"Good-day, comrades! Do you remember me?"
"No fear, Puffey, after once seen."
"You were with us at the capture of Red Dick, I think?"
"Two of us were."
"Ah, I have just been over and seen Fellows, to thank him, and all who
were with him, for the excellent help rendered to the police on that
occasion."
"What will be done with the prisoner?"
"That will be decided at Quebec."
"Have they sent him there?"
"Yes."
"Then he has not much chance left."
"Well, we shall see."
"You say you saw Fellows?" the men inquired.
"Yes; he's a smart chap, and I have been trying to persuade him to join
our force."
"What next? Is he inclined to do it?"
"I can't say yet. He has promised to think the matter over, which is
all I could expect at first."
"And I hope it will end there; he's too good a pal to lose."
"Do you know much about him then? Has he been here long?"
"Not many months, but he is good company, plenty to talk about, and
inclined to be sociable."
"Does he bear a good character?"
"We know nothing about him before he came here, but we have never heard
a word against him since he has been amongst us."
Evidently there was nothing to be gained by pursuing this conversation,
so shortly after he wished them "Good day," and rode off.
On the whole, he felt satisfied with the result of his inquiries. He
had not added much that was new, but what he had heard tended to confirm
that which was already known.
He would like to have scraped together a little more knowledge of
Barton, but he had been afraid to inquire, there being no good opening
given him to do so.
*CHAPTER XXI.*
*JESSIE RUSSELL.*
"It is my lady; O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!"
_Romeo and Juliet_, Act II. sc. ii.
"Now, Jess, buck up, my girl! I've brought a companion home with me
to-night to have a bit of supper and a smoke, so look alive."
"All right, dad! Don't make a fuss about such a trifle," was the
response.
"Come along, Fellows; don't stand outside like that, man alive! Come
in, and make yourself at home."
The frugal board was soon spread with the customary evening meal, which
Russell and his daughter were in the habit of partaking alone, but which
on the evening in question he had invited Fellows to join them in.
When this was finished, the table cleared, and the pipes lighted, the
woman's fingers found full employment upon garments which needed
repairing, whilst the men occupied their time in discussing the events
of the day, only occasionally allowing those of the larger outer world
to engage their attention, since those were matters about which they
heard at very irregular intervals.
Fellows had not yet found that convenient opportunity he had given
Ranger to understand he was waiting for, that he might make Jessie the
confidante of his most cherished desires.
And now, with the father present, he did not feel that this was an
opportune moment.
"Puffey was telling me yesterday about the proposal he had made to you
of joining their force. Do you intend giving that proposal any serious
consideration?"
"Well, I scarcely know," laughingly replied Fellows.
"But you don't mean to say the prospect it holds out is better than the
one before you here?"
"No, I don't think it is. The only charm about it is the excitement it
offers."
"There may be some attraction in that to a single man, with youth and
health in front of him; but the advance is slow and uncertain, and the
life somewhat precarious."
"Surely you are not thinking of leaving us so soon?" chimed in Jessie,
with just a shade of eagerness in her tone.
"I can hardly say that," said Fellows thoughtfully. "But the life here
is so dull and monotonous, I must have a change of some sort. I want
excitement. I feel at times as if I should go mad!"
"Isn't there any of the men you can make companions of, to spend an
occasional evening with?"
"Well, I am afraid not; they don't seem quite my style."
"What about the Bartons? I should have thought that one or both of
those would have just been about your mark."
"I don't dislike the elder of the two men," said Fellows, "but I can't
say I like the younger one."
"Now you mention him," replied Russell, "he certainly does not impress
one very favourably. He never has much to say for himself, and seldom
joins in our conversation."
"Women are stupid creatures, you'll say, and jump to all manner of
ridiculous conclusions," said Jessie; "but for all that I must say I
don't like him. There's something about the man's look and manner which
makes me feel queer whenever I see him."
Fellows looked up with a smile, as he said, "I don't think women such
stupid creatures; they have a sort of power, which we men do not appear
to possess, called intuition, which enables them to form conclusions a
great deal more rapidly than the members of the opposite sex; and, what
is more to the point, their rapidly formed conclusions are less
frequently wrong than are the more laboured ones which we indulge
ourselves in delivering, often with a great assumption of authority,
more impressive than the argument or its conclusion."
"Wisely spoken, Sir Oracle!" exclaimed Russell, as he clapped his hands
together by way of indicating his approval; whilst Jessie's eyes
sparkled as she listened to his defence of her sex.
"But we are getting off the track," remarked Fellows. "We were talking
about what I was likely to be doing; and on that point, I will frankly
confess, I have not yet made up my mind."
"Then don't be in any hurry to do that which may involve a life-long
repentance," said Russell.
"Changing the subject," remarked Fellows, "what's your opinion of
Barton's project?"
"What? as to going to the Yukon?"
"Yes."
"Why, I think if they are wise they'll stay where they are."
"But it appears to be a wonderful country; and has the greatest seal and
salmon fisheries, with cod-banks that beat those of Newfoundland."
"That may be all very true," responded Russell, "if fishing be the
object in view; but a man has got to stand the climate."
"No doubt that's a difficulty."
"I should rather think so, if what I read is true, that the ground in
certain parts is frozen to a depth of two hundred feet."
"The search for gold must be hard work under such conditions."
"The rapid changes, too, must be awfully trying," added Russell. "Some
days it is so warm that one may fairly roast, whilst the next day you
would be looking for your overcoat."
"All which goes to show that only the sound and healthy should risk the
dangers which undoubtedly will have to be faced."
"Men born in southern latitudes are said to have become insane through
the long darkness which prevails."
"Well," said Fellows, "although it is true that hundreds have been
driven back, unable to endure the hardships of the place, whilst as many
more have been starved or frozen to death, yet I should not at all mind
risking my chance if I saw any way of getting there."
"Of course, how to get out is the difficulty; the expenses are so great
that a little fortune is needed to begin with."
"Provided the necessary capital can be found, next to good health, what
is most needed is a good equipment. The mounted police who have been
sent there are all right, because they have been well provided by the
Government with food and clothing. Women and children stand the
climate; and all reliable testimony is to the effect that the climatic
drawbacks are trivial to those who are well equipped."
"It appears to me," said Russell, "that for the inexperienced, and those
who know little or nothing of roughing it, to venture into such a region
as the Yukon is known to be at its best is the extreme of folly. Under
the most favourable conditions it offers so many hardships, that those
who have not what the Yanks call 'grit,' and endurance, should keep out
of it."
"I quite agree with all you say," replied Fellows. "Yet I think," he
added, "that much of the mischief and hardships we hear about have been
due to the mode of travelling and the routes taken."
"Which, then, do you regard as the better way to go?"
"Certainly not through the passes over the mountains, in which so many
hundreds are said to have met their deaths."
"How then would you propose getting there?"
"By what is now known as the 'All-Water-Route,' up the Yukon River to
Dawson City."
"But isn't that a long and tedious way, which, if commenced when
navigation opens, is completed so near the end of the season that you
have practically no time left for operations that year?"
"I think that was so," said Fellows, "when the rush first began, but the
conditions have now been rendered far more favourable."
"Is that so?" asked Russell.
