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Chapter Twenty Four.
A Surprising Discovery—And More

When Ian Macdonald had seen his father’s house fairly stranded on the knoll, and had made it fast there with innumerable ropes, thin and thick, as the Lilliputians secured Gulliver, he bethought him that it was high time to visit the Little Mountain, to which his father had gone on at that time, and inform him of the amazing fact.

Before setting off, however, common propriety required that he should look in at Willow Creek in passing, not only to let them know what had occurred, if they had not already observed it, but to ask if there was any message for Mr Ravenshaw.

First releasing Peegwish, who now regarded him as a maniac, he embarked with him in the punt, and rowed over.

It was by that time approaching the afternoon. Before that—indeed before the house of Angus had gone afloat—Tony, Victor, and Petawanaquat had gone off to the Little Mountain in search of Mr Ravenshaw. Those of the family who remained behind had been so busy about their various avocations, that no one had observed the sudden removal of their neighbour’s dwelling.

“Cora! quick! come here!” cried Elsie, in a tone that alarmed her sister. “Am I dreaming?”

Cora looked out at the window, where the other stood as if petrified. “Angus Macdonald’s house on the knoll!” she screamed.

The scream brought her mother and Miss Trim hurriedly into the room. They stared in speechless amazement, and rubbed their eyes, but they could not rub the house of Angus Macdonald off the knoll.

“There comes Ian in the punt,” said Cora; “he will explain it.”

“He seems to be miserable enough about it if one may judge from the expression of his face,” observed Miss Trim.

Poor Ian was indeed profoundly miserable. The excitement of the recent event over, his mind insisted on reverting to his forlorn condition. “So near,” he thought, “and yet to miss her! Old Ravenshaw could not refuse her to me now, but of what avail is his consent without Elsie’s? Ah, Lambert! you’re a lucky fellow, and it is shameful in me to wish it were otherwise when it makes Elsie happy.”

Ian now tried to act philosophically, but it would not do. In the upper room he gave the ladies a brief account of his adventure. He spoke in a cold, passionless manner, without looking once at Elsie. Of course, he did not reveal the motives that had influenced him. When he had finished he rose abruptly to leave.

“Don’t go yet,” said Mrs Ravenshaw, “there’s a bit of carpentering that I want done, and there is not a man left at the house to do it. The last gale loosened some of the shingles on the roof, and one of them slipped down to-day, so that the place leaks.—Go, Elsie, and show him the shingle near the attic window.”

Ian looked at Elsie, and his resolves vanished like smoke. He went meekly to the attic.

“You are much changed,” said Elsie, “since you went on this trip.”

“Changed? Not for the worse, I hope,” said Ian.

“Well, scarcely for the better,” returned the girl with a smile. “See, here is the window, and the loose shingle is close to the sill. You won’t require to go out on the roof. There is father’s tool-box. If you want anything some of us will be in the room below. You may call, or come down.”

“Stay, Elsie,” said the youth, turning abruptly on her. “You say I am changed. Well, perhaps I am. I’ve gone through pretty severe hardships since we parted, and the injuries I received on gaining this have left their mark.”

He touched, as he spoke, the splendid bear-claw collar which still graced his neck.

“I doubt not you have suffered,” returned Elsie, in a softened tone, “but you are now well, or nearly so, and your reason is not a sufficient one to account for your being rude to all your old friends, and taking no interest in anything.”

“Am I, then, so rude, so callous?” rejoined Ian, drawing his hand across his brow. “Ah! Elsie, if—if—but what am I saying? Forgive me! I think that grizzly must have touched my brain when he had me under his paw. There can be no harm, however, in telling you that a wish, lightly expressed by you long ago, has been the motive power which led to the procuring of this collar. Will you accept it of me now? It is but a trifle, yet, being a bad hunter, and more used to grammars than to guns, it cost me no trifle of anxiety and trouble before I won it. I am afraid that the hope of procuring it for you had almost as much to do with cheering me on as the hope of finding Tony. Nay, don’t refuse it, Elsie, from one who has known you so long that he feels almost as if he might regard you as a sister.”

