Robert Michael Ballantyne
Snowflakes and Sunbeams; Or, The Young Fur-traders: A Tale of the Far North
CHAPTER XXVIII
Old friends and scenes—Coming events cast their shadows before.
Mr. Kennedy, senior, was seated in his own comfortable arm-chair before the fire, in his own cheerful little parlour, in his own snug house, at Red River, with his own highly characteristic breakfast of buffalo steaks, tea, and pemmican before him, and his own beautiful, affectionate daughter Kate presiding over the tea-pot, and exercising unwarrantably despotic sway over a large gray cat, whose sole happiness seemed to consist in subjecting Mr. Kennedy to perpetual annoyance, and whose main object in life was to catch its master and mistress off their guard, that it might go quietly to the table, the meat-safe, or the pantry, and there—deliberately—steal!
Kate had grown very much since we saw her last. She was quite a woman now, and well worthy of a minute description here; but we never could describe a woman to our own satisfaction. We have frequently tried and failed; so we substitute, in place, the remarks of Kate's friends and acquaintances about her—a criterion on which to form a judgment that is a pretty correct one, especially when the opinion pronounced happens to be favourable. Her father said she was an angel, and the only joy of his life. This latter expression, we may remark, was false; for Mr. Kennedy frequently said to Kate, confidentially, that Charley was a great happiness to him; and we are quite sure that the pipe had something to do with the felicity of his existence. But the old gentleman said that Kate was the only joy of his life, and that is all we have to do with at present. Several ill-tempered old ladies in the settlement said that Miss Kennedy was really a quiet, modest girl—testimony this (considering the source whence it came) that was quite conclusive. Then old Mr. Grant remarked to old Mr. Kennedy, over a confidential pipe, that Kate was certainly, in his opinion, the most modest and the prettiest girl in Red River. Her old school companions called her a darling. Tom Whyte said "he never seed nothink like her nowhere." The clerks spoke of her in terms too glowing to remember; and the last arrival among them, the youngest, with the slang of the "old country" fresh on his lips, called her a stunner! Even Mrs. Grant got up one of her half-expressed remarks about her, which everybody would have supposed to be quizzical in its nature, were it not for the frequent occurrence of the terms "good girl," "innocent creature," which seemed to contradict that idea. There were also one or two hapless swains who said nothings, but what they did and looked was in itself unequivocal. They went quietly into a state of slow, drivelling imbecility whenever they happened to meet with Kate; looked as if they had become shockingly unwell, and were rather pleased than otherwise that their friends should think so too; and upon all and every occasion in which Kate was concerned, conducted themselves with an amount of insane stupidity (although sane enough at other times) that nothing could account for, save the idea that their admiration of her was inexpressible, and that that was the most effective way in which they could express it.
"Kate, my darling," said Mr. Kennedy, as he finished the last mouthful of tea, "wouldn't it be capital to get another letter from Charley?"
"Yes, dear papa, it would indeed. But I am quite sure that the next time we shall hear from him will be when he arrives here, and makes the house ring with his own dear voice."
"How so, girl?" said the old trader with a smile. It may as well be remarked here that the above opening of conversation was by no means new; it was stereotyped now. Ever since Charley had been appointed to the management of Lower Fort Garry, his father had been so engrossed by the idea, and spoke of it to Kate so frequently, that he had got into a way of feeling as if the event so much desired would happen in a few days, although he knew quite well that it could not, in the course of ordinary or extra-ordinary circumstances, occur in less than several months. However, as time rolled on he began regularly, every day or two, to ask Kate questions about Charley that she could not by any possibility answer, but which he knew from experience would lead her into a confabulation about his son, which helped a little to allay his impatience.
"Why, you see, father," she replied, "it is three months since we got his last, and you know there has been no opportunity of forwarding letters from Stoney Creek since it was despatched. Now, the next opportunity that occurs-"
"Mee-aow!" interrupted the cat, which had just finished two pats of fresh butter without being detected, and began, rather recklessly, to exult.
"Hang that cat!" cried the old gentleman, angrily, "it'll be the death o' me yet;" and seizing the first thing that came to hand, which happened to be the loaf of bread, discharged it with such violence, and with so correct an aim, that it knocked, not only the cat, but the tea-pot and sugar-bowl also, off the table.
"O dear papa!" exclaimed Kate.
"Really, my dear," cried Mr. Kennedy, half angry and half ashamed, "we must get rid of that brute immediately. It has scarcely been a week here, and it has done more mischief already than a score of ordinary cats would have done in a twelvemonth."
