“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 laconically4.
“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 folly5 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 wrecked6 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 repent8 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 hatchet9 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 creek10, 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 perpendicularly11 from the shingly12 beach of the gulf13, and elsewhere the ground was very rugged14. The creek itself was a mere15 streamlet which ran a short course from the mountains of the interior, brawling16 down a wild gully of inconsiderable extent. Near its mouth was a cascade17, divided by a small rock or islet. It was between this rock and the south shore that the McLeods purposed to erect18 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 machinery19 of the mill.
They toiled20 steadily21 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 wreck7 having been seen by some of his tribe a good bit down the gulf, but what between the difficulty of makin’ out his lingo22, and his stupidity, or unwillingness23 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 viands24.
Jonas Bellew accepted the invitation. At once he sat down, and ate in silence heartily25, 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 cuff26 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 tinkle27 of sleigh-bells. Their sitting-room28 window was filled chiefly with parchment, but there was one square of it filled with glass. Through this, as from a loop-hole, the inmates29 could reconnoitre any one who approached their hut.
“Two dog-sleighs!” exclaimed Ian, turning from the loop-hole with a look of surprise.
“Flora30 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 drawn31 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 undo32 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 bin33 aisy to git the ladies down here widout ’em, the snow was so soft wi’ the thaw34 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 resolute35 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, bustling36 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 marvel37 of cleanliness and propriety38. 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 perfectly39 fresh, and smelt40 pleasantly of resin41. The window was preposterously42 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 delightfully43 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 snug44 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 serenity45 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 bate46 the tracks wid our snowshoes, and the dogs ’ill follow kindly47, 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 sledge48. We had only one upset. It might have been an awkward one, for the horse was very restive49 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 Boulder50 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 lining51.’”
“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 laden52, 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 perplexed53 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 doctrine54,” 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 sedate55, though by no means less joyful56, frame of mind than that in which she had made her entry into her new and unquestionably humble57 residence.
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1
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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shingly
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| adj.小石子多的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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lingo
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| n.语言不知所云，外国话，隐语 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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resin
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| n.树脂，松香，树脂制品；vt.涂树脂 | |
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preposterously
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| adv.反常地；荒谬地；荒谬可笑地；不合理地 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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45
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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bate
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| v.压制；减弱；n.（制革用的）软化剂 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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48
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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49
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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50
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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51
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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52
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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53
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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54
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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55
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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56
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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57
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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