now, sir,” he turned abruptly here to look his adversary full in the face. In doing so his vision, passing over the shoulders of his enemy, encountered the bright face and astonished gaze of Flora McLeod, who had just come to let her father and brothers know that their evening meal awaited them.
Reginald Redding was struck dumb. Glancing round to see what had fascinated the gaze of the fur-trader, McLeod turned with a smile, and said:—
“My daughter Flora, Mister—ah!—I beg pardon—your name is, I think—”
“Redding,” murmured the fur-trader, with hesitation, for he had begun to doubt his own identity.
“Just so. Flo has come to tell us, Mr Redding, that supper is ready, so, if you will condescend to accept of our rough and ready hospitality, we
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