"But then the mice, papa—"
"Well, but—but—oh, hang the mice!"
"Yes; but how are we to catch them?" said Kate.
At this moment the cook, who had heard the sound of breaking crockery, and judged it expedient that he should be present, opened the door.
"How now, rascal!" exclaimed his master, striding up to him. "Did I ring for you, eh?"
"No, sir; but—"
"But! eh, but! no more 'buts,' you scoundrel, else I'll—"
The motion of Mr. Kennedy's fist warned the cook to make a precipitate retreat, which he did at the same moment that the cat resolved to run for its life. This caused them to meet in the doorway, and making a compound entanglement with the mat, they both fell into the passage with a loud crash. Mr. Kennedy shut the door gently, and returned to his chair, patting Kate on the head as he passed.
"Now, darling, go on with what you were saying; and don't mind the tea-pot—let it lie."
"Well," resumed Kate, with a smile, "I was saying that the next opportunity Charley can have will be by the brigade in spring, which we expect to arrive here, you know, a month hence; but we won't get a letter by that, as I feel convinced that he and Harry will come by it themselves."
"And the express canoe, Kate—the express canoe," said Mr. Kennedy, with a contortion of the left side of his head that was intended for a wink; "you know they got leave to come by express, Kate."
"Oh, as to the express, father, I don't expect them to come by that, as poor Harry Somerville has been so ill that they would never think of venturing to subject him to all the discomforts, not to mention the dangers, of a canoe voyage."
"I don't know that, lass—I don't know that," said Mr. Kennedy, giving another contortion with his left cheek. "In fact, I shouldn't wonder if they arrived this very day; and it's well to be on the look-out, so I'm off to the banks of the river, Kate." Saying this, the old gentleman threw on an old fur cap with the peak all awry, thrust his left hand into his right glove, put on the other with the back to the front and the thumb in the middle finger, and bustled out of the house, muttering as he went, "Yes, it's well to be on the look-out for him."
Mr. Kennedy, however, was disappointed: Charley did not arrive that day, nor the next, nor the day after that. Nevertheless the old gentleman's faith each day remained as firm as on the day previous that Charley would arrive on that day "for certain." About a week after this, Mr. Kennedy put on his hat and gloves as usual, and sauntered down to the banks of the river, where his perseverance was rewarded by the sight of a small canoe rapidly approaching the landing-place. From the costume of the three men who propelled it, the cut of the canoe itself, the precision and energy of its movements, and several other minute points about it only apparent to the accustomed eye of a nor'-wester, he judged at once that this was a new arrival, and not merely one of the canoes belonging to the settlers, many of which might be seen passing up and down the river. As they drew near he fixed his eyes eagerly upon them.
"Very odd," he exclaimed, while a shade of disappointment passed over his brow: "it ought to be him, but it's not like him; too big—different nose altogether. Don't know any of the three. Humph!—well, he's sure to come to-morrow, at all events." Having come to the conclusion that it was not Charley's canoe, he wheeled sulkily round and sauntered back towards his house, intending to solace himself with a pipe. At that moment he heard a shout behind him, and ere he could well turn round to see whence it came, a young man bounded up the bank and seized him in his arms with a hug that threatened to dislocate his ribs. The old gentleman's first impulse was to bestow on his antagonist (for he verily believed him to be such) one of those vigorous touches with his clinched fist which in days of yore used to bring some of his disputes to a summary and effectual close; but his intention changed when the youth spoke.
"Father, dear, dear father!" said Charley, as he loosened his grasp, and, still holding him by both hands, looked earnestly into his face with swimming eyes.
Old Mr. Kennedy seemed to have lost his powers of speech. He gazed at his son for a few seconds in silence—then suddenly threw his arms around him and engaged in a species of wrestle which he intended for an embrace.
"O Charley, my boy! you've come at last—God bless you! Let's look at you. Quite changed: six feet; no, not quite changed—the old nose; black as an Indian. O Charley, my dear boy! I've been waiting for you for months; why did you keep me so long, eh? Hang it, where's my handkerchief?" At this last exclamation Mr. Kennedy's feelings quite overcame him; his full heart overflowed at his eyes, so that when he tried to look at his son, Charley appeared partly magnified and partly broken up into fragments. Fumbling in his pocket for the missing handkerchief, which he did not find, he suddenly seized his fur cap, in a burst of exasperation, and wiped his eyes with that. Immediately after, forgetting that it was a cap he thrust it into his pocket.