"The agents say that through the passes it takes from forty to seventy
days to get from San Francisco to Dawson City; but by the
'All-Water-Route,' although you have to start later from the same port,
the time taken need never exceed about four weeks; so that with more
comfort and convenience, at the cost of less time, you really reach
Dawson City sooner than by means of what may be termed the overland
route."
"Well, when I've got a couple of hundred pounds to spare I may think
more seriously about the desirability of running the risk, but at
present I have not the means, and therefore, however great the
facilities, it's no use my thinking much about it."
"That would be my difficulty likewise," said Fellows; "and it is one,
too, which it will take the Bartons some time to overcome, I'm
thinking."
"My opinion," said Jessie, "is, that if the majority of men who are
never satisfied with what they have, but who are ever ready to run after
the latest craze, would develop the same amount of energy in trying to
improve their position amid existing circumstances as they do when they
find themselves in the midst of fresh scenes, with new surroundings,
there would be less dissatisfaction and more success in life at home
than is usually considered possible."
"Quite true, Miss Russell," replied Fellows; "and I suppose it must be
put down as a man's weakness."
"Still, if a weakness, not one that is, or should be regarded as, wholly
incurable."
"Yet 'What will Mrs. Grundy say?' is an influence quite as strong in
operating upon men as upon women."
"What a misfortune! It seems a sad admission to have to make."
"It is, however, unfortunately too true, since the opinions which others
form of us enter very largely into the rule of conduct regulating our
daily life. It is seldom until old age begins to overtake us, that men
assume that independence of the world's frowns and sneers which alone
enables them to act and speak upon sound principles, regardless of
consequences."
The time had passed so pleasantly and rapidly that they were not a
little surprised to find it was long past the usual hour for retiring.
After a hasty "Good-night," Fellows went home, well pleased with what he
had seen and heard, and more than ever determined to make an
opportunity, at no distant date, for a confidential talk with Jessie
Russell.
*CHAPTER XXII.*
*"DEAD, BUT IS ALIVE AGAIN."*
"Alive again? then show me where he is."
_Henry VI._, Part II. Act III. sc. iii.
Mrs. Sinclair had been slowly, yet gradually, recovering from the long
illness which had followed upon the news of her son's death, and the
terrible revelations with respect to his conduct preceding.
The habits of her small household had of late been considerably
disarranged, so that since her illness she had become accustomed to
having her morning meal served in her bedroom. As the season advanced,
her indisposition to struggle against the growing love for this
indulgence became more marked, until it had almost become a recognised
habit which it would have been difficult to overcome.
Autumn tints had already begun to tinge with their brilliant hues the
lovely summer foliage, which the rough winds were rapidly stripping from
twigs and branches, exposing them to all the effects of dews and damps,
the chills and frosts of northern skies.
It was a chill October morning, and the sun had not yet attained
sufficient power to dispel the mist which hung over the face of nature,
as the result of the heavy dew which had fallen.
Jennie, after visiting her mother as usual, had descended to see that
her breakfast was sent upstairs at the accustomed hour. A letter
addressed to her mother was lying on the table in the hall, which she
was surprised to find bore the Canadian postmark. The handwriting did
not suggest the writer, so, curbing her curiosity, and carrying it with
her, she placed it upon the tray which the maid was already waiting to
take up to Mrs. Sinclair's room.
Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed when her mother's bell was rung so
violently that Jennie determined to answer it herself.
On entering her bedroom she saw that her mother had fainted.
The breakfast had not been touched, but tightly grasped in her clenched
hands was an open letter--the one which had that morning been received.
By the application of a few simple restoratives, with which her daughter
seemed perfectly familiar, consciousness soon began to return.
As she opened her eyes, what was Jennie's astonishment to hear her
exclaim, "My boy! my boy! Where is Ralph?"
The letter which had been held so tenaciously now lay upon the bed, as
it had fallen from her nerveless hand. Picking it hastily up, the
daughter looked to see who it was from, and with a surprise which was
almost overwhelming, saw the well-known signature of her brother Ralph
at the end.
A flood of tears relieved the elder woman, in the midst of which she
exclaimed, "Read it, Jennie!--The letter!"
In a state of excitement almost beyond description she proceeded to do
so. It was a long letter, and took her some time to get through. It
was indeed from her brother--the brother they had long mourned as dead,
but who, it appeared, was alive and well in a distant land.
Acting upon the advice which Ranger had given him, he had written a full
confession of his conduct, omitting nothing, and not attempting to
excuse himself in the least degree, nor to say anything which would tend
to palliate the acts of which he had been guilty. He did not fail to
express how keen and bitter was the regret he felt at the sorrow he had
caused the fond mother whose love for her boy he was deeply sensible of,
and could never by any possibility hope to repay. He was unwilling to
return home and take the consequence of his acts, not so much because he
dreaded the punishment, as that he was fearful of the additional
suffering it would entail upon those he still so much loved. He
therefore concluded by requesting his mother to see his late employers,
let them see all he had written, but to conceal from them the place
where he was living.
By the time Jennie had finished reading the contents of the letter, both
women had obtained sufficient control over their emotions as to be able
to hold converse together.
"My poor deluded boy!" was one of the many exclamations of a similar
character with which the mother continually sought to relieve her
overburdened mind.
"Poor boy! what he must have suffered! Now mind, Jennie! not a word of
this to anyone, but ascertain at once the time of the trains to
Broadstone, that I may arrange the most convenient one to travel by; and
I must get you to go with me."
"But I think, mother, it would be better to wait a day or two until you
have got over the shock the letter has given you, or you will not be in
a fit condition to see the people at Broadstone."
"Well, see how the trains serve first, and after I am up I shall be
better able to talk about when we may start."
Having rung for the maid, and instructed her to send for a time-table,
she proceeded to assist her mother to dress.
* * * * *
The next morning, soon after seven o'clock, Mrs. Sinclair and her
daughter started by an early train, due at Broadstone--a station on the
main line--shortly before eight o'clock in the evening, which was duly
reached, after a fatiguing journey, only some half-hour late.
A telegram, despatched at starting, had secured them apartments at the
railway hotel; to these, on their arrival, they at once retired, and,
after partaking of an early supper, sought that rest they each so much
stood in need of.
The wind, which had been blowing in fitful gusts throughout the journey,
grew in intensity as the day wore to its close, and as the night
advanced it increased to the force of a hurricane. The poorer class of
inhabitants trembled for the security of their little dwellings, not
usually constructed in the most substantial manner. And as it swept
round corners, or drove through old chimney-stacks, dislodging insecure
pots on its way, the whistle became a roar as it rushed down the
chimneys, or beat with fury against window-panes, which every now and
then seemed on the point of yielding to the vehemence of the gale; many
were the would-be sleepers whose nerves were kept on the rack, unable to
rest amid the strife of elements which prevailed.
As the morning dawned the wind dropped, and rain fell in torrents.
The two ladies, in their strange apartments, with such a raging storm
outside, passed a very restless and almost sleepless night, so that they
felt but little refreshed when the time for rising arrived.
Breakfast over, and as the rain continued to descend in torrents without
any apparent indications of its early cessation, although the distance
to be traversed was trivial, they ordered a cab to be at the door by
eleven o'clock, in which they duly made their appearance at the offices
of the factory in Broadstone.
