The manuscript was without date or preface, and its contents interested
as well as surprised us not a little. It began at once as follows:--
"Whoever receives this packet and letter from my daughter receives a
sacred trust which he dare not shake off, and which I solemnly charge
him in the sight of God to take up and fulfil. At the moment while I
write I am well and strong, and not old. It is my firm intention, if
God spares me, to pursue the course which is herein detailed, but I know
too well the risk and dangers of the wilderness to feel assured that I
shall live to act out my part. I therefore write down here, as briefly
as I can, my story and my wishes, and shall give the letter with my
miniature to my darling Waboose--whose Christian name is Eve, though she
knows it not--with directions not to open it, or let it out of her
hands, until she meets with a white man _whom_ _she_ _can_ _trust_, for
well assured am I that the man whom my innocent and wise-hearted Eve can
_trust_--be he old or young--will be a man who cannot and will not
refuse the responsibility laid on him. Why I prefer to leave this
packet with my daughter, instead of my dear wife, is a matter with which
strangers have nothing to do.
"I begin by saying that I have been a great sinner, but thank God, I
have found Jesus a great Saviour. Let this suffice. I was never given
to open up my mind much, and I won't begin now--at least, not more than
I can help. It is right to say, at the outset, that I have been
regularly married by a travelling Wesleyan minister to my dear wife, by
whom also Eve and her mother were baptized.
"My fall began in disobedience to my mother. Probably this is the case
with most ne'er-do-wells. My name is William Liston. My father was a
farmer in a wild part of Colorado. He died when I was a little boy,
leaving my beloved mother to carry on the farm. I am their only child.
My mother loved and served the Lord Christ. And well do I know that my
salvation from an ungovernable temper and persistent self-will is the
direct answer to her unceasing prayers.
"I left home, against her will, with a party of backwoodsmen, my heart
being set on what I once thought would be the free and jolly life of a
hunter in the great American wilderness. I have lived to find the truth
of that proverb, `All is not gold that glitters,' and of that word,
`There is no rest, saith my God, to the wicked.'
"I was eighteen when I left home. Since then I have been a homeless
wanderer--unless a shifting tent may be considered home! Long after my
quitting home, and while staying with a tribe of Indians at the head
waters of the Saskatchewan river, I met an Indian girl, whose gentle,
loving nature, and pretty face, were so attractive to me that I married
her and joined her tribe. The marriage ceremony was, as I have said,
confirmed by a Wesleyan minister, whose faithful words made such an
impression on me that I resolved to give up my wild life, and return
with my wife and child to my old home. My character, however--which is
extremely resolute and decided when following the bent of my
inclinations, and exceedingly weak and vacillating when running counter
to the same--interfered with my good intentions. The removal of the
tribe to a more distant part of the land also tended to delay me, and a
still more potent hindrance lay in the objection of my wife--who has
been faithful and true to me throughout; God bless her! She could not
for a long time, see her way to forsake her people.
"Ever since my meeting with the Wesleyan, my mind has been running more
or less on the subject of religion, and I have tried to explain it as
far as I could to my wife and child, but have found myself woefully
ignorant as well as sinful. At last, not long ago, I procured a New
Testament from a trapper, and God in mercy opened my eyes to see and my
heart to receive the truth as it is in Jesus. Since then I have had
less difficulty in speaking to my wife and child, and have been
attempting to teach the latter to read English. The former, whose
mother and father died lately, has now no objection to go with me to the
land of the pale-faces, and it is my present intention to go to my old
home on the return of spring. I have not heard of my poor mother since
I left her, though at various times I have written to her. It may be
that she is dead. I hope not--I even think not, for she was very young
when she married my father, and her constitution was strong. But her
hair was beginning to silver even before I forsook her--with sorrow, I
fear, on my account. Oh! mother! mother! How unavailing is my bitter
regret! What would I not give to kneel once more at your feet and
confess my sin! This may perhaps be permitted--but come weal, come woe,
blessed be God we shall meet again.
"If my prayer is granted, this paper will never be seen by human eyes.
If God sees fit to deny me this, and I should die in the wilderness,
then I charge the man to whom my packet is given, to take my wife and
daughter to Colorado; and if my mother--Mrs William Liston, of Sunny
Creek--be still alive, to present them to her with this written paper
and miniature. If, on the other hand, she be dead, then let him buy for
them an annuity, or otherwise invest four thousand pounds for their
benefit, according to the best of his judgment. How to come by the four
thousand pounds I will now explain.
"Away in the beautiful and sequestered valley at the head of Lake
Wichikagan there stands a stunted pine, near a rock fallen from the
cliff above. The spot is not easily found, but my Eve knows it well.
It was a favourite resort of ours when we went picnicking together.
There is a small hole or dry cave in the cliff just behind the fallen
rock. Two feet underneath the soil there will be found a bag containing
a set of diamonds worth the sum I have named, with a smaller bag
containing five hundred pounds in gold. It may not be amiss to say that
both jewels and money have been honestly come by. The money I dug out
of the Californian mines, and bought the jewels in a drunken frolic when
in Canada--`for my future wife,' as I then boasted. My dear wife has
never seen them, nor has Eve. They do not know of their existence. The
five hundred pounds in gold is to be retained for himself by the man who
accepts this trust to enable him to pay his way and carry it out.
