CHAPTER I.
Only those who have lived in a cold country like Canada can fully realize the pleasurable sensations which attend the opening of spring. The weary monotony of winter, with its unvarying aspect of white fields, and steady frost, often so intense as to make exposure painful, gives way to freedom and life, and with some such feelings as stir the heart of the prisoner, when he exchanges his darksome cell for sunshine and green fields, does the dweller of Canada hail the time when the snowbanks disappear and when he can, without wraps, move whether he will in the genial atmosphere. It was at that period of the year when the simple incidents I am going to relate took place.
Amid the unbroken forest which covered the county of Huntingdon in the year 1820, a log shanty stood on the west bank of Oak creek, at a point where the beavers had by their industry formed a small meadow. The shanty was rude as might be, of unsquared logs, with a roof of basswood split into slabs, and a stick chimney. The interior consisted of a single room, and a small one at that. The inmates were a mother and daughter. The mother, engaged in spinning, sat in the sunshine which streamed through the open door, brightening the few pieces of furniture it fell upon and whitening still more the heaps of ashes in the open fire-place, behind which smouldered a huge backlog. She had evidently passed her fiftieth year, while the pressed lips and look of patient reserve told of the endurance of a lifelong sorrow.
“Dae ye no see or hear ocht?” she asked, looking through the doorway to the woods beyond, to which she often turned her eyes.
“No, mother,” replied the girl addressed, who was sitting on the doorstep.
“What can hae come ower him!” said the woman in a low voice.
“Dinna fret; he’ll be here soon,” said Jeanie in a tone that spoke more of a desire to comfort her mother than faith in her statement.
As if not heeding her, the mother resumed, “He said he would be back last nicht, and he should hae been. I sair misdoot ill has befaen him.”
It was of her husband of whom she spoke. He had worked all winter for a party of Americans, who were cutting the best of the timber along the banks of the creek, and had gone Monday morning to aid them in driving the logs to the point on the Chateaugay where they were to be formed into rafts and thence taken to Quebec. His last words had been that he would, at the latest, be back the following evening and it was now the third day.
Jeanie strained her eyes and ears to catch the faintest sign of her father’s approach. The quaver of the grey-bird and the chirrup of the chipmunk came occasionally from the recesses of the woods, which lay sleeping in the April sunshine that glorified everything, but no rustle of branch or cracking of dried stick that would indicate an approaching footstep. The usually silent creek, now swollen by melted snow, lapped its banks in pursuing its tortuous course, murmuring a soothing lullaby to the genial day; and that great peace, to be found only in mountain recess or forest depth, brooded over the scene. But there, where all the influences of nature were so soothing, were two hearts filled with anxious care.
“Jeanie,” suddenly exclaimed the mother, after a long pause, and staying the whirr of the wheel, “you maun gang and seek your father. Gae down to Palmer’s and there you’ll find the rafts, and the men will tell you whether he left for hame or no.”
“But I dinna like to leave you, mother, and I am sure you are taking trouble without need. He will be here by dark.”
The mother understood the affectionate motive of her child in trying to make light of her fears, but well knew her anxiety was no less than her own.
“Say nae mair, my lassie, but gang while there is time for you to get back. You ken the yarn for the Yankee wife at the Fort is ready and there is no flour until he gangs there for it.”
Casting one long eager glance down the creek, along which her father should come, the girl turned in from the door and made ready for the journey. Her preparations were easily made. The slipping on of her stoutest pair of shoes and throwing a plaid over her arm, as a hap from the cold after sunset, comprised them, and bidding her mother not to fret for she would bring back good news she started. She did not follow the creek, but struck northward across the peninsula that forms the township of Elgin, her design being to reach Trout river, as being more fordable than the wider Chateaugay. The path was, probably, at first a deer run, which the few who travelled it, chiefly lumbermen, had roughly brushed. Only one accustomed to the woods could have kept the track, for, to a stranger’s eye, it differed little from the openings which ever and anon appeared among the trees. Jeanie, however, was no novice to the path or to the bush, and she stepped quickly and with confidence on her way. She had walked about an hour beneath the solemn gloom of the primeval forest when she saw an opening ahead, and knew she was approaching Trout river. On reaching it, she followed its bank, until, with one end grounded in a little bay, she found a large log. Grasping the first straight stick she saw lying about to serve as a pole, she pushed the log from its anchorage, and stepping on it as it moved guided it across the narrow river. From the liability of the log to roll, such a mode of ferrying is dangerous to those unused to it, but Jeanie knew how to place her feet and keep her balance and speedily gained the other bank and resumed her journey. On reaching the place where the two rivers unite, she could not, despite her anxiety, help pausing to admire the beautiful expanse of water, which, unruffled by a breath of wind, lay glassing itself in the sunshine, while the forest, which rose from its margin on either side, formed no unfit setting. Presently she saw a ripple upon its surface, and her keen eye perceived the black head of a muskrat, which was making its way to the opposite bank. While she followed the rapid movements of the little creature, there was the flash and smoke of a gun before her, and, while the woods were still echoing the report, a dog jumped into the water to bring in the rat, which floated dead upon the current. A few steps brought Jeanie to the marksman, a tall, wiry man, of rather prepossessing appearance. His dog had returned and laid the rat at his master’s feet, who was encouraging him with exclamations of “Good dog! good dog!” when he caught sight of her.