"Come, dear father," cried Charley, drawing the old man's arm through his, "let us go home. Is Kate there?"
"Ay, ay," cried Mr. Kennedy, waving his hand as he was dragged away, and bestowing, quite unwittingly, a back-handed slap on the cheek to Harry Somerville—which nearly felled that youth to the ground. "Ay, ay! Kate, to be sure, darling. Yes, quite right, Charley; a pipe—that's it, my boy, let's have a pipe!" And thus, uttering coherent and broken sentences, he disappeared through the doorway with his long-lost and now recovered son.
Meanwhile Harry and Jacques continued to pace quietly before the house, waiting patiently until the first ebullition of feeling, at the meeting of Charley with his father and sister, should be over. In a few minutes Charley ran out.
"Hollo, Harry! come in, my boy; forgive my forgetfulness, but—"
"My dear fellow," interrupted Harry, "what nonsense you are talking! Of course you forgot me, and everybody and everything on earth, just now; but have you seen Kate? is—"
"Yes, yes," cried Charley, as he pushed his friend before him, and dragged Jacques after him into the parlour.—"Here's Harry, father, and Jacques.—You've heard of Jacques, Kate?"
"Harry, my, dear boy;" cried Mr. Kennedy, seizing his young friend by the hand; "how are you, lad? Better, I hope."
At that moment Mr. Kennedy's eye fell on Jacques, who stood in the doorway, cap in hand, with the usual quiet smile lighting up his countenance.
"What! Jacques—Jacques Caradoc!" he cried, in astonishment.
"The same, sir; you an' I have know'd each other afore now in the way o' trade," answered the hunter, as he grasped his old bourgeois by the hand and wrung it warmly. Mr. Kennedy, senior, was so overwhelmed by the combination of exciting influences to which he was now subjected, that he plunged his hand into his pocket for the handkerchief again, and pulled out the fur hat instead, which he flung angrily at the cat; then using the sleeve of his coat as a substitute, he proceeded to put a series of abrupt questions to Jacques and Charley simultaneously.
In the meantime Harry went up to Kate and stared at her. We do not mean to say that he was intentionally rude to her. No! He went towards her intending to shake hands, and renew acquaintance with his old companion; but the moment he caught sight of her he was struck not only dumb, but motionless. The odd part of it was that Kate, too, was affected in precisely the same way, and both of them exclaimed mentally, "Can it be possible?" Their lips, however, gave no utterance to the question. At length Kate recollected herself, and blushing deeply, held out her hand, as she said,—
"Forgive me, Har—Mr. Somerville; I was so surprised at your altered appearance, I could scarcely believe that my old friend stood before me."
Harry's cheeks crimsoned as he seized her hand and said: "Indeed, Ka—a—Miss—that is, in fact, I've been very ill, and doubtless have changed somewhat; but the very same thought struck me in regard to yourself, you are so—so—"
Fortunately for Harry, who was gradually becoming more and more confused, to the amusement of Charley, who had closely observed the meeting of his friend and sister, Mr. Kennedy came up.
"Eh! what's that? What did you say struck you, Harry, my lad?"
"You did, father, on his arrival," replied Charley, with a broad grin, "and a very neat back-hander it was."
"Nonsense, Charley," interrupted Harry, with a laugh.—"I was just saying, sir, that Miss Kennedy is so changed that I could hardly believe it to be herself."
"And I had just paid Mr. Somerville the same compliment, papa," cried
Kate, laughing and blushing simultaneously.
Mr. Kennedy thrust his hands into his pockets, frowned portentously as he looked from one to the other, and said slowly, "Miss Kennedy, Mr. Somerville!" then turning to his son, remarked, "That's something new, Charley, lad; that girl is Miss Kennedy, and that youth there is Mr. Somerville!"
Charley laughed loudly at this sally, especially when the old gentleman followed it up with a series of contortions of the left cheek, meant for violent winking.
"Right, father, right; it won't do here. We don't know anybody but Kate and Harry in this house."
Harry laughed in his own genuine style at this.
"Well, Kate be it, with all my heart," said he; "but, really, at first she seemed so unlike the Kate of former days that I could not bring myself to call her so."
"Humph!" said Mr. Kennedy. "But come, boys, with me to my smoking-room, and let's have a talk over a pipe, while Kate looks after dinner." Giving Charley another squeeze of the hand, and Harry a pat on the shoulder, the old gentleman put on his cap (with the peak behind), and led the way to his glass divan in the garden.