"William Liston."
It is difficult to express the conflict of feelings that assailed me
when I had finished reading this remarkable manuscript. For some time
Lumley and I gazed at each other in silence.
"You accept the trust, I suppose?" said my friend at last.
"Of course. How could I do otherwise?"
"But you cannot remain in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company if you
do. They would never give you leave of absence for such a purpose."
"No matter. I will not ask leave of absence. I will resign. My time
was up, you know, this year. I will write to the governor by the
spring-brigade, and start away for Colorado in summer."
"But this poor man may have been slightly deranged," suggested Lumley.
"He says that at one time he led a wild life. It is possible that his
brain may have been affected, and he only dreams of these jewels and the
gold."
"I think not," said I, decidedly; "the letter is so calm and simple in
style that the idea is absurd; besides, we can soon test it by visiting
the valley and the spot referred to. Moreover, even if there were no
money, and the poor man were really deranged, he could never have
imagined or invented all that about his mother and Colorado if it were
not true. Even if we fail to find the jewels and cash I will accept the
trust and fulfil it."
"What! without money?"
"Ay, without money," said I firmly, though I am bound to confess that I
did not at the moment see clearly how the thing was in that case to be
done. But I was--and, indeed, still am--of an ardent disposition, and
felt sanguine that I should manage to fulfil the obligations of this
remarkable trust somehow.
"Well, Max, you and I will visit this valley to-morrow," said Lumley,
rising; "meanwhile we will go to bed."
Accordingly, next morning, after breakfast Lumley and I slung our
snow-shoes over our shoulders on the barrels of our guns,--for the lake
was as hard as a sheet of white marble,--and started off to pay a visit
to the spot indicated, in what I may style poor Liston's will.
It was a bright bracing day--quite calm, but with keen frost, which
tended to increase the feelings of excitement already roused by the
object we had in view. As we passed through the lake's fringe of
willows, the tops of which just rose a foot or two above the drifted
snow, a great covey of ptarmigan rose with a mighty whirr, and swept
along the shore; but we took no heed of these--our minds being bent on
other game!
The distance to the upper end of the lake was considerable, and the day
was far advanced when we reached it. As we took to the land the covey
of ptarmigan, which had preceded us to the place, again rose. This
time, however, we were prepared for them. Lumley shot a brace right and
left, taking the two last that rose with sportsman-like precision. I
confess that I am not a particularly good shot--never was--and have not
much of the sportsman's pride about me. I fired straight into the
centre of the dense mass of birds, six of which immediately fell upon
the snow.
"What a lot of flukes!" exclaimed my companion, with a laugh, as he
recharged.
"Luck before precision, any day!" said I, following his example.
"Ay, Max, but there is this difference, that luck is rather uncertain,
whereas precision is always sure."
"Well, be that as it may," said I putting on my snow-shoes, for the snow
in the wood we were about to enter was deep and soft, "we have enough
for a good supper at all events."
"True, and we shall need a good supper, for we must camp out. There is
no chance of our finding this treasure--even if it exists--until we have
had a good search, and then it will be too late to return home with
comfort, or even safety, for it is difficult on a dark night to
distinguish tracks on the hard snow of a lake, as I've sometimes found
to my cost."
We set up several other coveys of ptarmigan as we traversed the belt of
willows lying between the lake and the woods, and when we entered the
latter, several grouse, of a species that takes to trees, fluttered away
from us; but we did not molest them, having already more than we could
consume swinging at our belts.
We went straight up the valley to what we deemed the most sequestered
part of it, and then paused.
"This looks somewhat like the spot, doesn't it?" said Lumley, glancing
round. "Yonder is a cliff with rocks at the base of it."
"Yes, but too many rocks," said I; "the paper mentions only one;
besides, it refers to a stunted pine, and I see nothing of that sort
here."
"True, it must be higher up the valley. Come along."
On we plodded, hour after hour, halting often, and examining with care
many a secluded spot that seemed to answer, more or less, the
description of the spot for which we searched, but all in vain. Sunset
found us as far from our object as ever, and as hungry as hawks.
Darkness of course put an end to the search, and, with a feeling of
disappointment and weariness that I had not experienced since arriving
in that region, I set to work to fell and cut up a tree for fire wood,
while Lumley shovelled a hole in the snow at the foot of a pine, and
otherwise prepared our encampment.
But youth is remarkably elastic in spirit! No sooner was the fire
crackling, the kettle singing, and the delicious odour of roasted
ptarmigan tickling our nostrils, than disappointment gave way to hope
and weariness to jollity.
"Come, we shall have at it again to-morrow," said Lumley.
"So we shall," said I--"mind that kettle. You have an unfortunate
capacity for kicking things over."
"One of the disadvantages of long legs, Max. They're always in the way.
Get out the biscuit now. My ptarmigan is ready. At least, if it
isn't, I can't wait."
