"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 cla.s.s, 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 n.o.body."
"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 ma.n.u.script 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 ma.n.u.script I spread it carefully on my knee and began to read.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
OPENING OF THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET.
The ma.n.u.script 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d spares me, to pursue the course which is herein detailed, but I know too well the risk and dangers of the wilderness to feel a.s.sured 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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; G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 const.i.tution 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 G.o.d we shall meet again.
"If my prayer is granted, this paper will never be seen by human eyes.
If G.o.d 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 a.s.sailed me when I had finished reading this remarkable ma.n.u.script. 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 pa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.e; 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 ma.s.s 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.