The uncertainty1 of all sublunary things is a truism so trite2 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 exempt4 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 narrated5 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 consternation6.
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 savage7 affections had been fixed8 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 supplant9 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 memorable10 occasion in the woods. I may remark here in passing that I had conscientiously11 held to my promise to Lumley, and had carefully abstained12 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 invalid13 mother, and as I was the only one in our little community who possessed14 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 depressed15 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 sprightly16 Jessie in a cariole drawn17 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 convoy18 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. Jack19 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 pointed20 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 onward21 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 Highlander22.
“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, graceful23 figure in its picturesque24 costume and her modest mien25, 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, simplicity26, modesty—”
I stuck at this point partly for want of words and partly because my snow-shoes, catching27 on a twig28, 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 gush29 of my enthusiasm flowed steadily30 on.
“And what can be more worthy31 of man’s admiration32 and respectful affection?” I argued, as I recovered my perpendicular33, 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 Wilderness34?”
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 considerably35 before midnight in spite of Macnab’s prophecy.
I am not naturally prone36 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 shovelled37 up on each side of the footpath38 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, flattened39 my nose against a pane40. A pain was the immediate41 result, for, the glass being intensely cold, I was obliged to draw back promptly42.
Lumley was seated alone at one side of the fire, in the familiar attitude of a man who meditates43 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 fixedly44 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 planks45 and roof count for nothing in the way of intercepting46 the flight of Mind to the realms of Inspiration, Lumley opened his handsome mouth and broke forth47 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 pathos48 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 sedate49 friend; that anxiety to have all our food well cooked and nicely served, in one who habitually50 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 reproofs51 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 implements52.
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 marrow53 of the song.
“Why, Max! back already?” cried my friend, starting up with a slightly-confused look, which confirmed my suspicion, and rattling54 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 gallant55 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 pointedly56 as I said this, but he coolly stooped to lift a billet and put it on the fire as he rattled57 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 conveyance58. 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 rascal59, I fear, may do us irreparable damage before we can tame him, for he has considerable influence with the young and fiery60 spirits among the savages61—so Big Otter62 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 thwart63 his plans if we can.”
“Moreover,” continued Lumley, with a sly look, “I am told that he has the presumption64 to aspire65 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 badinage66, 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 grizzly67 bear. Yes, I know,” interrupted Lumley, “he will never get her with her own consent; but you know that savages have a knack68 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 brute69, 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 buckle70 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 odds71 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 mere3 eating that we may live, and living that we may eat.”
“All right,” said I heartily72, 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 slates73 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 intentionally74 done. It was a dodge75, 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 peculiar76 look. “Did she say you might communicate its contents to me?”
“Well, no, she did not,” I replied, feeling rather perplexed77. “But I am quite sure that, if she meant to trust me at all, she meant to trust to my discretion78 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.
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1
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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mien
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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considerably
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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meditates
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的第三人称单数 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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reproofs
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| n.责备，责难，指责( reproof的名词复数 ) | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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53
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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54
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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58
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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59
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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60
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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62
otter
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| n.水獭 | |
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63
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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67
grizzly
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| adj.略为灰色的，呈灰色的；n.灰色大熊 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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71
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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73
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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