The uncertainty of all sublunary things is a truism so trite that I do
not mean to insult the reader's understanding by attempting to prove it.
I merely refer to it in order to say that the great Nor'-west is not
exempt from that general rule of uncertainty.
At first peace and prosperity attended us, at least in all the main
lines of life, with only trivial variations, and we felt disposed to
believe that the sunshine would continue to gladden us throughout the
whole winter. But such was not to be the case. Soon after the events
narrated in the last chapter, clouds began to gather, the peaceful flow
of our life was interrupted, and at last a storm burst which filled the
inhabitants of our little fort with consternation.
After the attempted murder by Attick on New Year's Day, the Indians left
the fort, taking their wounded friend along with them. No doubt they
felt that it would be scarcely reasonable in them to expect to be
entertained with the good things of the pale-faces after the dastardly
attempt that had been made on our chief's life. But Attick, who had
been wounded more deeply in his feelings than in his body, resolved to
be revenged. He was the more urged to this because his savage
affections had been fixed on, and no doubt he had been sharp enough to
perceive my own regard for the girl, and was jealous enough to believe
that I would take advantage of my position and of her residence at the
fort to supplant him.
Bad men invariably find like-minded spirits ready to help them in their
dark designs. Among the redskins of his tribe Attick found no
difficulty in securing the allegiance of one or two men, who were in the
habit of looking up to him as their leader, and it was not very long
before he found his opportunity--as shall soon be told. When the
Macnabs had spent three weeks with us, they set off on the return
journey to the Mountain Fort, taking Waboose along with them--for Jessie
Macnab had taken so strong a fancy to the fair-haired half-caste that
she had prevailed on her to agree to visit the Mountain Fort in company
with her mother, from whom she refused to be separated even for a few
days.
Before their departure, however, I had a conversation with Waboose, in
which I reminded her of the packet about which she had spoken to me on a
memorable occasion in the woods. I may remark here in passing that I
had conscientiously held to my promise to Lumley, and had carefully
abstained from making the slightest effort to gain the girl's
affections, or to show her the state of my own feelings. Indeed, I had
rather avoided her as much as possible without appearing rude or unkind.
Of course I could not however, help showing my pity for, and sympathy
with, her poor invalid mother, and as I was the only one in our little
community who possessed the smallest knowledge of medicine or surgery I
was forced to visit their hut daily in the capacity of doctor.
"Waboose," said I, during the conversation above referred to, "you need
not be anxious about your mother. I feel assured that her complaint is
of such a nature that her general health will be benefited by a trip
over the snow--provided she is kept warm and does not travel too far
each day. Of course there is no fear of that, with you and Miss Macnab
to look after her, and I have given careful directions to Mr Macnab how
to treat her."
"You are very kind," replied the girl with much earnestness of tone and
manner.
"And now, Waboose," I continued, "you remember saying long ago you would
show me the packet that--"
"Yes, it is here," she said, quickly, taking it out of the folds of a
light shawl which covered her shoulders--the gift of Jessie--and handing
it to me.
"Thank you. Well, I will examine it carefully this afternoon and give
it back to you to-morrow before you start."
"No, keep it. I can trust you," she said, with a simple look that
somehow depressed me, for it was almost too simple and sisterly to my
mind. "Besides," she added, "it is safer in your hands than mine, and
when I come again you will explain to me what it contains."
Next day the party left us. It consisted of Macnab, who, with his
wonted energy of nature, was leader and beater of the track; the
sprightly Jessie in a cariole drawn by four dogs; Waboose's mother in a
similar cariole, and the fair Waboose herself, on snow-shoes, for she
preferred the mode of travelling to which she had been most accustomed.
Two Indians dragging provision-sleds brought up the rear.
It had been arranged that I should convoy the party to their first
bivouac in the snow, spend the night with them, and continue to journey
with them the second day as far as was consistent with the possibility
of returning to the fort that night. Jack Lumley accompanied us at
first, but another small party of Indians had come in to stay at the
fort at that time, and although he had, I am certain, a very strong
desire to go further, with his usual self-sacrificing spirit when duty
pointed another way, he turned and left us at the end of a few miles.
I spent the night in the snow-bivouac as arranged, and continued to
journey onward with the party next day, until Macnab refused to let me
go another step.
"Now, Max," he said, laughingly, "you must turn here. Why, man, it will
be midnight before you get in, good walker though you be. Come,
good-bye."
"Well, well, I suppose it's better to turn since you seem tired of my
company," said I, turning to Jessie, who stood up in her sleigh to shake
hands. "Good-bye, Miss Macnab."
"Jessie, man, Jessie--none of your Miss Macnabs here, else I'll tumble
you into the snow by way of farewell," shouted the irrepressible
Highlander.
"Very well, good-bye, Jessie," said I, with a laugh, though my heart was
heavy enough. "Good-bye, Waboose--farewell all."
With a wave of his hand Macnab tramped on ahead, the sleigh-bells rang
out merrily and the rest of the party followed.
After they had gone a few yards Waboose turned and waved her hand again.