Finding the partners were to be seen, they sent up their cards, and,
instructing the cabman to wait, were ushered into the private office of
the firm, where the two gentlemen were seated.
After greeting them with that warmth and friendliness which is a marked
feature in the character of the natives of the Midlands, and which also,
from the long-standing friendship existing, might naturally have been
anticipated, they sought to know the nature of the special business to
which they felt so unexpected a visit was due.
Speaking with much emotion, and not without a strong effort to control
her feelings, Mrs. Sinclair, whose pallid features bore vivid traces of
unmistakable suffering, said--
"I yesterday received a letter which, when I show you, will, I expect,
be as much a surprise to you as it was to myself and daughter."
Pausing for a few moments, as she searched in her pocket for the letter
referred to, she added, as soon as the important document was brought to
light, "If you will kindly read this, it will fully explain the object
of my visit much better than I should be able to do."
Taking the letter which was offered them, they sought and obtained
permission to retire into an inner room, where it might be perused
without fear of interruption.
On their return, after the lapse of some ten minutes, the younger of the
two men remarked;--
"No doubt, Mrs. Sinclair, you were greatly surprised at the news which
this letter brought?"
"So much so, sir, that I fainted; and it was some time before I was
fully able to recover myself."
"I can well believe it. But you will, no doubt, be still more
astonished when I tell you that we are already in full possession of all
which that letter reveals, and a little more."
[Illustration: "WE ARE ALREADY IN FULL POSSESSION OF ALL WHICH THAT
LETTER REVEALS."]
"You certainly do surprise me, sir, since I cannot see how you could
have obtained the information, which my son alone was in possession of,
since he begs in that letter that it may be communicated privately and
confidentially to you."
"As a proof, we can tell you his address when he wrote was at Ranger's
Ranch, M'Lean Station, Assiniboia, North-West Canada."
"You will have noticed the address at the top of his letter has been cut
away; this I did at his request, that you might not at present be
informed as to where he is to be found."
"Yes; and we could not help smiling as we observed what had been done."
"But," said Mrs. Sinclair, much agitated, "may I ask how you obtained
your information?"
"Certainly," replied Mr. Quinion. "It is now six or seven weeks ago
since we received a letter from a person in Canada, who, although giving
us his name, has requested that it may not be made known, conveying just
such information as the letter you now bring contains."
"Then it would be useless to ask you for the name of your informant?"
said Mrs. Sinclair.
"Well, without the writer's permission it would scarcely be honourable
on our part to do so."
"Does he state how he came by the knowledge of what he writes you?"
inquired the mother.
"Yes; he states that it was a confession he overheard your son make, but
to whom, or under what circumstances, is not mentioned."
"Does he give any reason for writing to you as he has done?"
"All he says on that point is, that he thought it right to do so, in
case we should like to know."
"It cannot be regarded as a friendly act," Mrs. Sinclair, after some
hesitation, found herself able to say.
"No; that is how we regarded it," said Mr. Quinion quietly.
"May I ask," inquired the mother, with some anxiety, "if you have taken
any action in the matter?"
"Well, this is what we have done: through our solicitors here, we
instructed agents in Canada to inquire fully into the truth of all the
letter contains; to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the person
referred to is the one in whom we have any interest; the character of
the person who has written to us, and the motives which would probably
cause him to act as he has done. We are expecting by every mail to
receive this agent's report, as by it we propose being guided in the
course we ought to adopt."
"Oh, my dear friends! I do hope," said Mrs. Sinclair in anguished
tones, "you will not think of having my poor boy prosecuted?"
"That is a matter, Mrs. Sinclair, on which we have arrived at no
decision at present," was Mr. Quinion's reply.
"Oh, but is it not possible to let matters remain as they are, without
reference to the report you speak of?"
"We do not say that we shall take any action upon it; at the same time,
as men of business, as well as in consideration of what is due to
society, we shall wait at least this report we are expecting."
"But can't you, gentlemen, for the sake of the long and honourable
career of his father, as well as for my sake, and that of my daughter,
give up all idea of having him arrested? It would be the death of me, I
know; and I feel sure you have no wish to see that take place."
"In that you only do us justice, Mrs. Sinclair; and if it be at all
possible, you may rely upon our sparing your feelings, as we have no
vindictive aims to gratify."
"If it is the amount my misguided boy has robbed you of which is the
difficulty, and its payment will prevent the prospect of harm coming to
him, I will willingly realise everything I possess, even if it beggars
me, in order that my son may be saved!"
"Don't for a moment think of it, my dear madam; for under no
circumstances should we accept the payment you speak of, as that would
be to compound a felony. We either prosecute or pardon."
"Oh, let me, let me prevail upon you to decide now, at once!" reiterated
Mrs. Sinclair.
"Pray do not say anything more, Mrs. Sinclair, but leave the matter
where it is; and trust us, that in whatever we decide we shall endeavour
to do that which is right and best for all parties."
It being clear that nothing further was to be gained at present, the
ladies rose and took their leave, after receiving an assurance that on
the arrival of the report for which they were waiting, they would,
without loss of time, let them know their decision.
Returning to their hotel, they ordered luncheon, and announced their
intention of departing by the afternoon train, which would enable them
to arrive home by breakfast-time the next morning.
On reaching home, the mother's first concern was to ascertain the date
of the next Canadian mail out, which she learned was two days hence.
Her next act was to write a very long and loving letter to her boy,
giving a full account of her visit to Broadstone and its result. And
whilst it was full of sorrow and regret for the past, there was not a
word of upbraiding, but expressions of gratitude and joy for the welcome
news which had practically given back to her a son previously mourned as
dead.
In addition to stating the surprise she experienced on learning that his
late employers were in full possession of the information she had come
to impart, she could not refrain from adding, that as there was still
doubt as to what their intentions might be, on receiving the report for
which they were waiting, she must urge him to think very seriously of
the desirability of getting clear away from his present station before
it might be too late to do so.
*CHAPTER XXIII.*
*THE STORY EVER NEW.*
"Let her speak of me before her father."--_Othello_, Act I. sc. iii.
"Good afternoon, Miss Russell," was the greeting which Jessie received
one Sunday afternoon, as, on rounding a bend of the hill, on the other
side of which was Ranger's homestead, she was suddenly brought face to
face with Fellows, who was rapidly advancing along the track which led
to her father's log dwelling.
The air was laden with the refreshing, invigorating scent of the pines
from the wood towards which she was wending, but the rapidly falling
leaves, and the changing hues of autumn, were everywhere giving
indications that summer was nearly over, and that Mother Nature would
soon be arrayed in more sober attire, befitting the wintry season of
chill and gloom.
Jessie was accustomed to ramble on a Sunday afternoon, when the midday
meal had been despatched, whilst her father indulged himself with his
pipe, or sat and dozed in a chair at the door of his little shanty,
which overlooked the small patch of garden in front.
"I was on my way to call upon you," added Fellows, "so that I am very
glad to have met you."
"Father is all alone at home," said Jessie, as the colour mounted to her
cheeks.
"If my company is not likely to prove irksome," he added, "I should much
prefer a walk with you."
"Rather an unusual request," added Jess, "but I suppose I ought not to
object."
