I must change the scene now, and advance the courteous reader
considerably in regard to time as well as place on the journey which we
have pursued so long together.
It is one of those scenes of romantic beauty on the extreme frontiers of
civilisation, where the rifle has not even yet given place to the
plough; where the pioneer husbandman and the painted warrior often
meet--the one to look with patronising superiority on the savage, whom
he means to benefit; the other to gaze curiously at the pale-face, and
to wonder, somewhat indignantly, when and where his encroachments are to
cease.
Woodlands and prairies, breezy uplands and grassy bottoms, alternate in
such picturesque confusion, and such lovely colours co-mingle, that a
painter--had one been there--must have deemed the place at all events
the vestibule of paradise.
There is a small hamlet on the slope of a hill, with a broad river
winding in front, a few hundred yards from the hamlet, which opens out
into a lake. On the margin of this lake lie a few boats. On the
surface of it float a few more boats, with one or two birch-bark canoes.
Some of these are moving to and fro; the occupants of others, which
appear to be stationary, are engaged in fishing. There is the sound of
an anvil somewhere, and the lowing of cattle, and the voices of
children, and the barking of dogs at play, and the occasional crack of a
gun. It is an eminently peaceful as well as beautiful backwood scene.
To a particular spot in this landscape we would direct attention. It is
a frame-house, or cottage, which, if not built according to the most
approved rules of architecture, is at least neat, clean,
comfortable-looking, and what one might style pretty. It is a
"clap-boarded" house, painted white, with an edging of brown which
harmonises well with the green shrubbery around. There is a verandah in
front, a door in the middle, two windows on either side, and no upper
storey; but there are attics with dormer windows, which are suggestive
of snug sleeping-rooms of irregular shape, with low ceilings and
hat-crushing doorways.
This cottage stands on the apex of a little hill which overlooks the
hamlet, commands the river and the lake, as well as an extensive view of
a sparsely settled district beyond, where the frontier farmer and the
primeval forest are evidently having a lively time of it together. In
short the cottage on the hill has a decidedly comfortable
come-up-quick-and-enjoy-yourself air which is quite charming.
On a certain fine afternoon in autumn Eve Liston, _alias_ Waboose, Big
Otter and I, rode slowly up the winding path which led to this cottage.
We had been directed to it by the postmaster of the hamlet,--a man who,
if he had been condemned to subsist solely on the proceeds of the
village post-office, would have been compelled to give up the ghost, or
the post, in a week.
"We must be careful, Eve, how we break it to her," said I, as we neared
the top.
Arrived at the summit of the hill we found a rustic table, also a rustic
seat on which was seated a comely matron engaged in the very commonplace
work of darning socks. She cast on us a sharp and remarkably
penetrating glance as we approached. Doubtless our appearance was
peculiar, for a pretty maiden in savage costume, a somewhat ragged white
man, and a gigantic savage, all mounted on magnificent steeds and
looking travel-stained and worn after a journey of many weeks, was not
probably an everyday sight, even in those regions.
Dismounting and advancing to act as spokesman, while my companions sat
motionless and silent in their saddles, I pulled off my cap.
"I have been directed to this house as the abode of Mrs Liston," said I
with a tremor of anxiety, for I knew that the comely matron before me
could not be she whom I sought, and feared there might be some mistake.
"You have been directed aright, sir. May I ask who it is that desires
to see her?"
"My name is Maxby," said I, quickly, for I was becoming nervously
impatient. "I am quite a stranger to Mrs Liston, but I would see her,
because I bring her news--news of importance--in fact a message from her
long-lost son."
"From Willie Liston?" exclaimed the lady, starting up, and seizing my
arm, while she gazed into my face with a look of wild surprise. "Is
he--but it cannot be--impossible--he must be--"
"He is dead," said I, in a low, sad voice, as she hesitated.
"Yes," she returned, clasping her hands but without any of the wild look
in her eyes now. "We have mourned him as dead for many, many years.
Stay, I will call his--but--perhaps--sometimes it is kindness to
conceal. If there is anything sad to tell, might it not be well to
leave his poor mother in ignorance? She is old and--"
"No, madam," I interrupted, "that may not be. I have a message from him
to his mother."
"A message! Then you knew him?"
"No; I never saw him."
"Strange! You have a message from him, yet never saw him. Can you not
give me the message, to convey it to her? She is getting frail and a
shock might be serious. I am William Liston's cousin, and have come to
take care of my aunt, and manage her farm."
"The message, by Mr Liston's wish," said I, "was to be delivered by me
to his mother. I will be very careful to deliver it gently."
"Well, I will bring her to you. She usually comes out about this time
to enjoy the sunset. I will trust to your discretion; but bear in
remembrance that she is not strong. Forgive me," she added, turning to
my companions, "this surprise has made me forget my duty. Will your
friends dismount?"
Eve at once dismounted, and shook the hand which the lady extended; but
Big Otter sat quite still, like a grand equestrian statue, while the
lady entered the house.
