"I would sooner have starved, Sandy, than have made my wants known to the best of them. But there was one on whom I had a nearer claim, to whom I applied in vain—a brother of my father—a close old hunks, who, though he had realised thousands as a ship-broker in London, had not heart enough to part with a shilling for the benefit of his poor nephew. But I believe the wretched man was well-nigh as unkind to himself as he was to me, and, in the midst of his wealth, fared nearly as ill. You are getting sleepy, Sandy, and I daresay 'tis little wonder you should; but I find a melancholy satisfaction in thus retracing the untoward events of the past, which I am certain I could not feel, did conscience whisper that my misfortunes were in any great degree owing to myself. Well, but to conclude. I became squalid and shabby; all the ladies sent me to Coventry, and all the gentlemen spurned me as a fellow of no spirit. I had mistaken my profession, it was said; and blockheads, who had been guiltless of a single new idea all their lives long, used to repeat from one another that my father, in making a wretched lawyer of me, had spoiled a good ploughman. I could bear no longer. The Hudson's Bay Company had an agent, you know, at Inverness. I called on him one evening after a day of fasting and miserable low spirits—and now here I am, in the second year of my service with the company."
"But, how, Innes, man," inquired Sandy, "could ye hae found heart to leave Scotland, without seein the puir lassie, your sweetheart? Do ye ken aught o' her now?"
"Know of her!" exclaimed Innes; "alas! I too surely know I have lost her. The last thing but one that I did ere I sailed from Stromness, was to write her to say how I had fallen from all my hopes regarding her, and to bid her forget me; the very last thing I did was to cry over a kind, cheerful letter, which had followed me all the way from Inverness, and in which she urged me to keep up my heart, for that all would yet be well with us. Little did she know, when writing it, what I was on the eve of becoming—a poor vagabond fur-gatherer on the wild shores of Hudson's Bay. Dear, generous girl! I trust she is happy."
"May I ask," said the manager, who, unknown to the two fur-gatherers, had lain awake for some time, listening to the narrative—"may I ask if you are not Innes Cameron, late of Inverness, only surviving son of Colin Cameron of Glendocharty, and nephew of the lately deceased Malachi Cameron, of Upper Thames Street, London?"
"I am that Innes Cameron," said the fur-gatherer; "and so my poor old uncle is dead?"
"And having died intestate," continued the manager, "you, as heir-at-law, succeed to his entire estate, personal and real, consisting of a property of a few hundred acres in the vicinity of Inverness, and twenty thousand pounds vested in the three per cents. A considerable remittance from London has been waiting you for the last month at the Hawk River Settlement, and, what you will deem very handsome in the circumstances, a free discharge from the company for your five remaining years' servitude. I am acting manager at the River, and to my care the whole has been committed."
Innes seemed astounded by the intelligence; his gayer companion leaped up and performed a somerset on the floor.
"Innes, Innes, Innes!" he exclaimed, "why are ye no dancin?—why are ye no dancin? Did I no ken ye were born to be a gentleman? I maun hae a double glass to drink luck to ye; and I'm sure the manager winna say no. Goodness, man, it's the best news I hae heard in America yet!"
Morning at length broke—a calm, clear morning, for the clouds had passed away with the storm—and the travellers, after sharing in an ample, though not very delicate, repast, prepared to set out on their journey. The dogs were harnessed, and the car laden. The manager, who, from the fatigue and exhaustion of the previous night, still felt indisposed, was mounted in front; the two fur-gatherers were lacing on their snow-shoes to follow on foot. At length the sun rose far to the south, through a deep frosty haze, that seemed to swaddle the horizon with a broad belt of russet, and the travellers set out in the direction of a distant promontory of the lake. The snow all around, the woods that rose thick over the level, the overhanging banks of the lake, the hills in the far distance, were all bathed in one rich glow of crimson, that more than emulated the blush of a summer's evening at sunset; the shadows of the travellers, as they stretched for many fathoms across the lake, had each a moon-like halo round the head, like the glory in an old painting; and the very air, laden with frost rime, sparkled to the sun, like the gold water of the chemist. The scene was altogether strangely, I had almost said unnaturally, beautiful; it was one of those which, once seen, are never forgotten.
"You have been silent, Innes," said Sandy, "for the last half-hour, and look as wae and anxious as if some terrible mishanter had befallen ye. I'll wad the best quid in my spleuchan, ye hae been thinkin about Catherine Roberts, and o' your chance o' findin her single. I'd advise ye, man, just for fear o' a disappointment, to marry the manager's sister: she's ane o' the best, bonny lassies I ever saw, and plays strathspeys and pibrochs like an angel. Oh, had ye but heard her at 'Lochaber no more,' and the 'Flowers o' the Forest,' ye wad hae grat like a bairn, as I did. Dear me, but she's a fine lassie! Had I as mony thousands as ye hae, Innes, I wad marry her mysel."