"That iss goot news--whatever; for as long as there"s life there"s hope."
Trying to comfort himself, as well as his friend, with this truism, the old man staggered out of the house in search of those who had gone before.
Soon a sad procession was seen coming up the path, led by Archie. Four men carried Dan on a rudely-extemporised litter. His bloodless face and lips gave him the appearance of death, but the glow in his eyes told of still unexhausted life.
"I"ll be all right, mother," he said feebly, as they laid him on his bed. "I only want food and rest. Thank G.o.d--home at last!"
As he spoke, a quiet step was heard, and Elspie, with a face as pale as his own, knelt by his bedside and took his hand.
That touch was the first impulse the youth received towards decided recovery. Old McKay perceived the change in his countenance.
"Yes, yes! ay, ay!" he exclaimed, pacing violently up and down the room, "he wants nothin" but victuals an" rest--steaks an" shops, and plenty o"
whusky an" water--hot. Don"t be croodin" about him an" botherin" him.
Come away, and leave him to his mother, an" send for the doctor. Has no wan gone for him yet?"
"Yes; Peter has just started. I heard the clatter of his horse"s feet,"
said Jessie.
"It iss not the doctor that will put him right, whatever," muttered the old man, as he left the room, followed by most of the family.
And the doctor himself held the same opinion; for he said, on returning to the reception hall after seeing his patient--
"It will be a considerable time before he recovers, for the fountain of life had been well-nigh drained when he fortunately extemporised that tourniquet. But there"s no fear of him: all that he wants is food, rest, and peace of mind."
"An" whusky, doctor," added old McKay. "Don"t forget the best pheesic; an" I hev goot store of it, too, in my cellar at Ben Nevis."
"I"m not so sure about the whisky, Mr McKay," returned the doctor with a laugh. "I think we shall manage to pull him through without that."
The other requisites for recovery were applied without stint at Prairie Cottage; for, despite the misfortune which had attended the cultivation of the soil, the Davidsons had a little money, which enabled them to buy provisions and other necessaries, obtainable from the Hudson Bay Company, and thus tide over the disastrous year in greater comfort than fell to the lot of many of the other settlers.
Thus Dan was well looked after. His brother Peter found the food--at least much of it--on the prairie and in the woods; his sister Jessie cooked it; Louise helped, looked on, and learned; home afforded rest; Elspie supplied the peace of mind--at least as much of it as it was possible for a fellow-mortal to supply; and his mother superintended all. Add to this that Archie Sinclair cheered him with miscellaneous gossip; that Little Bill read to him, or entertained him with serious talk and grave speculation; that Andre Morel and his sister often entertained him with song; that on such occasions Jenkins, the sailor, frequently amused him with nautical tales; that old Peg sometimes came from Ben Nevis to gaze at him tenderly; and that Okematan came to glare at him more or less affectionately--and we have said enough to warrant the conclusion that Dan Davidson had a pretty good time of it in spite of his weak condition.
Nevertheless Dan was not quite happy. He could not get rid of the memory of Henri Perrin"s murder, and the terrible thought that Elspie"s brother Duncan had some sort of guilty knowledge of it. These thoughts he buried deep, however, in his own breast, and even tried to forget them. Vain effort! for does it not stand to reason that the thing we strive most earnestly to forget is the very thing which, by that effort, we are fixing with a deeper stamp on memory?
Francois La Certe was somewhat exercised about the same question, about the same time.
That estimable member of the colony was seated one fine day on the banks of the river fishing for goldeyes--a small fish about the size of a plump herring. His amiable spouse was helping, or rather fishing with him. It was a fine healthy, contemplative occupation; one that admirably suited their tendency to repose, and at the same time filled them with that virtuous sensation which awaits those who know that they are engaged in useful occupation--for were not goldeyes the best of eating?
Branches of trees were their primitive rods, twine their simple lines, gra.s.shoppers their bait, and a violent jerk their method.
"Slowfoot!" said La Certe.