“Waal neow, who would a thought it? Miss Jeanie herself and nobody else. How do you do?” And stretching forth his sinewy arm, he grasped her hand in a clutch that would have made a bear shed tears.
“Oh, I’m well, thank you, Mr Palmer, and my mother, but we’re in sore trouble.”
“Don’t say the old man is sick?” and an anxious look passed over the kindly face of the honest Yankee.
“Oh, dear sir, we dinna ken whether he’s sick or well. He left home Monday morning and was to be back next night and he hasna come yet, and I’ve come to ask after him and get help to find him if nobody knows where he is?” As she spoke there was a tremor in Jeanie’s voice, and a tear glistened on her drooping eyelashes.
“Ha, do tell; this is serious,” and the hunter leant upon his rifle and gazed abstractedly upon the river, as if trying to conjecture what could have become of the lost man, until, noting Jeanie’s evident distress, he aroused himself, and, exhorting her to keep up heart, led the way to his house.
“You see,” he said, as they picked their way along the rough path by the river’s edge, “there ain’t much to shoot yet and what there is ain’t worth killing, but I kinder felt lonesome to be about doors so fine a day, and I took a stroll, tho’ all I came across was that mushrat, which, darn it skin, ain’t worth the lead that killed it.”
“If the shooting is poor, the fishing will be good,” said Jeanie, who humored the spirit of the sportsman.
“Couldn’t be better,” answered Mr Palmer, “I speared seven salmon at the foot of the rapids last night, and this morning I drew my seine full of as pretty fish as you would want to clap your eyes on.”
The sound of rushing water told of their approach to the rapids, at the head of which, on a knoll a few rods to the left, stood Mr Palmer’s house, which was a comfortable log one, overshadowed by majestic pines. On entering, they found Mrs Palmer, a rather delicate-looking woman, engaged in baking. Uttering an exclamation of surprise at the sight of Jeanie, she wiped her dusty hands and gave her a cordial welcome, as well she might, for the visits she had received from members of her own sex, since she had taken up her abode by the Chateaugay, might have been counted on her fingers without exhausting them. On learning the cause of Jeanie’s journey, she received the tidings with the same anxious look as her husband. Evidently both entertained the worst forebodings, while both had a delicacy in speaking of what they believed to be the cause of his absence. Neither had seen him, but the gang of lumbermen he had helped were now forming a raft half a mile below the house and it was arranged that Mr Palmer should go and see them while Jeanie would wait. Her hostess resumed her baking, and Jeanie, feeling the heat indoors oppressive on so fine a day, stepped out and sat on a log, near enough to keep up the conversation yet sufficiently far to enjoy the balmy atmosphere and the beauty of the scene before her. And here, before attempting to describe it, let me tell what manner of woman Jeanie was. She had that first quality of a handsome girl, stature—she was tall, with a form instinct with life—lithe and graceful, which, when matured by age, would become dignified also. She had no pretension to beauty, beyond what the liveliness of youth and a sweet temper can give to the countenance, but still her well-formed mouth, gray eyes, a forehead broad though not too high, and a wealth of light brown hair went to form a face that was pleasant to look upon. She had been a visitor at Palmer’s house before, but its surroundings were still sufficiently novel to engage her even in her present distracted frame of mind, for, as became a Scotchwoman, she had a keen relish for whatever is beautiful in nature. Above, and until directly opposite her, the Chateaugay came sweeping, with graceful curve, a wide, unruffled sheet of water, until suddenly it fell over a rocky ledge and became a mass of foaming rapids, which brattled between banks, covered by trees and overhung by hazel bushes, until lost to sight by a sharp bend a considerable distance below.[A] Being at flood height, the rapids were seen at their best, and Jeanie never wearied admiring the graceful sweep of the smooth water as it neared the ledge that preceded its fall, or the tumult of breakers into which, a moment after, it was tossed. It flashed upon her that the river was, perhaps, to prove a true type of her own and her mother’s fate,—the even tenor of their life hitherto was about to be suddenly broken by her father’s disappearance, and then the water, tossed from rock to rock, broken into spray and driven in every direction, except upward, would too truly represent their life hereafter. Raising her gaze to the south, she caught a glimpse, through a gash among the trees on the opposite bank where fire had levelled them, of a range of smooth moulded hills, which, blue and soft in the sweet spring sunshine, brought back to memory the dear old hills of her native land, and joy mingled with her sorrow.
