The Big Otter by R. M. Ballantyne (best novels ever .txt) 📕

Once more I change the scene, from the wild regions of the north to the little less wild lands of Colorado.

On a certain bright forenoon in Autumn I stood in the doorway of Sunny Creek Cottage watching a clumsy vehicle as it laboured slowly up the hill. I was alone that day, old Mrs Liston, Eve, and “Aunt Temple” having gone off in the waggon for a long drive to visit a relative with hunting proclivities, who had built himself a log-hut in a ravine of the neighbouring mountains, that he might be in closer proximity to the bears and deer.

With some curiosity I approached the lumbering machine to assist the occupant, who seemed unable, or too impatient, to open the door. It was a stiff door, and swung open with a jerk which caused the occupant’s hat to fall off, and reveal a bald head.

“Father!” I gasped.

“Punch, my boy!”

The dear old man tripped in his haste to get down, plunged into my bosom, threw his arms round my neck to save himself, and almost bore me to the ground. Neither of us being demonstrative in our affections, this unpremeditated, not to say unintentional, embrace I felt to be quite touching. My father obviously resolved to make the most of his opportunities, for he gave me a thoroughly exhaustive hug before releasing me.

“I—I—didn’t m–mean,” said my father, blazing with excitement, and gasping with a mingled tendency to laugh and weep, “didn’t mean to come it quite so strong, P–Punch, my boy, b–but you’ll make allowance for a momentary weakness. I’m getting an old man, Punch. What makes you grin so, you backwoods koonisquat?”

The last sentence, with its opprobrious epithet (coined on the spot), was addressed with sudden asperity to the driver of the clumsy vehicle, who was seated on his box, with mouth expanded from ear to ear.

“Wall, stranger, if you will insist on knowin’,” said he, “It’s sympathy that makes me grin. I do like to see human natur’ out of its go-to-meetin’ togs, with its saddle off, an’ no bridal on, spurtin’ around in gushin’ simplicity. But you’re wrong, stranger,” continued the driver, with a grave look, “quite wrong in callin’ me a koonisquat. I have dropt in the social scale, but I ain’t got quite so low as that, I guess, by a long chalk.”

“Well, you compound of Welshman and Yankee, be off and refresh yourself,” returned my father, putting an extra dollar, over and above his fare, into the man’s hand, “but don’t consume it on your filthy fire-water cock-tails, or gin-slings, or any other kind of sling-tails. If you must drink, take it out in strong hot coffee.”

The man drove off, still grinning, and I hurried my father into the cottage where, while I set before him a good luncheon, he gave me a wildly rambling and interjectional account of his proceedings since the date of his last letter to me.

“But why did you take me by surprise in this way, dear daddy; why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“Because I like to take people by surprise, especially ill-doing scapegraces like—by the way,” said my father, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, “where is she?”

“Where is who?”

“She—her, of course; the—the girl, the Hottentot, the savage. Oh! George, what an ass you are!”

“If you mean Eve, sir,” said I, “she is away from home—and everybody else along with her. That comes of your taking people by surprise, you see. Nobody prepared to receive you; nothing ready. No sheets aired even.”

“Well, well, Punch, my boy, don’t be sharp with your old father. I won’t offend again. By the way,” he added, quickly, “you’re not married yet? eh?”

“No, not yet.”

“Ah!” said my father with a sigh of relief, as he resumed his knife and fork, “then there’s the barest chance of a possibility that if—but you’ve asked her to marry you, eh?”

“Yes, I have asked her.”

“And she has accepted you?”

“Yes, she has accepted me. I wrote all that to you long ago.”

“Ah!” said my father, with a profound sigh of resignation, “then there is no chance of a possibility, for if a man tries to win the affections of a girl and succeeds, he is bound in honour to marry her—even though he were the Emperor of China, and she a—a Hottentot. Now, Punch, I have made up my mind to like the girl, even though she painted scarlet circles round her eyes, and smeared her nose with sky-blue—but you must let your poor old father blow off the steam, for you have been such a—a donkey!—such a hasty, impatient, sentimental, romantic idiot, that—another glass of that milk, my boy. Thank’ee, where do you get it? Beats English milk hollow.”

“Got it from one of our numerous cows, daddy,” said I, with a short laugh at this violent change of the subject, “and my Eve made the butter.”