It is perhaps unnecessary for us to say that Kate Kennedy and Harry Somerville had, within the last hour, fallen deeply, hopelessly, utterly, irrevocably, and totally in love with each other. They did not merely fall up to the ears in love. To say that they fell over head and ears in it would be, comparatively speaking, to say nothing. In fact, they did not fall into it at all. They went deliberately backwards, took a long race, sprang high into the air, turned completely round, and went down head first into the flood, descending to a depth utterly beyond the power of any deep-sea lead to fathom, or of any human mind adequately to appreciate. Up to that day Kate had thought of Harry as the hilarious youth who used to take every opportunity he could of escaping from the counting-room and hastening to spend the afternoon in rambling through the woods with her and Charley. But the instant she saw him a man, with a bright, cheerful countenance, on which rough living and exposure to frequent peril had stamped unmistakable lines of energy and decision, and to which recent illness had imparted a captivating touch of sadness—the moment she beheld this, and the undeniable scrap of whisker that graced his cheeks, and the slight shade that rested on his upper lip, her heart leaped violently into her throat, where it stuck hard and fast, like a stranded ship on a lee-shore.
In like manner, when Harry beheld his former friend a woman, with beaming eyes and clustering ringlets and—(there, we won't attempt it!)—in fact, surrounded by every nameless and namable grace that makes woman exasperatingly delightful, his heart performed the same eccentric movement, and he felt that his fate was sealed; that he had been sucked into a rapid which was too strong even for his expert and powerful arm to contend against, and that he must drift with the current now, nolens volens, and run it as he best could.
When Kate retired to her sleeping-apartment that night, she endeavoured to comport herself in her usual manner; but all her efforts failed. She sat down on her bed, and remained motionless for half-an-hour; then she started and sighed deeply; then she smiled and opened her Bible, but forgot to read it; then she rose hastily, sighed again, took off her gown, hung it up on a peg, and returning to the dressing-table sat down on her best bonnet; then she cried a little, at which point the candle suddenly went out; so she gave a slight scream, and at last went to bed in the dark.
Three hours afterwards, Harry Somerville, who had been enjoying a cigar and a chat with Charley and his father, rose, and bidding his friends good-night, retired to his chamber, where he flung himself down on a chair, thrust his hands into his pockets, stretched out his legs, gazed abstractedly before him, and exclaimed—"O Kate, my exquisite girl, you've floored me quite that!"
As he continued to sit in silence, the gaze of affection gradually and slowly changed into a look of intense astonishment as he beheld the gray cat sitting comfortably on the table, and regarding him with a look of complacent interest, as if it thought Harry's style of addressing it was highly satisfactory—though rather unusual.
"Brute!" exclaimed Harry, springing from his seat and darting towards it. But the cat was too well accustomed to old Mr. Kennedy's sudden onsets to be easily taken by surprise. With a bound it reached the floor, and took shelter under the bed, whence it was not ejected until Harry, having first thrown his shoes, soap, clothes-brush, and razor-strop at it, besides two or three books and several miscellaneous articles of toilet, at last opened the door (a thing, by the way, that people would do well always to remember before endeavouring to expel a cat from an impregnable position), and drew the bed into the middle of the room. Then, but not till then, it fled, with its back, its tail, its hair, its eyes—in short, its entire body—bristling in rampant indignation. Having dislodged the enemy, Harry replaced the bed, threw off his coat and waistcoat, untied his neckcloth, sat down on his chair again, and fell into a reverie; from which, after half-an-hour, he started, clasped his hands, stamped his foot, glared up at the ceiling, slapped his thigh, and exclaimed, in the voice of a hero, "Yes, I'll do it, or die!"
CHAPTER XXIX
The first day at home—A gallop in the prairie, and its consequences.
Next morning, as the quartette were at breakfast, Mr. Kennedy, senior, took occasion to propound to his son the plans he had laid down for them during the next week.
"In the first place, Charley, my boy," said he, as well as a large mouthful of buffalo steak and potato would permit, "you must drive up to the fort and report yourself. Harry and I will go with you; and after we have paid our respects to old Grant (another cup of tea, Kate, my darling)—you recollect him, Charley, don't you?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"Well, then, after we've been to see him, we'll drive down the river, and call on our friends at the mill. Then we'll look in on the Thomsons; and give a call, in passing, on old Neverin—he's always out, so he'll be pleased to hear we were there, and it won't detain us. Then–"
"But, dear father—excuse my interrupting you—Harry and I are very anxious to spend our first day at home entirely with you and Kate. Don't you think it would be more pleasant? and then, to-morrow—"
"Now, Charley, this is too bad of you," said Mr. Kennedy, with a look of affected indignation: "no sooner have you come back than you're at your old tricks, opposing and thwarting your father's wishes."