The afternoon wore away apace and still Mr Palmer did not return. Above the noise of the rapids Jeanie heard, now and then, the shouts of the lumbermen as they heaved the logs in forming their raft, and whom Mr Palmer had gone down to see. Having finished her household duties and spread the supper on the table, Mrs Palmer sat down beside Jeanie and, with kindly craft, by talking of commonplace matters, strove to divert her mind. By-and-by the appearance of a fine spaniel, the same that had swam to the rat, indicated the approach of Mr Palmer, who, when he came up to them, leading his eldest girl, a chattering child, seemed in no hurry to answer the questioning eyes of the two women.
“Blessed if the dog don’t scent something,” said the worthy man, as he watched the animal creeping to a clump of underbrush to the right.
“Bother the dog,” exclaimed Mrs Palmer, “what did the men tell you?”
“Waal, they ain’t jest sure, you know, but they guess ’tis all right,” and as he drawled out the words slowly and reluctantly, Jeanie could see that he was far from thinking it was all right.
“Oh, sir,” she said, “you are a father yourself and you are as dear to your child as she is to you. Tell me the worst, and be done wi’ it.”
“Don’t take on, Jeanie; it may be all right yet. Your father helped to tote the logs to the foot of the rapids, and left them, well and strong, to walk home last night. I rather conjecture he lost his way, but he will be home by this time.”
This was all Mr Palmer seemed disposed to tell, and, hoping for the best, she tried to share in her host’s affected confidence as to her father’s safety, and followed him in answer to his wife’s call “That supper was ready.” A capital cook, and having a larder to draw from replenished by the gun and rod of her husband, Mrs Palmer, in honor of her guest, had spread a table that contrasted painfully with the meagre fare to which Jeanie was accustomed, and made her think of the mess of boiled corn of which her mother would then be partaking. After supper, the canoe was launched, and bidding farewell to her hostess and her little girl on the river’s bank, Jeanie stepped in, when, propelled by the paddle of Mr Palmer, it began steadily to stem the current.
Who that has undergone the agony of sorrowful apprehension has not noted how every trifling incident that may have occurred during that period has become imprinted indelibly upon the memory? The watcher by the sick-bed, over which death hovers, is puzzled how, at a time when the mind is absorbed with one thought, the perceptions should be so sharpened as to note trivial events and objects, down to the very furniture and pattern of the wallpaper, which on ordinary occasions leave no trace upon the memory. On that April evening Jeanie’s mind was laboring under this intensified acuteness, and while brooding continually over her father’s probable fate, to her dying day she remembered every feature of the scenery she was now passing. The smooth flowing river, swollen and discolored by the melted snow from the hills, hemmed in on either bank by a thick growth of trees, many of which, as if enamored with the beautiful sheet of water by which they grew, bent over it until, in their leafy prime, their branches almost kissed its surface. Now, though leafless, their tops were glorified by the setting sun, which filled the still air with the lambent blue haze which distinguishes the evenings of early spring in Canada. Keeping to the Chateaugay at its union with Trout river, the canoe stole silently beneath the shadow of the overhanging trees until the mouth of Oak creek was reached, when Jeanie stepped ashore to pursue her way on foot to her home. Before bidding her goodbye, Mr Palmer paused and said: “Now, you keep up a good heart for whatever may happen, and we’ll be up tomorrow to search the woods. Give that to your mother and—God bless you.” Without giving her time to say a word, he pushed his canoe into the stream and speedily glided out of sight, leaving Jeanie standing on the bank perplexed by what he had said and holding the basket he had thrust into her hands, which contained a loaf of bread and a string of fish. With a heavier heart than ever, she began to trace her way homeward by the creek. Once in that lonely journey she thought she saw her father walking ahead of her, and once she thought she heard his voice. She called out and paused to listen for a reply. The only sound that reached her was the dismal croakings of the frogs. Knowing that her imagination was deceiving her, she hurried on and, when she caught the first glimpse of light gleaming from her humble home, it outlined her mother’s figure seated on the doorstep waiting her return.
“You hav’na found him, Jeanie?”
“No, mother; and he hasna come hame?”
“What can hae come ower him!” exclaimed the mother, as she sank into a seat by the open fire-place.
It was remarkable that in their conversation no conjecture was hazarded by either as to the probable fate of the missing one. Both, plainly, entertained the same painful surmise, which they were alike ashamed to breathe. They sat by the glowing backlog for many hours, hoping against hope that the wanderer might return, until Jeanie overcome by fatigue sought her bed. Once she awoke during the night, thinking she heard a voice. She listened in the darkness. It was her mother wrestling with God on behalf of her father.