After proceeding in silence for some moments, Fellows said, "I have been
wanting to have a quiet talk with you, Miss Russell, for some time, and
now the opportunity presents itself I scarcely know how to begin."
Jessie, whose face had suddenly become the colour of scarlet, could find
no words with which to help him; therefore, after a brief pause, he
proceeded to tell her of the feelings he entertained towards her, and
the hope he cherished that she might be disposed to give his suit a
little favourable consideration.
Whatever writers of romance may say to the contrary, out of an extreme
desire to invest their heroines with qualities and attributes which, as
a rule, ordinary mortals do not possess, it is seldom that a declaration
such as Jessie heard this afternoon can be truthfully said to be
altogether unexpected. Words may never pass to convey the intelligence,
nevertheless there is a subtle magnetism in the language of the eye
which telegraphs to the loved one, more vividly and more surely than
words could express, the feelings with which each regards the other. So
that generally, long before the declaration is made which is supposed to
reveal the feelings with which the man regards the woman, she has
discovered it all, and been waiting, expecting the inevitable to happen.
Except during his long illness, when Jessie had carefully and faithfully
nursed him back to convalescence,--an illness, be it remembered, which
had been brought about by his self-denying efforts on her behalf, in
rescuing her from a position of considerable danger,--she had had but
few opportunities of seeing him, or being thrown into his society. Few
and brief, however, as many of those interviews had proved, they had not
been without leaving their effects behind. The eyes as they had looked
into each other's faces, or caught stolen glances which were thought to
be unobserved, had given rise to thoughts and feelings too subtle for
words to express, and too sacred even for themselves to admit, during
that process of introspection which from time to time went on.
Jessie, therefore, whilst perfectly conscious in her own heart that the
young fellow now by her side was entertaining feelings for her which
might eventually find expression in words, was quite unprepared for the
meeting this afternoon, and for what was in truth the sudden declaration
of his affection for her.
Jessie, it may be added, was a woman possessing a fair amount of
common-sense, yet of an ardent and enthusiastic temperament,--capable of
loving intensely an object worthy of her affections.
The period which had elapsed since attaining womanhood had been so
brief, that she was not yet quit of many of the high ideals and romantic
notions with which lovers are wont to invest the heroes or heroines they
are in search of; but her rough prairie-training, added to the
common-sense shrewdness of her character, had enabled her to see that
marriage ought not to be regarded as such a thing of chance as to be
left dependent upon the fancied love, growing out of the attractions of
a pretty form or a lovely face, calculated as they are to bewitch and
bewilder the first enamoured noodle that casts his glances upon them.
It was, therefore, in tones of some hesitation that she expressed the
opinion that they had scarcely known each other long enough, or seen
sufficient of one another, to be able to judge as to their suitability
for such an important arrangement.
"I was fully prepared for something like that, Jessie--if I may call you
that?" said Fellows.
"Well then, don't you think it would be better for me to defer any
answer at present?" she naively asked.
"I don't think so, my dear--and yet----" After some hesitation he
added, "How can I venture to tell you all that is on my mind? and yet I
feel it would not be fair on my part to win, perhaps, your consent to my
suit, without first placing you in full possession of the facts in my
past life, which may seriously affect your decision."
"But if the opinion I have been led to form of you be a correct one, it
cannot be anything of which you need be ashamed or afraid to tell me."
"Ah, Jessie!" he exclaimed in mournful tones, "I am afraid you have
estimated me too highly."
"Tell me, then," she added somewhat eagerly, her moistening eyes
betraying only too plainly the anxiety she felt, yet was loath to
reveal.
Thus encouraged, Fellows at once confided to her the story of his past
life, which was much to the same effect as had been narrated to Ranger,
and overheard by Barton, from the place where he lay concealed.
In addition to what he had revealed to Ranger, he was now able to add,
that, acting upon the advice then given, he had since written home to
inform his mother that he was still alive, and how he had instructed her
to act.
It would be difficult to describe the feeling paramount in Jessie's
breast, on hearing the singular and startling confession which Fellows
had made.
She felt quite unequal to the task of analysing the causes which gave
rise to the emotions agitating her. They were of too conflicting a
character to warrant a prompt decision on the important question which
had been urged upon her.
Like the true woman that she was, there was a thrill of ecstatic
pleasure running through every nerve when she fully realised that she
was the possessor of a man's true love, and that man one upon whom she
had been only too disposed to allow her affections to gather strength
and to centre.
Her first impulse inclined her to utter a responsive "Yes" to the
impassioned appeal which was addressed to her. The revulsion, however,
which followed the second revelation, was one more of sorrow and regret,
which left her in a state of mind she was not able to explain to her own
satisfaction, nor one which qualified her to give an answer to Fellows.
"Well, Jessie," said Fellows, after waiting some time, "what
interpretation am I to put upon your silence?"
"Oh, Mr. Fellows, I wish you would not press me now for a reply!"
"If that is your wish, it shall be my law, and I will wait," he replied.
"You may suppose, from my hesitation, that the avowal you have made is
not one of which I entirely disapprove. It is a manly confession, to
which any free woman is always proud to listen, even when it may not
meet with acceptance. But what you have added is of such a nature, and
of so much importance, that I feel it would be only right, before coming
to any decision, to hear what father has to say about it, and what he
would advise me to do."
"Perhaps you are right, my lass; in fact, I know you are. Therefore by
all means consult your father and be guided by him. But don't forget me
at the same time, and that on your answer will depend my future as well
as my stay here."
With a very warm and sympathetic hand-clasp, which the lovers (if they
may be so termed) felt it would at present be unwise to exceed, they
separated, after arranging to meet on the next Sunday, under similar
circumstances, should nothing transpire to put a stop to such an
arrangement.
It was with mixed feelings of elation and anxiety that Fellows returned
to the Ranch.
There was much satisfaction at the thought that he was, without doubt,
the possessor of the love of a true woman, for notwithstanding the
cautious nature of her reply, it was sufficiently obvious the regard she
entertained for him. At the same time there was cause for anxiety to a
man in his position as to the advice her father might offer, and which
he felt, whatever it might be, she would be strongly disposed to act
upon.
But a week must elapse before he could be put in possession of her
decision. No doubt an embarrassing, but not a novel one, and therefore
one which he must be prepared to endure.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
*"TWICE BLESSED."*
"A maiden never bold;
Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush'd at herself."--_Othello_, Act I. sc. iii.
Four days after his interview and confession to Jessie, Fellows received
the letter his mother had written on her return from Broadstone,
acquainting him with all the circumstances attending that interview, and
of her surprise at learning that they were already in possession of all
the facts connected with his escape, as well as the knowledge of where
he was at present to be found.
Who could have been the writer of the letter sent to the firm he was
entirely at a loss to conjecture. The facts of his life had been
revealed to no one but Ranger until Sunday last, when he had taken
Jessie into his confidence.
He could not bring himself to believe in the possibility of Ranger
having betrayed the trust he had been led to repose in him. He would
see Ranger at once and hear what light he could throw upon what seemed
so mysterious.
On acquainting him with the intelligence received from home, he
expressed astonishment in no measured language, for he did not fail to
perceive the suspicion which would naturally arise in Fellows' mind,
that, in some way or other, it was due to him the information had leaked
out, so as to enable it to be conveyed to Broadstone.
