“Not in the least,” answered the fur-trader promptly, with a glance at his man.
“Vraiment, non, cer’nly not!” exclaimed Le Rue emphatically, not a trace of scorn being now visible on his benign countenance.
Matters being thus amicably disposed of, the party adjourned to the hut, where they sat down to a substantial repast, the foundation of which was boiled bacon and tea; the superstructure, biscuits and butter.
Here François Le Rue met with a profound disappointment. He had rightly judged that, where the mistress dwelt, the maid must necessarily abide; accordingly, on entering the hut, he had the extreme satisfaction of obtaining a glance of grateful recognition from Elise’s bright eyes. But the sanguine trader had also counted on the pleasure of her company at supper in the kitchen of the establishment, while his master should sup with the McLeods in the parlour. In this he was mistaken. In such an out-of-the-way region the young Canadian girl was counted as much a companion as a servant, and while she performed the duties of attendant at the table in the hall, she also sat modestly down at the same table to partake of the evening meal. François, on the other hand, was told to go to the kitchen and make himself comfortable.
The kitchen was a little out-house, not unlike a gigantic dog-kennel, separated by a space of six feet or so from the principal dwelling.
Opening its door, Le Rue entered with a heavy heart, supposing that he should have to eat his supper in dreary solitude, “not dat I cares moch for dat,” thought he, as he raised the latch, “for I’s accostomed to solitairness; but ah! ven I tinks of—”
“Hooroo!” shouted a gruff voice, scattering at once his thoughts and his “solitairness.”
Le Rue started as he encountered the surprised gaze of a man, but, being in a crusty humour, he only exclaimed— “Hah!” and returned the gaze.
“Sure it’s you or yer ghost,” exclaimed the identical driver whom the two fur-traders had so lately assisted out of difficulties. “Give us yer fist, young man. Ah, then, it’s good luck is yer portion, Rooney. Didn’t I think to sit down to me supper in solitood, whin in comes like a vision the frind as was a frind indade to me and the ladies the other day. Come in, come in, sit ye down there; an’ ait till yer fit to bust. Och! but it’s mesilf is glad this night. There, putt off yer capote; if yer at all like me ye’ll not be fit to taste a morsel till yer in yer shirt sleeves. Howld—I’ll hang it on the peg for ’ee. Now thin, go to work. Don’t spare it. Faix, there’s plinty more where that came from, though there ain’t much variety here. It’s pig for breakfast, pig for dinner, an’ pig for supper—wid a slice o’ cowld pig at odd times whin yer extra hungry. An’ then ye’ll have to pig-in wid myself at night, for there’s only wan bed in this coolinairy mansion, not bein’ room to howld more! That’s yer sort—the tae’s hot, anyhow.”
There was no withstanding such a welcome as this. François Le Rue thawed instantly, and thereafter warmed up to intense cordiality while he plied his knife and fork on the “pig,” and quaffed the steaming “tae,” talking between mouthfuls as his voluble friend gave him opportunity.