I saw that the poor girl was much agitated, but, true to her Indian
training, she laid powerful constraint on herself.
In a few minutes an old lady with the sweetest face and most benignant
aspect I ever saw, came out of the cottage and advanced to the rustic
seat. Before sitting down she looked at us with a pleasant smile, and
said,--"You are heartily welcome. We are always glad to see strangers
in these distant parts."
While speaking she tremblingly pulled out, and put on, a pair of
spectacles to enable her to have a clearer view of her visitors. The
scene that immediately followed took me very much by surprise, and
completely frustrated all my wise plans of caution.
She looked at me first and nodded pleasantly. Then she looked at Eve,
who was gazing at her with an intense and indescribable expression.
Suddenly the old lady's eyes opened to their widest. A death-like
pallor overspread her old face. She opened her arms wide, bent forward
a little towards Eve, and gasped,--"Come to me--Willie!"
Never was invitation more swiftly accepted. Eve bounded towards her and
caught her in her arms just in time to prevent her falling.
The poor old mother! For years she had prayed and longed for her lost
Willie, though she never once regarded him as "lost." "Is not the
promise _sure_?" she was wont to say, "Ask and ye shall receive." Even
when she believed that the erring son was dead she did not cease to pray
for him--because he _might_ be alive. Latterly, however, her tone of
resignation proved that she had nearly, if not quite, given up all hope
of seeing him again in this life, yet she never ceased to think of him
as "not lost, but gone before." And now, when at last his very image
came back to her in the form of a woman, she had no more doubt as to who
stood before her than she had of her own identity. She knew it was
Willie's child--one glance sufficed to convince her of that--but it was
only Willie--the long-lost Willie--that she thought of, as she pressed
the weeping girl with feeble fervour to her old and loving heart.
During the time that this scene was enacting, Big Otter remained still
motionless on his horse, without moving a muscle of his grave
countenance. Was he heartless, or was his heart a stone? An observer
might readily have thought so, but his conduct when the old lady at last
relaxed her hold of Eve, proved that, Indian like, he was only putting
stern restraint on himself.
Dismounting with something of the deliberate and stately air of one who
is resolved not to commit himself, the Indian strode towards Mrs
Liston, and, tenderly grasping one of her hands in both of his,
said,--"Weeum!"
Truly there is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and in
some cases that step is an exceeding short one. It seemed so to me now,
as I beheld the tall Indian stooping to gaze with intense earnestness
into the tear-besprinkled face of the little old lady, who gazed with
equally intense amazement into his huge, dark visage.
"What _does_ he mean by Weeum?" she asked, with an appealing look at me.
"Weeum," I replied, "is the Indian way of pronouncing William. Your
late son, dear madam, was much beloved and respected by the tribe of
Indians, with whom he dwelt, and was known to them only by the name of
William, or Weeum. This man was his most intimate and loving friend and
brother-in-law."
The poor old lady was deeply affected while I spoke, for of course my
words confirmed at last, her long resisted fear that Willie was indeed
no longer of this world.
Big Otter waited a few seconds, still holding her hand, and then,
turning to me, said in his native tongue,--"Tell the pale-face mother
that the sister of Big Otter was the wife of Weeum; that Big Otter loved
Weeum better than a brother, and that Weeum loved Big Otter more than
any man of his tribe. Every one loved Weeum the Good. He was so kind,
and so brave! At first he was very fierce, but afterwards that passed
away, and when Waboose began to grow tall and wise, Weeum turned soft
like a woman. He spoke often to the red-men about the Great Master of
Life, and he taught Big Otter to love the Great Master of Life and the
name of Jesus. Often Weeum talked of going to the far south to see one
whom he called a _dear old one_. We did not understand him then. Big
Otter understands him now. So shall it be in the great hereafter--
things that are dark now shall be light then. But Weeum could not leave
his wife and child, and we would not let him take them away. Sometimes
Weeum spoke mysteries. One day he said to me, `Brother, I _must_ go to
the far south to see the dear old one. I will take my wife and child,
and will return to you again--if the great Master of Life allows. If,
however, I die or am killed, Waboose will reveal all that is in Weeum's
heart. She cannot reveal it now. She will not even understand until a
_good_ pale-face visits your tribe.' Weeum said no more. He left the
mind of Big Otter dark. It is no longer dark. It is now clear as the
sun at noon. The `good pale-face' is here (pointing to me as he spoke),
and the `dear old one' is before me."
He paused a moment at this point, and then, with an evident effort to
suppress emotion, added,--"Weeum was drowned, soon after the day he
spoke to me, while trying to save life. Since then there has been no
sun in the sky for Big Otter."
The poor old mother listened to this speech with intense interest and
deepening emotion, but I could see that the tears which flowed over the
wrinkled cheeks were tears of gladness rather than of sorrow. It could
scarcely at that time come as news to her that her son was dead, but it
did come as a gladsome surprise that her wilful Willie had not only
found the Saviour himself--or, rather, been found of Him--but that he
had spent his latter days in striving to bring others to that great
Source of blessedness.