As I looked on her fair face, glowing with health and exercise, her
upright, graceful figure in its picturesque costume and her modest mien,
I felt that two beams of light had shot from her bright blue eyes and
pierced my heart right through and through. It was a double shot--both
barrels, if I may say so--well aimed at the centre of the bull's-eye!
Next moment she was gone--the whole party having dipped over the brow of
a snow-drift.
"An Indian! a half-caste!" I exclaimed in a burst of contempt, going
off over the plain at five miles an hour, "nothing of the sort. A
lady--one of Nature's ladies--born and br---no, not bred; no need for
breeding where genuine purity, gentleness, tenderness, simplicity,
modesty--"
I stuck at this point partly for want of words and partly because my
snow-shoes, catching on a twig, sent my feet into the air and stuck my
head and shoulders deep into a drift of snow. Though my words were
stopped, however, the gush of my enthusiasm flowed steadily on.
"And what can be more worthy of man's admiration and respectful
affection?" I argued, as I recovered my perpendicular, coughed the snow
out of my mouth and nose, and rubbed it out of my eyes; "what more
worthy of true-hearted devotion than this--this--creature of--of light;
this noble child of nature--this _Queen of the Wilderness_?"
I repeated "This Queen of the Wilderness" for a considerable time
afterwards. It seemed to me a happy expression, and I dwelt upon it
with much satisfaction as I sped along, sending the fine snow in clouds
of white dust from my snow-shoes, and striding over the ground at such a
pace that I reached Fort Wichikagan considerably before midnight in
spite of Macnab's prophecy.
I am not naturally prone thus to lay bare the secret workings of my
spirit. You will, therefore, I trust, good reader, regard the
revelation of these things as a special mark of confidence.
On reaching the fort I observed that a bright light streamed from the
hall windows, casting a ruddy glow on the snow-heaps which had been
shovelled up on each side of the footpath in front, and giving, if
possible, a paler and more ghostly aspect to the surrounding scenery.
I went to one of the windows and, imitating Attick, flattened my nose
against a pane. A pain was the immediate result, for, the glass being
intensely cold, I was obliged to draw back promptly.
Lumley was seated alone at one side of the fire, in the familiar
attitude of a man who meditates profoundly--or sleepily; namely, with
his legs stretched straight out in front of him, his hands deep in his
trousers-pockets, and his chin sunk on his breast, while his eyes stared
fixedly at the flames.
I was about to quit my post of observation when a sudden action of my
friend arrested me.
Drawing up his legs, grasping his knees with his hands, turning his eyes
to the ceiling with that gaze which implies that planks and roof count
for nothing in the way of intercepting the flight of Mind to the realms
of Inspiration, Lumley opened his handsome mouth and broke forth into
song. He had a magnificently harsh voice. I could distinguish both air
and words through the double windows. The song was that which I have
already quoted elsewhere--"Lovely young Jessie, the flower of Dunblane."
The deep pathos of his tone was thrilling! It flashed a new thought
into my brain. Then I became amazed at my own blind stupidity. I now
understood the meaning of that restless activity which had struck me
recently as being so uncharacteristic of my sedate friend; that anxiety
to have all our food well cooked and nicely served, in one who
habitually took food just as it came, and cared nothing for quality or
appearance; that unusual effort to keep our hall neat and in order;
those sharp reproofs to the astonished Salamander for failure in
punctuality at meal-hours; that very slight indication of a more
frequent use of the brush and comb, in one whose crisp curls required
little aid from such implements.
Under the excitement of my discovery I burst into the room with, "Oh!
Lumley, you deceiver!" cutting him short in the very middle of those
repeated "lovely young Jessies" which constitute the very pith and
marrow of the song.
"Why, Max! back already?" cried my friend, starting up with a
slightly-confused look, which confirmed my suspicion, and rattling on at
a pace which was plainly meant to carry me past the subject. "How you
must have walked, to be sure, unless, indeed, you convoyed them only a
short part of the way; but that could not have been the case. It would
have been so unlike your gallant nature, Max--eh? Well, and how did
they get on? Snow not too soft, I hope? Encampment comfortable? But
no fear of that of course, with Peter Macnab as leader. No capsizes?"
"None," said I, seizing advantage of a slight pause; "everything went as
well as possible, and the carioles went admirably--especially Jessie's."
I looked at him pointedly as I said this, but he coolly stooped to lift
a billet and put it on the fire as he rattled on again.
"Yes? That's just what I hoped for, though I could not be quite sure of
it for she has the old one which I had patched up as well as possible.
You see, as Macnab said--and of course I agreed with him--it was only
fair that the invalid should have the strongest and easiest-going
conveyance. By the way, Max, I've heard some news. Do you know that
that scoundrel Attick is stirring up the tribes against us?"
"No--is he?" said I, quite forgetting the fair Jessie, at this piece of
information.
"Yes, and the rascal, I fear, may do us irreparable damage before we can
tame him, for he has considerable influence with the young and fiery
spirits among the savages--so Big Otter says. Fortunately his power
lies only in the tongue, at present, for it seems I broke his arm the
night he tried to murder me; but that will mend in time."