It was hardly necessary for him to assure Fellows that no word had been
breathed to a soul of what had been told him. The man honestly believed
him. There was, however, still the fact to be explained--how had it
become known?
The only possible solution seemed to be that someone must have overheard
their conversation, but who that someone could be they were unable to
form any conception.
Another circumstance stated in Mrs. Sinclair's letter, calculated to
give rise to uneasiness, was that an agent in Quebec had been instructed
to make inquiry concerning the facts which the writer of the letter had
professed to reveal. Through what channels was that inquiry likely to
be made? Someone would probably be deputed to do this on the spot.
It at once occurred to Fellows that "Puffey's" recent visit was
associated with that quest.
It explained, too, the man's apparent anxiety that he should become a
candidate for admission to the ranks of the police, as without some such
plausible excuse he could not have questioned him in the way he did.
On that assumption, his past career was already known to the police.
And whatever the decision of the firm might ultimately be, he would in
all probability be shadowed by them until it was made known.
They would not yet be able to prevent him leaving the country, if he was
so disposed; but his progress from place to place would no doubt be
noted, so that, in the event of being eventually wanted, they would know
where they could place their hands upon him. How to act, or what to do
under the circumstances, he felt at some loss to decide.
Sunday was again close at hand, when he had arranged to meet Jessie, in
order to learn her decision, which was to determine his future.
He would await that interview, and at the same time acquaint her with
this new factor, so suddenly and unexpectedly imported into his life.
Meanwhile, how had it fared with Charles Barton since the day he had
written and posted the letter which had set in motion the causes that
had given rise to all this uneasy feeling?
He could not account for having received no reply to the letter he had
sent. That it would have been acknowledged was the least he expected.
That this had not been done was at once a surprise, and a cause of
anxiety as to what it might ultimately lead to, which laid a
considerable tax upon his nervous powers, never remarkable for their
strength.
In his associations with the men on the farm, his disposition and
manners had always presented a marked contrast to those which his elder
brother displayed. Whilst James was genial, candid, open, and free,
ready at conversation, and willing to join the rest of the men in any
little arrangement for the general good, or an evening's amusement,
Charles was gloomy, taciturn, and close. He held himself aloof from the
rest, as though he thought himself a superior, and was never known to
take part in any amusement such as was occasionally indulged in. And it
had not failed to be noted, and commented upon, that of late these
habits had become even more marked than they were at the first.
His brother would frequently rally him, when they were alone together,
as to the cause of his misanthropical behaviour, without effect; nor,
however lively he might be himself, nor whatever humour he was able to
impart to the topics of conversation introduced, it was rare that he
succeeded in creating anything beyond the ghost of a smile, or drawing
out more than some monosyllabic reply.
James, with that easy, good-natured disposition which was characteristic
of the man, attributed much of this to his habits as a boy, which
manhood had only served to develop; to the death of their father, the
break-up of the home, and the disappointment which, up to the present,
had attended all the glowing visions they had formed of the fortune to
be won in the Land of Gold.
Charles had kept as observant an eye as it was possible to do, without
exciting unnecessary attention, on the movements of Jessie Russell, but
had been unable to discover anything to cause him further uneasiness
with regard to the apparent progress of Fellows' suit.
He had been hoping, too, that the result of his letter to England might
be to cause the removal of his rival altogether from the present scene
of his influence; and this had induced him to refrain from seeking that
interview with Jessie which he was so anxious to bring about, until, as
he regarded it, the coast was clear for the unimpeded prosecution of his
designs.
In the event of that reply being much longer delayed, and no action
apparent, he felt that it would not be wise to delay his intended
interview indefinitely.
Happening one evening to be in the neighbourhood of her dwelling, he
decided to extend his ramble, on the chance that he might meet with her.
She was seated on a bench at the door, busily plying her needle, mending
a jacket belonging to her father. "Good evening, Miss Russell," he
exclaimed a little nervously, as he advanced with some trepidation to
where she was seated. "Is your father at home?"
"He has not returned from the field yet," she replied. "Do you want to
see him?"
"No--that is--not particularly," he replied, with a confused look. Then
suddenly, as if recollecting himself, he added, "I have been thinking,
my dear Miss Russell, how much happier I should be with a good wife to
look after me, and care for all my wants; and I have seen no woman I
should so much like to make my wife as--you! And what I want to ask is,
whether you are willing to accept me for a husband? I am a plain man,
with very little polish on me, and know very little of the arts by which
a girl's love is usually won; but if you will consent to be my wife, I
think I can promise to make you a good husband, and I don't think you
will ever have any cause to regret it."
Rough and ill-considered as such a proposal may seem to have been, when
presented in so plain and unadorned a manner, it was given utterance to
in a speech longer than ever he had been known to indulge in, and there
was an apparent ring of honesty and truthfulness about it which,
notwithstanding all its deficiencies, struck Jessie as being real.
Therefore, although her feeling for the man was one of repulsion, which
somehow she was unable to overcome, she repressed the strong impulse
which at first manifested itself, to laugh at him, and ridicule the
idea, by quietly, but firmly, replying that under no circumstances could
she be induced to entertain the idea for a moment.
"May I ask why?" stammered out Charles.
"Well," she replied, "I have no present desire to get married."
"Don't you like me well enough?" he asked.
"Not well enough to marry you," was her prompt and candid reply.
"Perhaps you like someone better?" he added.
"And if I did, would there be anything very surprising in that?" she
replied.
"No," he managed to get out after a pause; adding, "especially if it is
the one I imagine it is."
"I don't see what right you have to imagine anything at all about it,"
was Jessie's spirited reply.
"The right is that which belongs to every man or woman to warn another
of a danger."
"I don't understand you, sir."
"If you are thinking of the man I suppose you are----"
"Sir!" she exclaimed with some vehemence, interrupting him, "your
language is insulting, and if my father were here you would not dare
address me in the manner you are doing."
"At the risk of what you may think of it, I will still say," he went on,
"that the man I refer to is a worthless, dishonest scoundrel, not fit to
be the companion of any honest woman."
"I know nothing about the person, nor who it is you are referring to,
nor do I wish to know; but this you may as well know, that I am quite
capable of defending my own honour as to the company I may be disposed
to keep, and any defence I may require beyond that my father is able and
ready to afford me. Good evening, sir!" saying which, she rose, entered
the house, and, closing the door, left Barton much chagrined at the
reception he had received, and the complete failure of his fondly
cherished scheme.
* * * * *
As soon as dinner was over at the homestead, Sunday saw Fellows eagerly
wending his way to the place at which he had appointed to meet Jessie a
week ago.
It was late in September,--harvesting was over generally through the
entire length of the great North-West,--but the glory of the summer had
not yet departed. The air was dry and invigorating, and not without its
effect upon Fellows, which, coupled with the object he had in view,
imparted a buoyancy to his spirits he had for days past been a stranger
to, and gave an elasticity to his step which enabled him to accomplish
his short journey in a much briefer space of time than he had reckoned
upon.
He was first at the trysting-place, but he had not been long in waiting
when he saw Jessie coming down the trail, a picture of sunny beauty,
which the eye of the beholder could rest upon without any feeling of
weariness.
Advancing at once to meet her, and noting with satisfaction the
good-tempered and winsome smile pervading her rosy cheeks, he augured a
favourable response to his suit.
