Part 37 (2/2)

”That may be so,” said I, ”but it grieves me that the blood of one Indian has been shed on my account, and I don't want to let the authorities here have the chance of shedding that of another. Come, we must let them know what has happened.”

So saying I turned and rode off. We went direct to the authorities above-mentioned, told who we were and what we had done, guided a party of men to the scene of the intended murder; and then, while the stars were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, returned to see what was going on in the little cottage on the hill at Sunny Creek.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

ONE OF THE DIFFICULTIES OF CORRESPONDENCE ENLARGED ON--COMING EVENTS, ETCETERA.

About six weeks after the events narrated in the last chapter, I seated myself before a desk in a charming attic-room in the cottage--no need to say what cottage--and began to pen a letter.

I was in an exceedingly happy frame of mind. The weather was agreeable; neither too hot nor too cold; circ.u.mstances around me were conducive to quiet contemplation, and my brain was quite clear, nevertheless I experienced unusual difficulty in the composition of that letter. I began it at least half-a-dozen times, and as many times threw my pen down, tore it up and began another. At last I received a summons to dinner, and had then got only half-way through my letter.

Our dinner-party consisted of old Mrs Liston, her comely niece, Mrs Temple, who by the way was a widow, Eve Liston, and myself. Big Otter, unable to endure the restraints of civilisation, had gone on a hunting expedition for a few days, by way of relief!

”You is very stupid, surely, to take three hours to write one letter,”

remarked Eve, with that peculiar smile to which I have before referred.

”Eve,” said I, somewhat sternly, ”you will never learn English properly if you do not attend to my instructions. _You_ is plural, though _I_ am singular, and if you address me thus you must say you _are_ not you _is_.”

”You _are_ right in saying you are singular,” interposed Aunt Temple, who was rather sharp witted, and had intensely black eyes. Eve had called her ”aunt” by mistake at first, and now stuck to it.

”I don't think there is another man in the district,” continued the matron, ”who would take so long to write a short letter. You said it was going to be short didn't you?”

”Yes--short and sweet; though I doubt if the dear old man will think it so at first. But he'll change his mind when he gets here.”

”No doubt we will convert him,” said Aunt Temple.

”Eve will, at all events,” said I.

There was not much more said at that dinner which calls for record. I will therefore return to the attic-room and the letter.

After at least another hour of effort, I succeeded in finis.h.i.+ng my task, though not entirely to my satisfaction. As the letter was of considerable importance and interest--at least to those concerned--I now lay it before the reader. It ran thus:--

”My Dear Father,

”I scarcely know how to tell you--or how to begin, for I fear that you will not only be very much surprised, but perhaps, displeased by what I have to write. But let me a.s.sure you, dear father, that I cannot help it! It almost seems as if the thing had been arranged for me, and as if I had had no say in the matter. The fact is that I have left the service of the Fur-Traders, and am engaged to be married to a dear beautiful half-caste girl (quite a lady, however, I a.s.sure you), and have made up my mind to become a farmer in one of the wildest parts of Colorado! There--I've made a clean breast of it, and if that does not take away your breath, nothing will! But I write in all humility, dearest father. Do not fancy that, having taken the bit in my teeth, I tell you all this defiantly. Very far from it. Had it been possible, nothing would have gratified me more than to have consulted you, and asked your approval and blessing, but with three thousand miles of ocean, and I know not how many hundred miles of land between us, that you know, was out of the question; besides, it could not have altered matters, for the thing is fixed.

”My Eve's mother was an Indian. A very superior woman, indeed, let me hasten to say, and an exceptionally amiable one. Her father was an English gentleman named William Liston--son of a clergyman, and a highly educated man. He was wild and wilful in his youth, and married an Indian, but afterwards became a really good man, and, being naturally refined and with amiable feelings, spent his life in doing good to the people with whom he had cast his lot, and perished in saving the life of his wife. Eve evidently takes after him.

”As to my Eve herself--”

I will spare the reader what I said about Eve herself! Suffice it to say that after an enthusiastic account of her mental and physical qualities, in which, however, I carefully refrained from exaggeration, and giving a brief outline of my recent experiences, I wound up with,--”And now, dear father, forgive me if I have done wrong in all this, and make up your mind to come out here and live with us, or take a farm of your own near to us. You know there is nothing to tie you to the old country; you were always fond of the idea of emigrating to the backwoods; your small income will go twice as far here as there, if properly laid out, and you'll live twice as long. Come, dear dad, if you love me. I can't get married till you come. Ever believe me, your affectionate son--George Maxby.”

Reader, shall we visit the dear old man in his dingy little house in old England while he peruses the foregoing letter? Yes, let us go. It is worth while travelling between four and five thousand miles to see him read it. Perhaps, if you are a critical reader, you may ask, ”But how came _you_ to know how the old gentleman received the letter?” Well, although the question is impertinent, I will answer it.

I have a small cousin of about ten years of age. She dwells with my father, and is an exceedingly sharp and precocious little girl. She chanced to be in the parlour waiting for my father--who was rather given to being late for breakfast--when my letter arrived. The familiar domestic cat was also waiting for him. It had mounted the table and sat glaring at the b.u.t.ter and cream, but, being aware that stealing was wrong, or that the presence of Cousin Maggie was prohibitive, it practised self-denial. Finding a story-book, my cousin sat down on the window seat behind the curtain and became absorbed--so much absorbed that she failed to notice the entrance of my father; failed to hear his--”Ha! a letter from Punch at last!”--and was only roused to outward events by the crash which ensued when my father smote the table with his fist and exclaimed, ”im-possible!” The cups and saucers almost sprang into the air. The cat did so completely, and retired in horror to the furthest corner of the room. Recovering itself, however, it soon returned to its familiar post of observation on the table. Not so Cousin Maggie, who, observing that she was unperceived, and feeling somewhat shocked as well as curious, sat quite still, with her mouth, eyes, and especially her ears, wide-open.

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