"My husband!" or some such Indian phrase, answered the woman.
"I have been wondering for a long time now why--hi!--no! I thought there was something at my bait--but it was deception. Nothing is so unreal as the bite of the goldeye--when it is not there. It brings to mind the lights in the sky of winter, which dance and shoot--and yet they are not. Hi! ho!--I have him. I was mistaken. I thought the fish _was_ not--but it was."
While speaking La Certe sent a small fish with bursting violence on the gra.s.s behind him. Almost at the same moment Slowfoot landed another, with less violence and more coolness.
"What was I saying, Slowfoot?" asked the half-breed, when the hooks had been re-baited, and their eyes were riveted on their respective floats.
"Nothing that any one could remember," answered his truthful spouse.
"Now I remember--ho! was that another?"
"No, it was not," answered his matter-of-fact helpmate.
"Where is our child?" asked the father, with that wayward wandering of mind which is a not uncommon characteristic of genius.
"Smoking in the tent," answered the mother.
"And with my pipe, no doubt," said the father, laying down his rod and searching in the bag in which he was wont to carry, among other things, his pipe and tobacco.
A cry of pain from the tent in question--which was close behind the pair--apprised the parents that something was wrong. Immediately their first and only one issued with a tobacco pipe in one hand and a burnt finger on the other. It came to the father for sympathy, and got it.
That is to say, La Certe put the burnt finger in his mouth for a moment, and uttered some guttural expressions of sympathy. Having thus fulfilled duty and relieved conscience, he exchanged the finger for the pipe-stem, and began to smoke. The spoiled, as well as despoiled, child uttered a howl of indignation, and staggered off to its mother; but she received it with a smile of affectionate indifference, whereupon the injured creature went back to the tent, howling, and, apparently, howled itself to sleep.
Again La Certe broke the piscatorial spell that had settled down on them, and, taking up the thread of discourse where he had dropped it, repeated his statement that he had been wondering for a long time why Cloudbrow, _alias_ young Duncan McKay, was so sharp and fierce in denying that he knew anything about the murder of Henri Perrin.
"Hee! hee!" was Slowfoot"s significant reply.
"Can Slowfoot not guess?" he asked, after attending to a hopeful nibble, which came to nothing.
"Slowfoot need not guess; she _knows_," said the woman with an air of great mystery.
"What does Slowfoot know?"
The woman"s answer to this was a look of exceeding slyness. But this did not content her lord, who, after repeated questions, and a threat to resort to extreme measures in case of continued refusal, drew from her a distinct answer.
"Slowfoot knows that Cloudbrow _killed_ Perrin."
"Sh!" exclaimed La Certe, with a look of real concern, "I am not yet tired of you, Slowfoot; and if old McKay hears you say that he will shoot you."
"Slowfoot is not a fool," retorted the woman: "the old man will never hear her say that. What has Slowfoot got to do with it? She can hold her tongue!"
"She can do that, for certain," returned her husband with good-natured sarcasm. "In that, as in many things, she excels other women. I would never have married her had it not been so. But how do you come to be so sure?"
"I know the knife," returned the woman, becoming more literal as she went on, "and Marie Blanc knows it. Her husband once got the loan of it from Cloudbrow, and she looked at it with care, because she had never seen such a knife before. She knew all its marks. Why does Cloudbrow deny that it is his? Because it was Cloudbrow who killed Perrin. If it had been anybody else he would have known it, and he would have said so--for he was _there_."
"How know you that he was there?"
"Marie Blanc knows. She netted the snowshoes that Cloudbrow wore, and she saw the footprints."
"But pairs of snowshoes are very like each other," objected La Certe.
"Very like. Yes; but did ever two shoes have the same mends in the same places of the netting, where it had been broken, and the same marks on the frames?"
"Never. It will go hard with Cloudbrow if this is true."
"It will go hard with him whether it is true or not," returned the woman; "for some of the friends of Perrin believe it to be true, and swear--"