Unable to restrain his impatience, he seized both her hands, exclaiming,
"Dearest Jessie! am I right in concluding from your manner towards me,
that you do not bring an unfavourable reply?"
"You are presuming, I think, sir," she answered, half averting her head,
and shaking her shoulders as she did so.
"Don't say that, dear," he replied.
"What would you have me say then?" she retorted, with an arch twinkle in
her eye.
"Say?" he exclaimed eagerly; "why, say that you will be mine, and make
me the happiest man existing!"
"Heigh-ho! well, if wilful man must have his own way, I suppose I had
better repeat my lesson according to your dictation."
"Oh, you dear, delightful treasure of a woman!" he murmured, as he
folded her unresisting form in his strong arms, and kissed her
passionately.
After a few moments spent in silent contemplation--moments too sacred
for words--Fellows said, "And you do this, Jessie, knowing full well all
I am and have been?"
"Yes, Ralph," she replied, looking him fully in the face, with an
expression of calm trustfulness and confidence beaming in her large grey
eyes.
"Did you tell your father--all?" he asked.
"That you may rest assured I did," was her reply.
"What did he say when he heard of my disgraceful conduct?"
"Naturally he was very sorry to hear it; at the same time he said he
thought that a man's past ought not to be regarded as a perpetual
barrier to his future upward progress."
"Your father is a kind-hearted man, and I esteem him for his charitable
views."
"That's what poor dear mother used to say," she replied.
"Then he had no objection to urge against me?"
"None!" she added; "he gave me his full consent to do whatever my own
heart dictated as right."
"God bless you, Jessie! The aim of my life shall be that you may never
have a moment's pang of regret for the choice you have this day made."
"Had I feared that, I would never have given you the answer I have," was
her confident reply.
Much of the conversation which followed was of that tender and
confidential nature, so manifestly not intended for the too inquisitive
public ear, that we refrain from repeating it, leaving it to the
imagination of the more experienced to supply many of the missing links.
Before separating, he told her of the letter received from home, which
had given him so great a surprise, and how much he was at a loss to
conceive who could have been the spy and informer.
"Oh!" exclaimed Jessie, as she gave a start.
"What is the matter, dear?" exclaimed Fellows.
"Only a thought that flashed across my mind at what you were saying."
"Tell me, dearest, what it is?"
"It is a matter of such trivial importance, and one which I regarded as
so personal to myself, that I should not have said anything about it but
for the fact you have just mentioned."
"You need not hesitate, Jessie, to tell me anything, as whatever
concerns you will not be regarded as trivial by me."
"Well then," she replied, with downcast eyes, "I had a visit this week
from Mr. Barton; and I suppose you'll never guess the object of that
visit?"
"Which one?" he inquired.
"Charles," she replied.
"Then I'll not try guessing, dear, since it is so difficult, but leave
you to tell me."
"Well then, without repeating all he said, as no doubt I should fail to
do him justice, he told me very bluntly that he wanted a wife, and asked
me to consent to have him for a husband. Of course, as you may well
imagine, I declined that honour. He did not take my reply kindly, at
which I was not altogether surprised, as I suppose no man, if he is in
earnest (and I have no reason to doubt but that he was), would be likely
to do. But after questioning and cross-examining me as to who I was
preferring before him, he concluded that he thought he knew who the
person was. It was then he said----"
Jessie paused, evidently reluctant to proceed.
"What did he say?" inquired Fellows eagerly.
"I don't feel as if I can tell you," she replied.
"Don't hesitate, dear," he said encouragingly.
"He never mentioned your name, but I felt all the time he was referring
to you."
"Never mind, darling, you have gone too far now not to tell me all."
"Well, he said the man he referred to was a worthless, dishonest
scoundrel, not fit to be the companion of any honest woman."
"And you had sufficient confidence in me not to be influenced by that
statement?"
"Can you doubt it," she replied, "after what has passed to-day?"
"Not for one moment, dearest," he hastened to reply.
"You will easily see my reason for not intending to tell you this."
"I do, Jessie; and honour you, my love, all the more for your
consideration."
"But the thought that flashed into my mind, when you told me of how your
secret had somehow got known, was, could Barton in any way have become
the possessor of that information, and in a fit of jealousy written the
letter to England?"
"Such a thing may have been possible, but I scarcely like to regard it
as probable," was Fellows' candid rejoinder.
Presently he added, "But say nothing about this to anyone, Jessie, at
present, as it is a circumstance which will bear thinking about, and I
will turn it over in my mind and see what is to be made out of it."
And with this understanding they parted.
*CHAPTER XXV.*
*THE BROADSTONE DECISION.*
"Let's make the best of it."--_Coriolanus_, Act V. sc. v.
Nearly two months had elapsed since the date when the agents in Quebec
were instructed to make certain inquiries on behalf of Messrs. Quinion
of Broadstone, when one morning, according to appointment, their
solicitors called and were shown into the private offices of the firm.
The solicitors were present, in the person of a dapper little
bald-headed man of about fifty, wearing coloured glasses which concealed
a pair of restless grey eyes, that allowed nothing to escape their
observation.
Laying his hat upon a chair, he took from a small valise he was carrying
a bulky-looking document tied with the inevitable piece of red tape,
which he declared was the report of their agent, come to hand the day
preceding. After carefully untying and spreading the folio sheets in
front of him, he, at the bidding of the two partners, who were seated at
the table facing him, commenced to read their contents.
Divested of the legal phraseology in which they were cast, and omitting
the redundancy of expression so dear to the man of law, yet so
bewildering to the average man of common-sense, the purport of what he
read was to the effect--
That the inquiry having been intrusted to the local police, they had
placed the matter in the hands of one of the most trusted and skilful
members of the force, who, from inquiries made on the spot, and
information received through a variety of sources, was now fully able to
confirm the statements made in the letter received from their
correspondent.
The motive prompting that letter, so far as the agent had been able to
learn, was one of jealousy, the two men, Barton, and Fellows otherwise
Sinclair, appearing to be rivals for the possession of a certain young
woman employed on the same farm. And it was conjectured that Barton
hoped, through the law being set in motion, to accomplish the arrest of
Fellows, so that by his removal from Canada and the scene of his present
influence the other might be left in unimpeded possession of the ground,
to be able to press his suit with the greater probability of success.
"That, gentlemen, is our report; and it shows, I think," said the
lawyer, "that we have done our best to get all the information for you
that was possible."
"Quite so," nervously responded the elder of the two men, who never
spoke without conveying the impression that, whilst desirous of making
his presence felt, he was terribly apprehensive lest he should say
anything which might be construed in a sense other than was intended.
"But," added Mr. E. Quinion in a rough, hard, and curt tone, "beyond
generally confirming what the letter told us, it adds very little to our
knowledge."
"No," replied the elder of the two men. "Perhaps not, perhaps not. It
at least gives a motive for that letter."
"Which, after all," said the other, "is not of so much importance to
us."
"Well, that I am not so sure about; the motive is, or seems to be so to
me, a most unworthy one, which, if possible, we should do our utmost to
discourage."