He took off the collar as he spoke, and, with a return of his wonted heartiness, presented it to Elsie. There was something in his manner, however, which induced her to blush and hesitate.

“Your kindness in searching for Tony we can never forget or repay,” she said quickly, “and—and—”

She paused.

“Well, well,” continued Ian, a little impatiently; “I did not mean to talk of Tony just now. Surely you won’t refuse a gift from so old a friend as I on the eve of my departure for Canada?”

“For Canada!” echoed Elsie, in surprise.

“Yes. I leave the instant I can get my affairs in Red River settled.”

“And you return?”

“Never!”

Elsie looked at the youth in undisguised astonishment. She, too, began to suspect that a claw of the collar must have touched his brain.

“But why hesitate?” continued Ian. “Surely you cannot refuse me so simple a favour! Even Lambert himself would approve of it in the circumstances.”

“Lambert!” exclaimed Elsie, with increasing amazement; “what has Lambert got to do with it?”

It was now Ian’s turn to look surprised.

“Forgive me if I have touched on a forbidden subject; but as every one in the settlement seems to know of your engagement to Lambert, I thought—”

“My engagement!” interrupted Elsie. “It is Cora who is engaged to Lambert.”

A sudden and mighty shock seemed to fall on Ian Macdonald. He slightly staggered, paled a little, then became fiery red, leaped forward, and caught the girl’s hand.

“Elsie! Elsie!” he exclaimed, in tones of suppressed eagerness, “will—will you accept the collar?”

He put it over her head as he spoke, and she blushed deeply, but did not refuse it.

“And, Elsie,” he added, in a deeper voice, drawing her nearer, “will you accept the hunter?”

“No,” answered Elsie, with such an arch smile; “but I would accept the schoolmaster if he were not going away to Canada for—”

She did not finish the sentence, because something shut her mouth.

“You’re taking a very long time to that shingle,” called Mrs Ravenshaw from below. “Have you got everything you want, Ian?”

“Yes,” replied Ian promptly; “I’ve got all that the world contains.”

“What’s that you say?”

“It will soon be done now, mother,” cried Elsie, breaking away with a soft laugh, and hurrying down-stairs.

She was right. A few minutes sufficed to put the loose shingle to rights, and then Ian descended to the room below.

“What a time you have been about it!” said Cora, with a suspicious glance at the young man’s face; “and how flushed you are! I had no idea that fixing a loose shingle was such hard work.”

“Oh yes, it’s tremendously hard work,” said Ian, recovering himself; “you have to detach it from the roof, you know, and it is wonderful the tenacity with which nails hold on sometimes; and then there’s the fitting of the new shingle to the—”

“Come, don’t talk nonsense,” said Cora; “you know that is not what kept you. You have been telling some secret to Elsie. What was it?”

Instead of answering, Ian turned with a twinkle in his eyes, and asked abruptly:

“By the way—when does Louis Lambert return?”

It was now Cora’s turn to flush.

“I don’t know,” she said, bending quickly over her work; “how should I know? But you have not answered my question.—Oh! look there!”

She pointed to the doorway, where a huge rat was seen seated, looking at them as if in solemn surprise at the trifling nature of their conversation.

Not sorry to have a reason for escaping, Ian uttered a laughing shout, threw his cap at the creature, missed, and rushed out of the room in chase of it. Of course he did not catch it; but, continuing his flight down-stairs, he jumped into the punt, pushed through the passage, and out at the front door. As he passed under the windows he looked up with a smile, and saw Cora shaking her little fist at him.

“You have not improved in your shooting,” she cried; “you missed the rat.”

“Never mind,” he replied, “Lambert will fetch his rifle and hunt for it; and, I say, Cora, ask Elsie to explain how shingles are put on. She knows all about it.”

He kissed his hand as he turned the corner of the house, and rowed away.

A dark shadow falling over him at the moment caused him to turn round, and there, to his amazement, stood one of his father’s largest barns! It had been floated, like many other houses, from its foundation, and, having been caught by a diverging current, had been stranded on the lawn at the side of Mr Ravenshaw’s house so as to completely shut out the view in that direction.

