"For two reasons, Jessie," he added. "First, there's your dear little
self, whom I could not think of leaving even for mother, much as I
should like to see her; then, if I returned I do not know what I should
do; and as I have no desire to be a burden to those at home, I have very
nearly decided to stay where I am at present."
Not quite knowing how to reply, or what argument to urge against two
such weighty reasons, Jessie, as most sensible women would have done
under like circumstances, held her tongue without venturing to look up.
Fellows was first to break the silence by saying, "Ranger, who has been
more like a father to me than a master, is going to inquire about a
homestead, and should the one in view be suitable in every way, I hope
soon to be the possessor of a home, to which I shall ask you to
accompany me, Jessie."
"But what about father, Ralph? Have you thought of him?"
"Yes, Jess, I have; and my idea is, if he and you are willing, that he
should form one of our party,--an arrangement which would give rise to
no separation, and he would be very useful."
The conversation having arrived at this point, the entry of Russell
himself was looked upon as rather opportune than otherwise, as Fellows
at once acquainted him with the subject which was engaging their
attention, adding, "Supposing the farmer raises no objection to your
going, would you be willing to transfer your services to me and take the
management of my farm?"
"Well," he replied, "your proposal is a bit sudden, and I scarcely know
what to say about it; but I suppose you don't want a reply at once?"
"Oh no, for I haven't got the farm yet! You had better think about it."
"I'll promise to do that."
"You are perhaps aware that I have very little knowledge of farming
beyond what I have picked up during the short time I have been with
Ranger, and therefore I shall be obliged to have someone to help me."
"All right, Fellows. So far as I can see at present, I may as well be
with you as any other man; more especially as Jess and I will still be
near each other."
*CHAPTER XXVIII.*
*CHARLES BARTON.*
"... While thou art one with me,
I seem no longer like a lonely man."--TENNYSON.
Although the autumn was rapidly advancing, and the foliage was fast
fleeing from the trees, which lifted sparsely-leaved branches to the
Chinook winds which came blowing in fresh from the Pacific, the days
were not yet cold.
The Canadians consider autumn the finest season of the year, for then
the air is bracing and free from moisture, often for weeks at a time.
But the nights are cold,--even in summer they are cool,--so that fires
are an early necessity for comfort.
The day of Ranger's visit to M'Lean Station had been singularly fine and
sunny, but as the sun went down the wind began to rise, and the air felt
cold and chill.
The hardy, stalwart frame of Ranger, however, was not only
weather-beaten, but seemed as if it was weather-proof, so that
disregarding Mrs. Ranger's cosy-looking fireside, which might have been
considered invitingly tempting to a tired man when the work of the day
was over, as soon as the usual evening meal was finished he rose, and,
buttoning his jacket, announced his intention of going over to Bartons'
cabin to have a talk with Charles.
A ten minutes' walk along a devious track brought him near to a little
stream, fed from one of the neighbouring hills, beside which the shanty
had been pitched.
The Bartons were at home, as a matter of course, there being nothing and
nobody to attract them out in such a place after dark.
The elder Barton was engaged reading the immortal allegory of John
Bunyan, with which he seemed deeply interested; Charles was quite as
much interested, studying a report of some late doings in the Klondyke.
Ranger's entry was a great surprise to both men. They had never before
known him to pay a visit, and at such an hour; it was therefore with
unfeigned concern they inquired if anything was the matter.
Avoiding a direct answer to the question, he told them, as he seated
himself, "I wanted to have a talk with Charles, and I thought we could
get on better now than out in the fields by day."
"Your appearance took us so by surprise," replied John, "that----"
"Oh yes, I quite understand," said Ranger. "Well, to shorten matters as
much as possible, I have come to ask Charles what made him write that
letter to England about Fellows, which he did some weeks ago?"
"What letter?" he asked, turning a fierce look upon the farmer.
"You know the letter I mean well enough."
"No, I don't," he replied, as his eyes fell beneath the steady gaze of
Ranger.
"Do you mean to say you did not write to the firm of Quinion, at
Broadstone in England, telling them that Fellows was here if they wanted
him?"