Being too much overcome to speak, she submitted to be led away into the
cottage by the comely matron, who had been a keen and sympathetic
observer of all that passed. Of course Eve accompanied them, for
Weeum's mother refused to let go her hand, even for a moment, and Big
Otter and I were left outside alone.
"Come," said I, vaulting into my saddle, "you and I will go and have a
gallop, my friend, and see the land, for I mean to dwell here and would
strongly advise you to do the same."
"Waugh!" exclaimed the Indian, as he leaped on the back of his steed,
and followed me.
"You see," said I, as we rode along, followed by the admiring gaze of
the village children--for, accustomed though they were to savages, they
had never seen so grand an Indian as Big Otter on so magnificent a
horse--"you see, they will require some time to clear up matters in the
cottage, for Eve's English, good though it be, is not perfect, and all
their minds will naturally be a little confused at first. You did me
good service to-day, my friend."
"How? The speech of Muxbee is mysterious."
"Don't you see," I replied, "that the speech you made to old Mrs
Liston, broke the ice as it were, and told her nearly all that I had to
tell. And if you knew how many anxious hours I have spent in thinking
how I should best break the sad news to the poor old mother, you would
better understand how grateful I am to you."
"The speech of Muxbee is still full of mystery. What does he mean by
breaking news? When Big Otter has got news to tell, he tells it. When
people have got something to hear, why should they not hear it at once?"
I felt that there are some things which some minds cannot understand;
so, instead of answering, changed the subject.
"See," said I, pointing to a part of the uncleared bush into which we
had ridden, "there are two redskins. One is about to let fly an arrow.
Hold on--we may disturb his aim!"
My companion looked, and with a start threw forward the muzzle of his
gun.
Little did I think, riding as we then were in a semi-civilised region--
what the aim was that I was so anxious not to disturb.
I was suddenly and rudely enlightened when I heard the twang of the bow,
and saw the arrow flying straight towards me. It was too late to leap
aside, or dodge it. Full on the centre of my chest the shaft struck me.
I experienced something of the shock that one feels when death is
suddenly and very unexpectedly brought near. I have a distinct
recollection of the solemn impression made by the belief that my last
hour had come, yet I did not fall. I saw that the savage was hastily
fitting another arrow to the bow, but was so stunned by surprise that I
made no effort to save myself. Happily Big Otter had his wits about
him. He fired before the arrow winged its flight, and shot the Indian
dead.
The other savage at once turned and fled, but my companion gave chase
and overtook him in a few seconds. Seeing that he could not escape he
turned round, flung down his weapons in token of submission, and stood
sullenly before his captor.
Big Otter at once leaped off his steed, seized the man, bound his arms
behind him with a thong, and led him to the spot where the dead man was
lying on his face.
Meanwhile, I had discovered that the arrow which should have pierced my
heart had been stopped by one of the gold pieces which formed my
breastplate! It had, indeed, pierced the coin, but had only entered my
flesh about a quarter of an inch! Thanking God for the wonderful
deliverance, I plucked it out, and, casting it away, rode up to the
place where the dead man lay. My companion had turned him over, and to
my great surprise, revealed the face of my old foe, Attick!
"Waugh!" exclaimed Big Otter, turning to the captured savage. "Are
there not deer enough in the woods, and buffalo enough on the plains,
that the red-man should take to testing his arrows on pale-faces?"
"I did not shoot," was the stern reply.
"True, but you were the companion, perhaps the friend, of the dead man."
"I was _not_ his friend," replied the savage, more sullenly than ever.
"Then how came you to be with him when making this cowardly attack?" I
asked, in a tone which was meant to conciliate.
The tone had the desired effect. The savage explained that about three
weeks previously he had, while in danger of being killed by a grizzly
bear which he had wounded, been rescued by Attick, who told him that he
was in pursuit of a foe who had injured him deeply, and whom he meant to
hunt to death. Out of gratitude the Indian had consented to follow
him--believing his story to be true. Attick explained that he had
followed his foe from the far north, day by day, week by week, month by
month, seeking an opportunity to slay him; but so careful a watch had
been kept by his foe and the Indian and woman who travelled with him
that he had not up to that time found an opportunity. Attick and his
new ally had then dogged us to Sunny Creek--the village at which we had
arrived--and, finding that we no longer feared danger from hostile
Indians, and had relaxed our vigilance, they had made up their minds to
stay there patiently till the deed could be accomplished. That day,
while consulting about the matter in the woods, we had suddenly and
unexpectedly appeared before them, and Attick had discharged his arrow.
"But" concluded the savage, with a perplexed look, "the pale-face cannot
be killed. Arrows cannot pierce him."
"You are right," said I, suddenly coming to a decision in regard to the
man. "Neither bullet nor arrow can kill me till my work is done, and
the Great Master of Life permits me to die. Go--and be more careful
whom you follow in future."