Intense amusement followed Ian’s feeling of surprise. His first impulse was to return and let the inmates of Willow Creek know what had occurred; but be thinking himself that they would find it out the first time they chanced to look from the windows on that side of the house, and observing that the day was advancing, he changed his mind and rowed away in the direction of the plains, chuckling heartily as he meditated on the very peculiar alterations which the flood had effected on the properties of his father and Samuel Ravenshaw, to say nothing of the probable result in regard to his own future.

A stiffish breeze sprang up soon after he left. Being a fair wind, he set up a rag of sail that fortunately chanced to be in the punt, and advanced swiftly on his voyage to the Little Mountain.

On their way to the same place, at an earlier part of the day, Victor and Tony, with Petawanaquat and Meekeye, touched at the mission station. Many of the people were still on the stage, but Mrs Cockran, finding that the water had almost ceased to rise, and that the parsonage still stood fast, returned to the garret of her old home. Here she received Victor and the recovered Tony with great delight. It chanced to be about the period which Tony styled feeding-time, so that, although Victor was anxious to reach his father as soon as possible, he agreed to remain there for an hour or so. While they were enjoying the hospitality of the garret, Petawanaquat was entertained in a comparatively quiet corner of the stage, by a youth named Sinclair, a Scotch half-breed, who had been a pupil in Ian Macdonald’s school, and, latterly, an assistant.

Petawanaquat had made the acquaintance of young Sinclair on his first visit to Red River. They were kindred spirits. Both were earnest men, intensely desirous of finding out truth—truth in regard to everything that came under their notice, but especially in reference to God and religion. This grave, thoughtful disposition and earnest longing is by no means confined to men of refinement and culture. In all ranks and conditions among men, from the so-called savage upwards, there have been found more or less profound thinkers, and honest logical reasoners, who, but for the lack of training, might have become pillars in the world of intellect.

Both Sinclair and Petawanaquat were naturally quiet and modest men, but they were not credulous. They did not absolutely disbelieve their opponents, or teachers; but, while giving them full credit for honesty and sincerity—because themselves were honest and sincere—they nevertheless demanded proof of every position advanced, and utterly refused to take anything on credit. Bigoted men found them “obstinate” and “troublesome.” Capable reasoners found them “interesting.” Sinclair possessed a considerable amount of education, and spoke the Indian language fluently. Petawanaquat, although densely ignorant, had an acute and logical mind.

To look at them as they sat there, spoon in hand, over a pan of burgout, one would not readily have guessed the drift of their conversation.

“It almost broke my heart,” said Sinclair, “when I heard you had stolen Mr Ravenshaw’s boy, and words cannot express my joy that you have repented and brought him back. What induced you to steal him?”

“My bad heart,” replied the Indian.

“Was it then your good heart that made you bring him back?” asked Sinclair, with a keen glance at his friend.

“No; it was the voice of the Great Spirit in Petawanaquat that made him do it. The voice said, ‘Forgive! Return good for evil!’”

“Ah; you learned these words here, and have been pondering them.”

“Petawanaquat heard them here; he did not learn them here,” returned the red man quietly. “Listen!” he continued with a sudden glow of animation on his countenance, “My brother is young, but he knows much, and is wise. He will understand his friend. In the mountains I pitched my tent. It was a lonely spot. No trappers or Indians came there, but one day in winter a paleface came. He was a servant of the Great Spirit. He talked much. I said little, but listened. The paleface was very earnest. He spoke much of Jesus. He told the story of His love, His sufferings, His death. He spoke of little else. When he was gone I asked Jesus to forgive me. He forgave. Then I was glad, but I looked at Tonyquat and my spirit was troubled. Then it was that I heard the voice of the Great Spirit. It did not fall on my ear: it fell upon my heart like the rippling of a mountain stream. It said, ‘Send the child back to his father.’ I obeyed the Voice, and I am here.”

With sparkling eyes Sinclair stretched out his right hand, and, grasping that of the red man, said in a deep voice—“My brother!”

Petawanaquat returned the grasp in silence. Before either of them could resume the conversation they were interrupted by Victor shouting from a window of the parsonage to fetch the canoe.

A few minutes later they were again on their way.

