Rat, tat, tat! Thump, thump! Bang!
So noisy and persistent an assault on my door roused me at length from a delicious slumber. I sat up, rubbing my blinking eyes.
“Who’s there?” I called in a drowsy tone.
“It’s nine o’clock, sir,” responded the voice of Baptiste. “I thought you would wish to know it,” he added, and with that he went shuffling down the corridor.
Nine o’clock! And I had slept several hours over my usual time of rising! This was the result of sitting up so late the night before. I was wide awake instantly. I sprang out of bed, broke the thin crust of ice on my basin, and plunged hands and face into the bitter cold water. A brisk rubbing with a towel put me all aglow, and I felt what a good thing it was to be alive. The past, with its perils and hardships, was behind me like a dim dream, and the future was rose-colored in spite of the grim spectre of war that it held over us in those days.
This was to be an eventful morning, in a way, for I had a happy piece of news to impart to Flora; I thought of it constantly as I dressed—an operation to which of late I devoted much care and attention. From regions downstairs—I was in the factor’s house—came the rattle of dishes and a murmur of voices. Out of doors the frosty air was filled with the hum of busy human life.
But I forget that I owe the reader an explanation. The day of which I write was the 9th of January, 1847, and just one week after we entered Fort Garry and exchanged the harsh monotony of travel for the comforts of this nourishing post in the western wilderness.
I need dwell but briefly on the interval. The journey from Fort Charter had been severe and trying, protracted by furious storms that held us in camp for days at a time. But we were not attacked on the way—indeed, we saw no signs of Indians—and every one of our little band had come safely down from the North, through the heart of the Great Lone Land. It had been a disappointment to spend Christmas in the wilderness, but our trials were forgotten when we reached the fort.
But of these matters enough for the present. I must return to where I left off, and continue the narrative. When I had finished dressing that morning I went downstairs to the factor’s living room, meeting no one on the way except Christopher Burley, who was too absorbed in thought to return my greeting.
I opened the door softly, and beheld an attractive picture. The sunlight shone on rugs and easy-chairs, on walls hung with tastefully chosen prints, on a table spread for two, with snowy linen and white china. To my relief, the room had but one occupant, and that was Flora. She was standing by the window, and as I entered she turned round quickly. She looked radiantly beautiful in a frock of some pink material with her rich hair coiled in a new and becoming fashion.