"Indeed, I do not wish to do so, father," replied Charley, with a smile; "but I thought that you would like my plan better yourself, and that it would afford us an opportunity of having a good long, satisfactory talk about all that concerns us, past, present, and future."
"What a daring mind you have, Charley," said Harry, "to speak of cramming a satisfactory talk of the past, the present, and the future all into one day!"
"Harry will take another cup of tea, Kate," said Charley, with an arch smile, as he went on,—
"Besides, father, Jacques tells me that he means to go off immediately, to visit a number of his old voyageur friends in the settlement, and I cannot part with him till we have had one more canter together over the prairies. I want to show him to Kate, for he's a great original."
"Oh, that will be charming!" cried Kate. "I should like of all things to be introduced to the bold hunter.—Another cup of tea, Mr. S-Harry, I mean?"
Harry started on being thus unexpectedly addressed. "Yes, if you please—that is—thank you—no, my cup's full already, Kate!"
"Well, well," broke in Mr. Kennedy, senior, "I see you're all leagued against me, so I give in. But I shall not accompany you on your ride, as my bones are a little stiffer than they used to be" (the old gentleman sighed heavily), "and riding far knocks me up; but I've got business to attend to in my glass house which will occupy me till dinner-time."
"If the business you speak of," began Charley, "is not incompatible with a cigar, I shall be happy to—"
"Why, as to that, the business itself has special reference to tobacco, and, in fact, to nothing else; so come along, you young dog," and the old gentleman's cheek went into violent convulsions as he rose, put on his cap, with the peak very much over one eye, and went out in company with the young men.
An hour afterwards four horses stood saddled and bridled in front of the house. Three belonged to Mr. Kennedy; the fourth had been borrowed from a neighbour as a mount for Jacques Caradoc. In a few minutes more Harry lifted Kate into the saddle, and having arranged her dress with a deal of unnecessary care, mounted his nag. At the same moment Charley and Jacques vaulted into their saddles, and the whole cavalcade galloped down the avenue that led to the prairie, followed by the admiring gaze of Mr. Kennedy, senior, who stood in the doorway of his mansion, his hands in his vest pockets, his head uncovered, and his happy visage smiling through a cloud of smoke that issued from his lips. He seemed the very personification of jovial good-humour, and what one might suppose Cupid would become were he permitted to grow old, dress recklessly, and take to smoking!
The prairies were bright that morning, and surpassingly beautiful. The grass looked greener than usual, the dew-drops more brilliant as they sparkled on leaf and blade and branch in the rays of an unclouded sun. The turf felt springy, and the horses, which were first-rate animals, seemed to dance over it, scarce crushing the wild-flowers beneath their hoofs, as they galloped lightly on, imbued with the same joyous feeling that filled the hearts of their riders. The plains at this place were more picturesque than in other parts, their uniformity being broken up by numerous clumps of small trees and wild shrubbery, intermingled with lakes and ponds of all sizes, which filled the hollows for miles round—temporary sheets of water these, formed by the melting snow, that told of winter now past and gone. Additional animation and life was given to the scene by flocks of water-fowl, whose busy cry and cackle in the water, or whirring motion in the air, gave such an idea of joyousness in the brute creation as could not but strike a chord of sympathy in the heart of a man, and create a feeling of gratitude to the Maker of man and beast. Although brilliant and warm, the sun, at least during the first part of their ride, was by no means oppressive; so that the equestrians stretched out at full gallop for many miles over the prairie, round the lakes and through the bushes, ere their steeds showed the smallest symptoms of warmth.
During the ride Kate took the lead, with Jacques on her left and Harry on her right, while Charley brought up the rear, and conversed in a loud key with all three. At length Kate began to think it was just possible the horses might be growing wearied with the slapping pace, and checked her steed; but this was not an easy matter, as the horse seemed to hold quite a contrary opinion, and showed a desire not only to continue but to increase its gallop—a propensity that induced Harry to lend his aid by grasping the rein and compelling the animal to walk.
"That's a spirited horse, Kate," said Charley, as they ambled along; "have you had him long?"
"No," replied Kate; "our father purchased him just a week before your arrival, thinking that you would likely want a charger now and then. I have only been on him once before.—Would he make a good buffalo-runner, Jacques?"