Chapter Twenty Five.
Brings Things to a Point

While Tony was being received at the old home, as already related, and Michel Rollin and Winklemann were rescuing their mothers, and Ian Macdonald was busy transplanting his father’s house, Mr Samuel Ravenshaw was sitting disconsolate on the Little Mountain.

Lest the reader should still harbour a false impression in regard to that eminence, we repeat that the Little Mountain was not a mountain; it was not even a hill. It was merely a gentle elevation of the prairie, only recognisable as a height because of the surrounding flatness.

Among the settlers encamped on this spot the children were the most prominent objects in the scene, because of their noise and glee and mischievous rapidity of action. To them the great floods had been nothing but a splendid holiday. Such camping out, such paddling in many waters, such games and romps round booths and tents, such chasing of cattle and pigs and poultry and other live stock, and, above all, such bonfires! It was a glorious time! No lessons, no being looked after, no restraint of any kind. Oh! it was such fun!

It was the sight of this juvenile glee that made Mr Ravenshaw disconsolate. Seated in the opening of a tent he smoked his pipe, and looked on at the riotous crew with a tear in each eye, and one, that had overflowed, at the point of his nose. The more these children laughed and shouted the more did the old gentleman feel inclined to weep. There was one small boy—a half-breed, with piercing black eyes and curly hair, whose powers of mischief were so great that he was almost equal to the lost Tony. He did his mischief quietly, and, as it were, with restrained enthusiasm. For instance, this imp chanced to be passing a group of Canadian buffalo-hunters seated round one of the camp-fires enjoying a can of tea. One of them raised a pannikin to his lips. The imp was at his elbow like a flash of light; the elbow was tipped, by the merest accident, and half of the tea went over the hunter’s legs. The awful look of hypocritical self-condemnation put on by the imp was too much for the hunter, who merely laughed, and told him to “get along” which he did with a yell of triumph. Old Mr Ravenshaw felt a strong desire to embrace that boy on the spot, so vividly did he bring before his mind his beloved Tony!

Sometimes the older people in that miscellaneous camp emulated the children in riotous behaviour. Of course, in such an assemblage there were bad as well as good people, and some of the former, taking advantage of the unprotected state of things, went about the camp pilfering where opportunity offered. One of these was at last caught in the act, and the exasperated people at once proceeded to execute summary justice. The thief was a big, strong, sulky-looking fellow. He was well known as an incorrigible idler, who much preferred to live on the labours of other men than to work. The captor was Baptiste Warder, the half-breed chief who had acted so conspicuous a part in the buffalo hunt of the previous season.

“Let’s string him up,” cried John Flett, as Warder, grasping the thief’s collar, led him into the middle of the camp.

But there were two objections to this proceeding. First, it was deemed too severe for the offence, and, second, there was not a tree or a post, or any convenient object, whereon to hang him.

“Roast him alive!” suggested David Mowat, but this also was laughed at as being disproportioned to the offence.

“Duck him!” cried Sam Hayes.

This was hailed as a good proposal, though some were of opinion it was too gentle. However, it was agreed to, with this addition, that the culprit’s capote should be cut to pieces. In order to accomplish the latter part of the ceremony with more ease, one of the men removed the capote by the simple process of ripping the back up to the neck, and slitting the sleeves with a scalping-knife. The man here showed a disposition to resist, and began to struggle, but a quiet squeeze from Warder convinced him that it was useless. He was then seized by four men, each of whom, grasping an arm or a leg, carried him down to the water’s edge. They passed Mr Ravenshaw in the opening of his tent. He rose and followed them.

“Serves him right,” said the old gentleman, on hearing who it was, and what he had done.

“Ay, he’s done worse than that,” said one of the men who carried him. “It’s only last Sunday that he stole a blanket out of old Renton’s tent, and that, too, when Mr Cockran was holding service here; but we’ll put a stop to such doings. Now, then, heave together—one, two, three—”

The four powerful men hurled the thief into the air with vigour. He went well up and out, came down with a sounding splash, and disappeared amid shouts of laughter. He rose instantly, and with much spluttering regained the shore, where he was suffered to depart in peace by the executioners of the law, who returned quietly to their tents.