“Did she, indeed? Well, I’m glad she’s fit for even that small amount of civilised labour; but you have not told me yet when I shall see her?”

“That is a question I cannot exactly answer,” said I, “but you will at all events be introduced to-night to her father’s mother, and her cousin (whom we call aunt), as well as to a young lady—a Miss Waboose—who is staying with us at present. And now, father,” I added, “come, and we’ll have a stroll round the farm. I don’t expect the ladies back till evening. Meanwhile, I want you to do me a favour; to humour what I may call a whim.”

“If it’s not a very silly one, Punch, I’ll do it, though I have not much confidence in your wisdom now.”

“It is simply that you should agree, for this night only, to pass yourself off for a very old friend of mine. You need not tell fibs, or give a false name. You are a namesake, you know. There are lots of Maxbys in the world!”

“Weak, my boy; decidedly weak. They’ll be sure to see through it and I won’t be able to recollect not to call you Punch.”

“No matter. Call me Punch. I’ll tell them you are a very familiar old friend—a sort of relation, too, which will account for the name.”

“Well, well,” said my father, with a smile of pity, “I’ll not object to humour your whim, but it’s weak—worthy of a man who could engage himself to a miserable red-Indian Hottentot!”

This being finally settled, and my father having been pretty well exhausted by his ramble round the farm, I set him down on the rustic chair with a newspaper and left him, saying that I should be back in an hour or so.

I knew the road by which the waggon was to return, walked along it several miles, and then waited. Soon it drove up to the spot where I stood. They were surprised to see me, but more surprised when I ordered the ladies to get out, and walk with me, while the coachman drove on slowly in advance.

Then I hurriedly told of my father’s arrival, and explained more fully than I had yet ventured to do his misconceptions and prejudices as to Eve. “Now, I want you all,” said I, “to help me to remove these prejudices and misconceptions as quickly as possible by falling in with my little plans.”

Hereupon I explained that my father was to be introduced as an old friend and namesake, while Eve was to be presented to him as a visitor at the cottage named Miss Waboose. I had feared that old Mrs Liston would not enter into my plan, but found that, on the contrary, having a strong sense of humour, she quite enjoyed the notion of it. So did Aunt Temple, but Eve herself felt doubtful of her ability to act out her part. I had no doubt on that point, for she had undertaken it, and well did I know that whatever Eve undertook she could, and would, accomplish.

It might be tedious to recount in detail the scenes that followed. The dear old man was charmed with Miss Waboose—as I had fully expected—and Miss Waboose was more than charmed with the dear old man! So that when we bade the ladies good-night, he kissed her fair forehead with quite fatherly tenderness.

When I conducted the old man to his room I was struck, and made quite anxious, by the disconsolate expression of his face, and asked earnestly what was wrong.

“Wrong!” he exclaimed, almost petulantly. “Everything’s wrong. More particularly, you are wrong. Oh, George, I can’t get over it. To think that you are tied hard and fast—irrevocably—to—a red-Indian—a painted savage—a Hottentot. It is too—too bad!”

He kicked off one of his shoes so viciously at this point, that it went straight into, and smashed, a looking-glass; but he didn’t seem to care a straw for that. He did not even condescend to notice it.

“And to think, too,” he continued, “that you might have had that adorable young lady, Miss Waboose, who—in spite of her heathenish name—is the most charming, artless, modest young creature I ever saw. Oh! Punch, Punch, what a consummate idiot you have been.”

It was impossible to help laughing at my poor father’s comical expression of chagrin, as he sat on the edge of his bed, slapped his hands down on both knees and looked up in my face.

“Excuse me, daddy, but what ground have you for supposing that Miss Waboose would accept me, even if I were free to ask her hand?”

“Ground? Why the ground that she is fond of you. Any man with half an eye could see that, by the way she looks at and speaks to you. Of course you have not observed that. I trust, my boy, you are too honourable to have encouraged it. Nevertheless, it is a fact—a miserable, tantalising, exasperating fact—a maddening fact, now that that hideous red-Indian—Hottentot stands in the way.”

“That red-Indian—Hottentot,” said I, unable any longer to cause my dear father so much pain, “does not stand in the way, for I am happy to tell you that Miss Waboose and Eve are one and the same person.”

“Come, come, Punch,” returned my parent, testily, “I’m in no humour for jesting. Go away, and