Part 18 (1/2)
CHAPTER XVII.
”I will arise, and go to my father.”--St. Luke.
It is the hour of sunset; the sonorous sound of the cattle-bells is heard, as they slowly emerge from the steep hill-path that leads to Maxwell and Louis Perron's little clearing; the dark shadows are lengthening that those wood-crowned hills cast over that sunny spot, an oasis in the vast forest desert that man, adventurous, courageous man, has hewed for himself in the wilderness. The little flock are feeding among the blackened stumps of the uncleared chopping: those timbers have lain thus untouched for two long years; the hand was wanting that should have given help in logging and burning them up. The wheat is ripe for the sickle, and the silken beard of the corn is waving like a fair girl's tresses in the evening breeze. The tinkling fall of the cold spring in yonder bank falls soothingly on the ear. Who comes from that low-roofed log-cabin to bring in the pitcher of water--that pale, careworn, shadowy figure that slowly moves along the green pasture, as one without hope or joy; her black hair shared with silver, her cheek pale as wax, and her hand so thin it looks as though the light might be seen through if she held it towards the sun? It is the heart-broken mother of Catharine and Hector Maxwell. Her heart has been pierced with many sorrows; she cannot yet forget the children of her love, her first-born girl and boy. Who comes to meet her, and with cheerful voice chides her for the tear that seems ever to be lingering on that pale cheek,--yet the premature furrows on that broad, sunburnt, manly brow speak, too, of inward care? It is the father of Hector and Catharine. Those two fine, healthy boys, in homespun blouses, that are talking so earnestly as they lean across the rail-fence of the little wheat field, are Kenneth and Donald; their sickles are on their arms--they have been reaping. They hear the sudden barking of Bruce and Wallace, the hounds, and turn to see what causes the agitation they display.
An old man draws near; he has a knapsack on his shoulders, which he casts down on the corner of the stoup; he is singing a line of an old French ditty; he raps at the open door. The Highlander bids him welcome, but starts with glad surprise as his hand is grasped by the old trapper.
”Hah, Jacob Morelle, it is many a weary year since your step turned this way.” The tear stood in the eye of the soldier as he spoke.
”Can you receive me and those I have with me for the night?” asked the old man; in a husky voice--his kind heart was full. ”A spare corner, a shake-down, will do; we travellers in the bush are no wise nice.”
”The best we have, and kindly welcome, Jacob. How many are ye in all?”
”There are just four, besides myself,--young people. I found them where they had been long living, on a lonely lake, and I persuaded them to come with me.”
The strong features of the Highlander worked convulsively, as he drew his faded blue bonnet over his eyes. ”Jacob, did ye ken that we lost our eldest bairns some three summers since?” he faltered in a broken voice.
”The Lord, in his mercy, has restored them to you, Donald, by my hand,”
said the trapper.
”Let me see, let me see my children! To Him be the praise and the glory,”
e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the pious father, raising his bonnet reverently from his head; ”and holy and blessed be His name for ever! I thought not to have seen this day. O Catharine, my dear wife, this joy will kill you!”