"Yes, miss; he would make an uncommon good runner," answered the hunter, as he regarded the animal with a critical glance—"at least if he don't shy at a gunshot."
"I never tried his nerves in that way," said Kate, with a smile; "perhaps he would shy at that. He has a good deal of spirit—oh, I do dislike a lazy horse, and I do delight in a spirited one!" Kate gave her horse a smart cut with the whip, half involuntarily, as she spoke. In a moment it reared almost perpendicularly, and then bounded forward; not, however, before Jacques's quick eye had observed the danger, and his ever-ready hand arrested its course.
"Have a care, Miss Kate," he said, in a warning voice, while he gazed in the face of the excited girl with a look of undisguised admiration. "It don't do to wallop a skittish beast like that."
"Never fear, Jacques," she replied, bending forward to pat her charger's arching neck; "see, he is becoming quite gentle again."
"If he runs away, Kate, we won't be able to catch you again, for he's the best of the four, I think," said Harry, with an uneasy glance at the animal's flashing eye and expanded nostrils.
"Ay, it's as well to keep the whip off him," said Jacques. "I know'd a young chap once in St. Louis who lost his sweetheart by usin' his whip too freely."
"Indeed," cried Kate, with a merry laugh, as they emerged from one of the numerous thickets and rode out upon the open plain at a foot pace; "how was that, Jacques? Pray tell us the story."
"As to that, there's little story about it," replied the hunter. "You see, Tim Roughead took arter his name, an' was always doin' some mischief or other, which more than once nigh cost him his life; for the young trappers that frequent St. Louis are not fellows to stand too much jokin', I can tell ye. Well, Tim fell in love with a gal there who had jilted about a dozen lads afore; an' bein' an oncommon handsome, strappin' fellow, she encouraged him a good deal. But Tim had a suspicion that Louise was rayther sweet on a young storekeeper's clerk there; so, bein' an off-hand sort o' critter, he went right up to the gal, and says to her, says he, 'Come, Louise, it's o' no use humbuggin' with me any longer. If you like me, you like me; and if you don't like me, you don't. There's only two ways about it. Now, jist say the word at once, an' let's have an end on't. If you agree, I'll squat with you in whativer bit o' the States you like to name; if not, I'll bid you good-bye this blessed mornin', an' make tracks right away for the Rocky Mountains afore sundown. Ay or no, lass: which is't to be?'
"Poor Louise was taken all aback by this, but she knew well that Tim was a man who never threatened in jest, an' moreover she wasn't quite sure o' the young clerk; so she agreed, an' Tim went off to settle with her father about the weddin'. Well, the day came, an' Tim, with a lot o' his comrades, mounted their horses, and rode off to the bride's house, which was a mile or two up the river out of the town. Just as they were startin', Tim's horse gave a plunge that well-nigh pitched him over its head, an' Tim came down on him with a cut o' his heavy whip that sounded like a pistol-shot. The beast was so mad at this that it gave a kind o' squeal an' another plunge that burst the girths. Tim brought the whip down on its flank again, which made it shoot forward like an arrow out of a bow, leavin' poor Tim on the ground. So slick did it fly away that it didn't even throw him on his back, but let him fall sittin'-wise, saddle and all, plump on the spot where he sprang from. Tim scratched his head an' grinned like a half-worried rattlesnake as his comrades almost rolled off their saddles with laughin'. But it was no laughin' job, for poor Tim's leg was doubled under him, an' broken across at the thigh. It was long before he was able to go about again, and when he did recover he found that Louise and the young clerk were spliced an' away to Kentucky."
"So you see what are the probable consequences, Kate, if you use your whip so obstreperously again," cried Charley, pressing his horse into a canter.
Just at that moment a rabbit sprang from under a bush and darted away before them. In an instant Harry Somerville gave a wild shout, and set off in pursuit. Whether it was the cry or the sudden flight of Harry's horse, we cannot tell, but the next instant Kate's charger performed an indescribable flourish with its hind legs, laid back its ears, took the bit between its teeth, and ran away. Jacques was on its heels instantly, and a few seconds afterwards Charley and Harry joined in the pursuit, but their utmost efforts failed to do more than enable them to keep their ground. Kate's horse was making for a dense thicket, into which it became evident they must certainly plunge. Harry and her brother trembled when they looked at it and realised her danger; even Jacques's face showed some symptoms of perturbation for a moment as he glanced before him in indecision. The expression vanished, however, in a few seconds, and his cheerful, self-possessed look returned, as he cried out,—"Pull the left rein hard, Miss Kate; try to edge up the slope."