Mr Ravenshaw was left alone, moralising on the depravity of human nature. The sun was setting in a blaze of golden light, and tipping the calm waters of the flood with lines of liquid fire. Turning from the lovely scene with a sigh, the old trader was about to return to his tent when the sound of a voice arrested him. It came from a canoe which had shot suddenly from a clump of half-submerged trees by which it had been hitherto concealed.

As the canoe approached, Mr Ravenshaw ascended a neighbouring mound to watch it. Soon it touched the shore, and three of its occupants landed—an Indian and two boys. A woman who occupied the bow held the frail bark steady. The Indian at once strode up towards the camp. In doing so he had to pass the mound where Mr Ravenshaw was seated on a ledge of rock. He looked at the trader, and stopped. At the same moment the latter recognised Petawanaquat!

If a mine had been sprung beneath his feet he could not have leaped up with greater celerity. Then he stood for a moment rooted to the spot as if transformed into stone—with mouth open and eyes glaring.

To behold his enemy standing thus calmly before him, as if they had only parted yesterday and were on the best of terms, with no expression on his bronzed visage save that of grave solemnity, was almost too much for him! He grasped convulsively the heavy stick which he usually carried. The thought of the foul wrong done him by the red man rushed into his memory with overwhelming force. It did not occur to him to remember his own evil conduct! With a roar of rage worthy of a buffalo bull he rushed towards him. The red man stood firm. What the result would have been if they had met no one can tell, for at that moment an Indian boy ran forward and planted himself right in front of the angry man.

“Father!”

Mr Ravenshaw dropped his cudgel and his jaw, and stood aghast! The painted face was that of a savage, but the voice was the voice of Tony!

The old man shut his mouth and opened his arms. Tony sprang into them with a wild cheer that ended in a burst of joyful tears!

The way in which that boy hugged his sire and painted his face all over by rubbing his own against it was a sight worth seeing.

It had been a concerted plan between Tony and Victor that the latter was to keep a little in the background while the former should advance and perplex his father a little before making himself known, but Tony had over-estimated his powers of restraint. His heart was too large for so trifling a part. He acted up to the promptings of nature, as we have seen, and absolutely howled with joy.

“Don’t choke him, Tony,” remonstrated Victor; “mind, you are stronger than you used to be.”

“Ha! Choke me?” gasped Mr Ravenshaw; “try it, my boy; just try it!”

Tony did try it. But we must not prolong this scene. It is enough to say that when Tony had had his face washed and stood forth his old self in all respects—except that he looked two or three sizes larger, more sunburnt, and more manly—his father quietly betook himself to his tent, and remained there for a time in solitude.

Thereafter he came out, and assuming a free-and-easy, off-hand look of composure, which was clearly hypocritical, ordered tea. This was soon got ready, and the joyful party seated themselves round the camp-fire, which now sent its ruddy blaze and towering column of sparks into the darkening sky.

Victor was not long in running over the chief outlines of their long chase, and also explained the motives of the red man—as far as he understood them—in bringing Tony back.

“Well, Vic,” said Mr Ravenshaw, with a puzzled look, “it’s a strange way of taking his revenge of me. But after all, when I look at him there, sucking away at his calumet with that pleased, grave face, I can’t help thinkin’ that you and I, Christians though we call ourselves, have something to learn from the savage. I’ve been mistaken, Vic, in my opinion of Petawanaquat. Anyhow, his notion of revenge is better than mine. It must be pleasanter to him now to have made us all so happy than if he had kept Tony altogether, or put a bullet through me. It’s a clever dodge, too, for the rascal has laid me under an obligation which I can never repay—made me his debtor for life, in fact. It’s perplexing, Vic; very much so, but satisfactory at the same time.”

There were still more perplexing things in store for old Samuel Ravenshaw that night.

“But why did you not bring Ian Macdonald along with you, Vic?” he asked. “I expect his father here this evening from Fort Garry, where he went in the morning for some pemmican.”

