Part 39 (1/2)

”Mother,” said March, after a short pause that had succeeded an unusually long burst, ”do you know it's only a few months since I left you to go to this trip to the mountains?”

”I know it well, my son,” replied the widow, smiling at the question.

”And do you know,” he continued, ”that it seems to me more like five years? When I think of all that I've heard and all that I've done, and all that I've seen, it seems to me as if it had took--as if it _must_ have took--five years to have heard and done and seen it all in?”

”And yet,” said the widow musingly, ”you failed to see the Wild Man o'

the West after all.”

”Mother, I'll be angry with you if you say that again.”

”Well, I won't,” she replied, taking his hand in hers and stroking it.

”Tell me again, March, about d.i.c.k of the Cave and his little girl. I like to hear about them; they were so kind to you, and that d.i.c.k, from your account, seems to be such a fine fellow: tell me all about them over again.”

”I will, mother,” said March, clearing his throat, and commencing in a tone that showed clearly his intention of going on indefinitely.

Widow Marston's cottage had a pretty, comfortable-looking flower garden behind it. In front the windows looked out upon a portion of the native woods which had been left standing when the spot for the settlement was cleared. In the back garden there was a bower which the widow's brother, the blacksmith, had erected, and the creepers on which had been planted by the widow's own hand when she was Mary West, the belle of the settlement. In this bower, which was a capacious one, sat a number of sedate, quiet, jolly, conversable fellows, nearly all of whom smoked, and one of whom sketched. They were our friends Redhand, Bounce, Big Waller, Gibault, Hawkswing, and Bertram.

It is observable among men who travel long in company together in a wild country, that, when they return again to civilised, or to semi-civilised life, they feel a strong inclination to draw closer together, either from the force of habit, or sympathy, or both. On reaching Pine Point the trappers, after visiting their friends and old chums, drew together again as if by a species of electrical attraction. In whatever manner they chanced to spend their days, they--for the first week at least-- found themselves trending gradually each evening a little before sunset to a common centre.

Widow Marston was always at home. March Marston was always with his mother--deep in his long-winded yarns. The bower was always invitingly open in the back garden; hence the bower was the regular rendezvous of the trappers. It was a splendid evening that on which we now see them a.s.sembled there. The sun was just about to set in a flood of golden clouds. Birds, wildfowl, and frogs held an uproarious concert in wood and swamp, and the autumnal foliage glowed richly in the slanting beams as it hung motionless in the still atmosphere.

”D'ye know,” said Redhand, removing his pipe for a few minutes and blowing aside the heavy wreaths of tobacco smoke that seemed unwilling to ascend and dissipate themselves--”d'ye know, now that this trip's over, I'm inclined to think it's about the roughest one I've had for many a year? An' it's a cur'ous fact, that the rougher a trip is the more I like it.”

Bertram, who was (as a matter of course) sketching, turned over a few leaves and made a note of the observation.

”I guess it was pretty much of a meddlin' jolly one,” said Big Waller, smoking enthusiastically, and with an expression of intense satisfaction on his weather-beaten countenance.

”An' profitable,” observed Bounce gravely.

”Ah! oui, ver' prof'table,” echoed Gibault. ”Dat is de main ting. We have git plenty skins, an' have bring hom' our own skins, w'ich I was not moche sure of one or two times.”

”True,” said Bounce; ”that's wot we've got for to be thankful for.

Skins is skins; but the skin of a human ain't to be put in the balance wi' the skin o' a beaver, d'ye see?”

Bounce glanced at Hawkswing as he spoke, but the Indian only looked stolid and smoked solemnly.

”Yes,” he continued, ”a whole skin's better nor a broken one, an' it's well to bring back a whole one, though I'm not a-goin' for to deny that there's some advantage in bringing back other sorts o' skins too, d'ye see? w'ich goes for to prove the true feelosophy of the fact, d'ye see?--”

Bounce paused, in the midst of his mental energy, to take a parenthetic whiff. His thoughts, however, seemed too deep for utterance, for he subsided quietly into a state of silent fumigation.

”What a splendidly picturesque scene!” exclaimed Bertram, pus.h.i.+ng back his brigandish hat in order the better to get a view, at arm's length, of his sketch and compare it with the original.

”Wot's the meanin' o' pikter-esk?” inquired Bounce. Theodore Bertram looked and felt puzzled. He was not the first man who thought that he knew the signification of terms well, and found himself much perplexed on being suddenly called upon to give a correct definition of a well-known word. While he is labouring to enlighten his friend, we shall leave the bower and return to the hall, or kitchen, or reception room--for it might be appropriately designated by any of these terms-- where March is, as usual, engaged in expounding backwoods life to his mother. We have only to pa.s.s through the open door and are with them at once. Cottages in Pine Point settlement were of simple construction; the front door opened out of one side of the hall, the back door out of the other. As the weather was mild, both were wide open.

March had just reached an intensely interesting point in his narrative, and was describing, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes and heightened colour, his first interview with the ”Vision in Leather,” when his attention was attracted by the sound of horses' hoofs coming at a rapid pace along the road that led to the cottage. The wood above referred to hid any object approaching by the road until within fifty yards or so of the front door.

”They seem in a hurry, whoever they be,” said March, as he and his mother rose and hastened to the door, ”an' there's more than one rider, if I've not forgot how to judge by sounds. I should say that there's-- Hallo!”

The exclamation was not unnatural by any means, for at that moment a very remarkable horseman dashed round the point of the wood and galloped towards the cottage. Both man and horse were gigantic. The former wore no cap, and his voluminous brown locks floated wildly behind him. On they came with a heavy, thunderous tread, stones, sticks, and dust flying from the charger's heels. There was a rude paling in front of the cottage. The n.o.ble horse put its ears forward as it came up, took two or three short strides, and went over with the light bound of a deer, showing that the strength of bone, muscle, and sinew was in proportion to the colossal size of the animal. The gravel inside the paling flew like splas.h.i.+ng water as they alighted with a crash, and widow Marston, uttering a faint cry, shrank within the doorway as the wild horseman seemed about to launch himself, with Quixotic recklessness, against the cottage.