"Suppose we drop this consideration for the present," said the younger
man, "and consider what are perhaps the more important features of the
case. Sinclair, in the first place, betrays the trust we had reposed in
him, through the influence of the company he got into,--spends money
which he had no right to, and so defrauds the firm of a very large sum.
Being unable, and afraid, to face the consequences, he bolts, but
succeeds in covering his escape by a ruse, which enabled him to take
advantage of an accident occurring in the nick of time, of which he was
prompt to avail himself. He deserves very little consideration from us,
I think."
"All you say is quite true," was the other's reply, "but I don't want to
forget the fact that his father for years held a very responsible and
honourable position in this firm, and died respected by all who knew
him."
"You think, then, that his good deeds should be capable of hiding a
multitude of his son's sins," was the smiling comment of the younger
man.
Taking no apparent notice of the remark, the other continued, "Then
there is his mother,--a lady for whom I have the very highest
esteem,--who has always been regarded as a friend, and is at present in
a rather delicate state of health. I feel much sympathy for her, and
would be disposed to strain a good many points before venturing to do
anything which would add to her grief."
"Yes, I feel that as much as you do," replied the younger man; "but it
must not be forgotten, with every desire to be merciful, we have a duty
which as citizens we owe to the community, and that obligations are
placed upon us by the laws which govern us which cannot always be safely
set aside."
"True; but there is no law which prevents a man forgiving another a
trespass, rather the contrary."
"Nor should we forget what is, after all, a most important consideration
for us," said the other, "the mistaken interpretation which may be given
to any act of leniency on our part, and the impression likely to be
produced by it on those at present in our employ."
"You are quite right there. It certainly is a most important point for
our consideration. But, coming back to the point from which we started,
the motive of the man who has written to us, which is most unworthy, and
one I don't at all like to encourage; that it is a matter which we have
long ago wiped out of our books; for the sake of his dead father's
memory, and of the mother whom we have promised to consider as much as
possible, I am decidedly of opinion we can very well let the transaction
remain as at present, and take no steps to have the man arrested."
"Very well," said the younger man, after a little hesitation. "I'm not
quite sure we are doing our duty, but, on the principle that one ought
always to give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt, as I am in some
little doubt myself, let Sinclair have the benefit of it, and I will
agree with you that nothing further be done."
"That being settled, I think it will be best for you, Mr. Gaze, to have
the briefest possible letter written to Mr. Barton, thanking him for his
communication, the contents of which have been duly noted, but that no
action is contemplated thereon."
The lawyer having taken his leave, a letter was sent to Mrs. Sinclair
acquainting her with the decision at which they had arrived, and
expressing the pleasure they felt at having been able so far to fall in
with her wishes.
When this letter reached Railton Hall, the joy it occasioned none but a
mother in similar circumstances can fully realise.
The transition from fear to hope, and again from hope to despair, had
been terribly trying to a constitution never strong, and already much
enfeebled by the trials it had been called upon to endure.
The tidings which had so unexpectedly reached her, that the son, so long
mourned as dead (under circumstances which seemed to leave no room for
reasonable doubt of its correctness), was still alive, had filled her
with a new-born hope of yet once again looking upon those
well-remembered features,--features which bore the unmistakable image of
her dead husband,--giving rise to ideals and imaginings which the depths
had apparently overwhelmed and shut out from all possibility of
realisation.
But such hopes and such visions had been shattered and dispelled as
quickly as they had arisen by her visit to Broadstone, and the possible
consequences which might result from the intelligence which was there
being awaited from the North-West. Woman-like, she had anticipated the
worst, and had even allowed her dire apprehensions to manifest their
existence in the letter she had written Ralph. She advised--almost
entreated--him to escape from Ranger's whilst there was time, lest the
officers of justice should be set upon his track, before such a course
became impossible.
Once again, however, was hope rekindled in her breast, when the letter
arrived which conveyed the welcome intelligence that the firm had
abandoned all thoughts of having her son arrested.
Again the reaction from the gloom of despair to the joys of hope was
almost more than the poor mother could endure. Scientists tell us that
joy never kills. It may be true. At all events its effects are not
always as salutary as one could desire, and in Mrs. Sinclair's case it
was some time before she could command sufficient strength of will, or
obtain the control of her nervous system, to render her capable of
dictating a letter to Jennie for her brother, to inform him of the
gratifying news.
Her anxiety now was, lest, acting upon the advice given in her previous
letter, he should have put into practice the course she had thought it
so desirable to urge upon him. It was possible a telegram might reach
him in time to arrest his departure; she could scarcely hope to
forestall her letter, which had probably already been received and its
advice acted upon.
Jennie was, however, instructed to lose no time in sending a "wire" to
Ranger's, which ran--"Stay--All right," in the hope that it might
produce the effect desired.
The letter which followed was such as only a mother might be expected
under the circumstances to write, and was filled with anxious inquiries
as to his future intentions.
*CHAPTER XXVI.*
*MARY TRUMAN.*
"... He beheld a vision, and adored the thing he saw."
WORDSWORTH.
Mary Truman, the young woman so suddenly deprived of her only relations
by the unfortunate accident on the railway near to M'Lean Station, and
whose prospects had been so terribly blighted, had not been an idle
spectator at the Ranch of the events which have been transpiring.
With no fixed or clearly defined duties to perform, since her future was
still undecided, she was yet able to find occupation in the house and
its belongings of a character sufficient to prevent her from having many
idle moments.
Naturally of a cheerful disposition, she was wont to be considered the
embodiment of good humour "in the old house at home."
A pair of laughing blue eyes, a little "tip-tilted" nose, a _petite_
figure, and a mass of rich, wavy auburn hair, added to a saucy
expression of countenance, made up an _ensemble_ that her all too
sensitive, and it may be sensible, cousin had found it impossible to
resist.
Her parents were originally in a small way of business at Exeter, but
having the misfortune to lose her mother some three weeks after her
birth, the father, within a week following the funeral, disappeared, and
nothing had been seen or heard of him since.
His brother, who farmed a few acres of land just outside the city, when
appealed to, at once came forward, and agreed to adopt the little waif
rather than it should be taken charge of by the Union.
When the business was sold, and the debts paid, there remained nearly
one hundred pounds, which the uncle very considerately, and with no
thought of self, caused to be invested for the child.
At the age of ten the aunt died, after a lingering illness, and in
process of time, as the years rolled on, little Mary, besides being the
life of the household, became also its presiding deity, and the ruler of
all the domestic life and arrangements of the place.
When, therefore, the lease of John Truman's holding expired, and it
became a necessity to seek another dwelling, they determined to try
their fortunes in the Far West, and of course it was inevitable that
Mary should form one of the party.
She felt her physical strength was rapidly returning. The pure dry
air,--so notable a feature of the Dominion,--the sunshiny days, and the
abundant opportunities for out-door life, had, combined with rare
constitutional endowments, contributed in no ordinary degree to that
recovery which was every day becoming more manifest.
With the restoration to health there was a corresponding improvement in
spirits, as the buoyancy and elasticity of youth asserted their
influence, and she began to throw off much of that gloom and depression,
so unnatural to the young, and quite foreign to Mary's nature, but which
the tragic events with which the swift current of her life had been so
suddenly arrested sufficiently accounted for.
The elder Barton had not been unmoved, although a silent spectator of
the change that was taking place.