Before Victor had time to reply, Ian himself stepped out of the surrounding darkness. Just previous to this the party had been joined by Herr Winklemann and Michel Rollin, who, after seeing their respective mothers made as comfortable as possible in the circumstances, had been going about the camp chatting with their numerous friends. Louis Lambert had also joined the circle, and Peegwish stood modestly in the background.

“Come along, Ian, we were just talking of you,” said Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he rose and extended his hand, for the disagreeables of his last meeting with the young man had been obliterated by the subsequent kindness of Ian in going off to aid in the search for Tony.

Ian returned the grasp with good will, but he soon destroyed the good understanding by deliberately, and it seemed unwisely, referring to the two points which still rankled in the old man’s breast.

“Tut, man,” said Mr Ravenshaw, a little testily, “why drag in the subjects of the knoll and my Elsie to-night, of all nights in the year?”

“Because I cannot avoid it,” said Ian. “Events have occurred to-day which compel me to speak of them—of the knoll, at least.”

“Oh, for the matter of that,” interrupted the old gentleman angrily, “you may speak of Elsie too, and the old woman, and Cora, and all the household to boot, for all that I care.”

“I come here to claim a right,” went on Ian, in a calm voice. “It is well known that Samuel Ravenshaw is a man of his word; that what he promises he is sure to perform; that he never draws back from an agreement.”

This speech took Mr Ravenshaw by surprise. He looked round until his eyes rested on Tony. Then he said, in a slightly sarcastic tone—

“What you say is true. Even Tony knows that.”

“Tonyquat knows that what Ian says of his white father is true,” said the boy.

At the name Tonyquat, which was the only word of the sentence he understood, Petawanaquat cast a look of affection on Tony, while his father and the others burst into a laugh at the child’s sententious gravity. But Tony maintained his Indian air, and gazed solemnly at the fire.

“Well, go on, Ian,” said the old gentleman, in somewhat better humour.

“You remember our last meeting in the smoking-box on the knoll?” continued Ian.

“Too well,” said the other, shortly.

“Part of what you said was in the following words: ‘Mark what I say. I will sell this knoll to your father, and give my daughter to you, when you take that house, and with your own unaided hands place it on the top of this knoll!’”

“Well, you have a good memory, Ian. These are the words I used when I wished to convince you of the impossibility of your obtaining what you wanted,” said Mr Ravenshaw, with the determined air of a man who is resolved not to be turned from his purpose.

“What you wanted to convince me of,” rejoined Ian, “has nothing to do with the question. It is what you said that I have to do with.”

Again the irascible fur-trader’s temper gave way as he said—

“Well, what I said I have said, and what I said I’ll stick to.”

“Just so,” returned Ian, with a peculiar smile, “and, knowing this, I have come here to claim the knoll for my father and Elsie for myself.”

This was such a glaring absurdity in the old gentleman’s eyes that he uttered a short contemptuous laugh. At that moment Angus Macdonald appeared upon the scene. His look of amazement at beholding his son may be imagined. Angus was not, however, demonstrative.

He only stepped across the fire, and gave Ian a crushing squeeze of the hand.

“It iss fery glad to see you I am, my poy, but it is taken py surprise I am, whatever. An’ ho!” (as his eyes fell on Tony), “it iss the child you hef found. Well, it iss a happy father you will pe this night, Mr Ruvnshaw. I wish you choy. Don’t let me stop you, whatever. It wass something interesting you would pe telling these chentlemen when I came up.”

“I was just going to tell them, father,” said Ian, resting a hand on his sire’s shoulder, “that I have come straight from Willow Creek with the news that this day I have, with my own unaided hands,”—he cast a sidelong glance at the old gentleman—“transported your house to Mr Ravenshaw’s knoll, and have asked Elsie Ravenshaw to be my wife, and been accepted.”

“Moreover,” continued Ian, in a calm, steady tone, “my father’s biggest barn has, without any assistance from any one, stranded itself on Mr Ravenshaw’s lawn!”

“Bless me, Ian, iss it jokin’ ye are?”

“No, father. It’s in earnest I am.”

Good reader, the aspect of the party—especially of old Ravenshaw and Angus—on hearing these announcements is beyond our powers of description; we therefore prefer to leave it to your own vivid imagination.