"Very unfortunate," said I, "that this should happen at the beginning of
our career in this region. We must thwart his plans if we can."
"Moreover," continued Lumley, with a sly look, "I am told that he has
the presumption to aspire to the hand of Waboose!"
"Indeed!" I exclaimed, as a flame of indignation seemed to shoot
through my whole frame; "we must thwart his plans in _that_ direction
emphatically."
"Of course, of course," said my friend, gravely; "it would never do to
let such a sweet girl throw herself away on a savage; besides, she's
such a favourite with Jessie Macnab, you know. It would never do--
never."
I looked at him quickly, but he was gazing abstractedly at the fire. I
felt that I was no match for my friend at badinage, and gave it up!
"But what do you think he could do!" I asked with some anxiety, after a
few minutes' thought. "You know that Waboose would as soon think of
marrying that bloodthirsty savage as she would think of marrying a--a--"
"A pine-tree or a grizzly bear. Yes, I know," interrupted Lumley, "he
will never get her with her own consent; but you know that savages have
a knack of marrying women without their consent and then there is the
possibility of his attempting to carry her off--and various other
possibilities."
I saw that my friend was jestingly attempting to test my feelings, but I
made no reply at first, though I felt strongly on the subject.
"Well, Lumley," said I, at length, "your first suggestion I meet with
the reply that the consent of parents is not ignored among Indians, and
that Waboose's mother is an Indian of so high-minded and refined a
nature--partly acquired, no doubt, from her husband--that _she_ will
never consent to give her daughter to such a man; such a brute, I might
say, considering what he attempted. As to Waboose herself, her father's
gentle nature in her secures her from such a misfortune; and as to her
being carried off--well, I don't think any savages would be bold enough
to try to carry off anything from the grip of Peter Macnab, and when we
get her back here we will know how to look after her."
"It may be so," said Lumley, with a sigh; "and now, my boy, to change
the subject, we must buckle to our winter's work in right good earnest;
I mean what may be styled our philanthropic work; for the other work--
firewood-cutting, hunting, store arranging, preparation for the return
of Indians in spring, with their furs, and all the other odds and ends
of duty--is going along swimmingly; but our classes must be resumed, now
that the holidays are over, for we have higher interests to consider
than the mere eating that we may live, and living that we may eat."
"All right," said I heartily, for I was very glad to help in a species
of work which, I felt gave dignity to all our other labours. "I'll get
the slates out and start the men at arithmetic to-morrow evening, from
the place where we left off. What will you do? Give them `Robinson
Crusoe' over again?"
"No, Max, I won't do that, not just now at all events. I'll only finish
the story and then begin the `Pilgrim's Progress.' You observed, no
doubt that I had been extending my commentaries on `Robinson,'
especially towards the last chapters."
"Yes--what of that?"
"Well, I am free to confess that that was intentionally done. It was a
dodge, my boy, to get them into the habit of expecting, and submitting
to, commentary, for I intend to come out strong in that line in my
exposition of the Pilgrim--as you shall see. I brought the book with
this very end, and the long winter nights, in view. And I mean to take
it easy too--spin it out. I won't bore them with too much at a time."
"Good, but don't spin it out too long, Lumley," said I; "you know when
men set their hearts on some magnificent plan or scheme they are apt to
become prosy. I suppose you'll also take the writing class, as before?"
"I suppose I must," returned my friend, with a sigh, "though it goes
against the grain, for I was never very good at penmanship, and we have
lost our best scholars too, now that Waboose and her mother are gone."
"By the way, that reminds me," said I, "that Waboose gave me the packet
which she received from her father not long before he was drowned. Here
it is."
I drew it from my breast-pocket and held it up. "She told me her father
had said it was no use her opening it, as she could not read it, but
that she was to give it to the first white man whom she could trust; you
remember my mentioning that to you? she gave it to me only yesterday,
and I have not yet found time to read it."
"Did she say she could trust _you_, Max!"
"Of course she did. Why not?"
"Oh, certainly, why not?" repeated my friend, with a peculiar look.
"Did she say you might communicate its contents to _me_?"
"Well, no, she did not," I replied, feeling rather perplexed. "But I am
quite sure that, if she meant to trust me at all, she meant to trust to
my discretion in the whole matter; and--Jack Lumley," I added, getting
up and grasping my friend's hand, "if I cannot trust _you_ I can trust
nobody."
"That will do," he said, returning the squeeze. "You are safe. Go
ahead."
The packet was wrapped in a piece of birch-bark, and tied with a bit of
fibrous root. This covering removed, I found a white cambric
handkerchief, inside of which was something hard. It turned out to be
the miniature of a handsome man, somewhere between forty and fifty.
Beside it was a manuscript in English. On one corner of the kerchief
was marked in faded ink the name "Eve."
Holding out the portrait I said,--"You see. I knew he was a gentleman.
This must be her father."
"No doubt," replied Lumley--"but what says this letter?"
Unfolding the manuscript I spread it carefully on my knee and began to
read.