He had witnessed, with a daily increasing interest, her growing health;
but it was with even more satisfaction that he marked the improvement in
her spirits, as it indicated the arrival of that period when, with some
degree of assurance, he might hope to be able to express to her in words
the feelings which he had allowed himself to cherish towards her.
Life at the Ranch was uneventful as a rule, and comparatively lonely.
Visitors were rare, and the settlers, with their own people, were thrown
much together, not only during the hours of labour, but for that
companionship which human nature naturally looks for.
The frequent opportunities which such occasions offered for little
delicate attentions, kind inquiries, and the like, John was not slow in
taking advantage of, nor in noting their effect.
The encouragement which such attentions received was not much; nor could
it be regarded as a very safe foundation on which to build hope for the
future, yet he did not feel altogether without warrant for so doing.
So when, one evening after the work of the day was over, as the twilight
was deepening, and Mary was standing at the entrance to the dairy,
watching the stars as they one by one made themselves visible, Barton's
approach was all unnoticed until he was close upon her.
"What, star-gazing, my lass?" he exclaimed.
"Well, what if I was, Mr. Impudence," she retorted.
"Oh, nothing," he replied, somewhat at a loss what to say.
"It's a lovely night for star-gazing, as you call it," she added, with a
little less asperity in her tones, as if to make amends for the
sharpness of her previous retort.
"Haven't seen many better," replied Barton.
"You'd scarcely guess how my thought was then running?"
"If you tell me, I shall know without the trouble."
"I was back in my childhood, and thinking of that sweet little couplet
auntie used to repeat so often--
'Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.'"
"I am sorry that I so rudely broke in upon your reflections. I always
turn to the memory of my childhood's happy days with pleasure and
satisfaction."
"Bless me, how extremely sentimental we are getting! But I must be
going----"
"Stay a moment, Mary, I would like to have a word or two with you, if
you can spare a few moments?"
"What impudence, sir!"
"In what way, may I ask?"
"Since when, and by what right, have you taken to address me by my
Christian name?" she inquired, with a good-humoured smile.
"It was a liberty, I must confess, but one which I hope my explanation
will lead you to pardon."
"Well, if it's going to take long I am afraid I shall not be able to
stop and listen."
"I daresay I can manage it in a few words, although it's a subject I
have had no previous experience of. Until I saw you, Mary,--for so I
must call you until forbidden to do so,--I never set eyes upon the woman
I could say I truly loved. But, from the day you first made your
appearance amongst us, the feeling has been growing, until I now fully
realise you are that other half I need to make my life complete."
"What a very pretty speech. I suppose I ought to feel flattered. For a
novice--professing no experience--I think I may say you have
accomplished the task charmingly," was Mary's laughing reply.
"Be serious, Mary, there's a dear girl; for it's a serious matter to
me."
"Oh well, Mr. Longface, then I'll try. To speak candidly, I've not
thought about the matter, and don't want to. So there, you have an
answer."
"But not a final answer, I hope?" he added.
"Yes; why not?" she naively asked.
"I'd rather you'd say you'll think it over, if what I have said has
caused you surprise."
"Surprise? I should think it has! Do you suppose for a moment I was
waiting for you to come and tell me what you have?"
"No, Mary," he replied, feeling a little abashed at the thought that he
had committed himself by his answer.
"Well then, sir, you had better be content with the answer I have
given."
"If you give me credit for sincerity, do you think it possible I can be
content with such a reply?" he asked, gazing steadfastly into her
half-averted eyes, at the same time attempting to take her hand.
"You are too forward, sir," she exclaimed, as she snatched her hand
away.
"Well, take time to think about it, Mary; only give me some little
hope.",
"As you please, sir, for I must be going."
"When may I come for my answer--to-morrow?
"Oh, la, no!" she replied; "I shall not be able to make up my mind in
that time--that is, if you want a different reply to the one I've
given?"
"A week then?" he asked.
"Dear me, how pressing you are! Say a month," she added.
"Don't be so cruel, Mary," he pleaded. "Surely a week is long enough?"
"Well, I'll try what can be done in a week. But mind, I make no
promise."
"Good-night, my love! God bless you, and bring you to a right
decision," was his reply, as she disappeared into the house.
The stars were twinkling overhead as he made his way to his little
shanty, feeling he scarcely knew how, yet strongly tempted to believe
that behind the affected gaiety and levity which had been displayed
throughout his interview, there was flowing an under-current which might
possibly bring him to the haven of his hopes.
*CHAPTER XXVII.*
*BRIGHTENED HOPES.*
"Enough, if something from our hands hath power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour."
WORDSWORTH.
When the telegram arrived, which Mrs. Sinclair had sent in the hope that
it might be in time to stay her son from hasty action, there was much
rejoicing at the Ranch by all concerned. A load of care and anxiety
seemed at once to be lifted, and the course which Fellows had announced
his intention of pursuing felt to be fully justified.
All obstacles to future movements being thus removed, it remained to be
determined what those movements should be.
If the telegram from his mother conveyed the meaning which he hoped it
did, then the way was open for his return to England without any fear of
the consequences which might have been expected to attend his so doing.
But what were the prospects which returning held out to him? He had
lost his reputation. Under the most favourable conditions he could
never expect to be able again to show his face at Broadstone. To be a
burden on his doting mother for the remainder of her life was not to be
thought of.
He had not been long enough with Ranger to enable him to add much to the
little he brought with him on his arrival. Then, added to these
reasons, there was the thought of Jessie,--a new factor which had now
entered into his life since his arrival at the Ranch, and one which he
was not prepared under any circumstances to ignore.
He was willing to be guided by the next letter from home, which the
telegram was intended to prepare him for; but in any event he saw, or
thought he saw, that it was clearly his best course to stay where he
was, and as soon as possible procure a homestead of his own.
Later in the day, when discussing the matter with Ranger, the farmer
could not help admitting that it seemed about the only possible thing
for him to do.
"And I suppose," said the farmer, "you'll be wanting to make a home of
your own as soon as you can, to take Jessie to--eh?"
"That is my next ambition," he replied.
"And a proper one too," was Ranger's rejoinder. "We must see what can be
done to get you one."
"Thank you," replied Fellows, "but it need not be hurried over."
"That may be, but if an opportunity offers no time should be lost, as
they are soon snapped up."
"Inquiry can be made of the agent when you are next in town to learn
what he has on hand."
"I saw to-day, when I was at M'Lean, a holding was for sale which would
be likely to fit very well."
"Where was it?" asked Fellows.
"Close to Kinbrae, about eight miles from the Crescent Lake."
"Did you take notice of the particulars concerning it?" said Fellows.
"No, I did not; except that the owner is returning to the Old Country,
and wants to sell."
"Well, it might be worth while to inquire about it."
"Yes, I'll do so," replied Ranger.
When the work of the day was over, Fellows lost no time in visiting
Jessie at her father's shanty to acquaint her with the receipt of his
telegram, in order to relieve her of all fears with regard to the
possibility of his being arrested.
The way in which this was likely to affect his future was a question
very naturally presenting itself.
"I suppose you will want to return home?" she asked, with just a
suspicion of anxiety in her voice.
"No, I think not, Jessie."
"But if your mother desires it?"
"I shall wait and see what she says, but I don't think it will make much
difference."