"Neither can I, Jack. I sometimes wish that it were natural to us to
eat things raw. It would be so very convenient and save sh---a--lot--
of--time."
Hunger and a wrenched-off drumstick checked further utterance!
That night we lay in our snow camp, gazing up at the stars, with our
feet to the fire, talking of gold and diamonds with all the eagerness of
veritable misers--though it is but justice to myself to add that Eve's
blue eyes outshone, in my imagination, all the diamonds that ever decked
the brow of Wealth or Beauty! When at last we slept, our dreams partook
of the same glittering ideas--coupled, of course, with much of the
monstrous absurdity to which dreams are liable. I had just discovered a
gem which was so large that I experienced the utmost difficulty in
thrusting it into my coat-pocket, and was busy shovelling small diamonds
of the purest water into a wheelbarrow, when a tremendous whack on my
nose awoke me.
Starting up with an indignant gasp I found that it was a lump of snow,
which had been detached by the heat of our fire from a branch overhead.
"What's wrong, Max?" growled my companion, who lay curled up in his
buffalo robe, like a huge Newfoundland dog. "Bin dreamin'?"
"Yes," said I, with a loud yawn, "I was dreaming of shovelling up
diamonds by the thousand when a lump of snow fell and hit my nose!"
"Str'nge," sighed Lumley, in the sleepiest voice I ever heard, "so's I--
dr'm'n 'f g'ld'n sass-gs an' dm'nd rupple-ply."
"What nonsense are you talking, man? What were you dreaming of?"
"'F gold'n saus'ges an' dim'nd rolly-p'ly. I say--'s fire out?"
"Nearly."
"'S very cold. G't up--mend it, l'ke good f'llow. I'll help you,
d'rectly."
He finished off with a prolonged snore, so I rose with a slight laugh,
mended the fire, warmed myself well, observed in a sleepy way that the
night was still bright and calm, and then lay down in a state of
semi-consciousness to drop at once into a nest made of golden filigree
filled with diamond eggs!
Next morning we rose at daybreak, relighted the fire and had breakfast,
after which we resumed our search, but still--without success.
"I fear that my surmise as to the state of poor Liston's mind is
correct," said Lumley. "We have searched the whole valley, I believe."
"Nay, not quite," I returned, "it is much varied in form, and full of
out-o'-the-way nooks. Besides, we have not yet discovered the stunted
pine, and you know the paper says the spot is difficult to find. As to
Liston's mind I feel quite sure that it was all right, and that the man
was a good and true one. The father of Waboose could not have been
otherwise."
I said this somewhat decidedly, for I felt sorely disappointed at our
failure, and slightly annoyed at my friend's unbelief in one whose last
writing proved him--at least to my mind--to be genuine and sincere.
"Well, Max," returned Lumley, with his wonted pleasant look and tone,
"it may be that you are right. We will continue our search as long as
there seems any chance of success."
Accordingly, we ranged the valley round, high and low, until we had
visited, as we thought, every nook and cranny in it and then, much
dispirited, returned home.
One morning, about three months after these events, Lumley came into my
bedroom where I was drawing a plan for a new store.
"Max," said he, sitting down on the bed beside me, "I mean to start this
afternoon on a visit to the mountain fort. You know I promised Macnab
that I would look him up about this time and fetch Waboose and her
mother back."
"Indeed. When do you start!"
"This afternoon."
I was not surprised at the suddenness of this announcement. Our chief
was eminently a man of action. He seldom talked much about plans, but
thought them well out, and when his mind was made up acted without
delay.
"You'll take my letter to the governor and tell Mac to forward it with
his spring packet?" said I.
"Yes, that is just what I came to see you about. Is it ready--and are
you quite decided about retiring?"
"Quite decided. See, here is the letter. And don't forget your promise
to say nothing to Waboose or anyone else about Liston's packet."
"Not a word, my boy."
That afternoon my friend set off on snow-shoes accompanied by two men.
"Any message, Max?" he said, at parting.
"Of course. My kind regards to everybody."
"Nothing warmer to _anybody_?"
"Oh, yes," I returned quickly, "I forgot you may, if you choose, say
something a little more affectionate to Miss Macnab!"
"I will, Max, I will," he replied, with a loud ringing laugh and a
cheery good-bye.
Some time after that an Indian came to the fort bearing a letter from
Lumley. It was written, he said, merely because the Indian chanced to
be travelling towards Wichikagan, and contained nothing of importance.
To my surprise and disappointment it contained no reference whatever to
Waboose. On turning over the last page, however, I found a postscript.
It ran thus:
"P.S.--By the way, I had almost omitted to mention Eve. My dear boy, I
believe you are right. She is one of Nature's ladies. Jessie has
prevailed on her to put on one of her dresses and be her companion, and
when they are walking together with their backs towards me, upon my word
I have difficulty in deciding which is the more ladylike of the two!
And that you will admit, is no small compliment from me. Jessie has
been giving her lessons in English, and music and drawing too. Just
think of that! She says she is doing it with an end in view. I wonder
what that end can be! Jessie is sometimes difficult to understand. She
is also remarkably wise and far-sighted. I expect to be home soon--
farewell."