"How could I do that, when I don't know anything about him?"
"Don't question me, but look straight in my face and say, if you can, 'I
did not write it.'"
"I don't know what right you have to talk to me in this manner, Mr.
Ranger."
"You are only trying to evade my question, that you know well."
"I can only say, I don't know what you are talking about."
"Then it would be very easy for you to say, 'I never wrote such a
letter,' if you did not."
"I don't recognise your right to ask me such a question, and therefore I
don't choose to answer."
Ranger felt he was getting roused by the man's prevaricating manner and
his attempt at bounce,--for it appeared to him to be nothing else,--but
by a strong effort he managed to control himself sufficiently to say--
"Will you tell me whether you have written a letter to Quinion,
Broadstone, any time within the last six weeks?"
After waiting a few seconds for the reply which Charles--who sat with
his eyes intently gazing into the fire--did not attempt to give, John
chimed in with, "Why not say at once, Charles, if you know anything
about the matter?"
"I have," he exclaimed after a pause; but the tone in which this was
uttered was not one calculated to carry conviction with it.
"You darn'd skunk!" shouted the farmer in wrathful tones; "so you refuse
to reply, do you?"
"I refuse to give you any other reply than what you have got."
"Then take this from me," said Ranger, in somewhat softer tones, but yet
with a display of a considerable amount of excitement, "the first thing,
to-morrow morning, you pack, and be off from here as quick as you can,
for I will not allow such a miserable sneaking hound to remain here in
my employ a day longer than I can help."
"You mean it?" said Charles.
"Mean it? I should think I do! Don't you doubt it for one minute," he
added, as he brought his fist down with an impressive thump on the
table, making the jugs standing on it to quiver.
"This is rather sudden, farmer," broke in John. "What's he going to do
when he leaves here?"
"I don't know, and I was going to add, I don't care, but I won't say
that; still, that is for him to decide."
"You have used some strong language to my brother, Mr. Ranger; but what
it's all about I am quite in ignorance of."
"That I quite believe, John," added Ranger in quieter tones; "that's why
I've not included you in anything I've said."
"Can I say or do anything to smooth matters? Tell me what it's all
about."
"Ask that coward, he knows well enough, and perhaps will tell you when
I'm gone."
"But would it not be better for you to tell me yourself?"
"Don't you interfere, Jack," exclaimed Charles, "as after what that
blackguard----"
"Repeat that word, you cur," shouted the farmer angrily, as he advanced
upon Charles, "and I'll shake the life out of you! Repeat it, I say, if
you dare!"
"I was about to say, when I was stopped, that I should not think of
staying now under any circumstances."
"No fear that such a sneak as you have shown yourself to be would be
asked."
"I think," broke in John, "it would be as well, Mr. Ranger, if you were
now to give me some idea what it all means."
"Well, I'll tell you, John. About two months ago I had a private
conversation with Fellows, as we were one evening seated outside the
homestead. He and I were supposed to be the only two persons present;
but there was another listening, concealed in the bushes, who not only
overheard all that was said, but sent a report of our conversation at
once to Mr. Quinion, at Broadstone in England."
"How have you learned this?" asked John.
"From Fellows' mother; who upon calling at Broadstone, by her son's
request, to acquaint them with incidents known only to myself and him,
was surprised to find they were already in possession of the information
she had come to bring them."
"Did they say how they had obtained their information?"
"From a correspondent in Canada, who desired that his name might not be
made known."
"Well, farmer, how do you fix my brother with the writing of that
letter?"
"That's my matter," replied Ranger. "You ask that pale-faced hound over
there, and let him deny doing so, if he can, without prevaricating."
It must be admitted that Ranger was playing "high." He was by no means
certain of the ground he had taken up. But, feeling pretty confident in
his own mind that the knowledge which had escaped had been obtained by
Charles, in the manner indicated, he was determined to see if the fellow
could be "bluffed" into an admission of his guilt.
Up to the present the attempt had not proved successful, although from
the man's manner, and the assumption of indignation, which sat very ill
upon him, and which the shrewd farmer thought he could see through, he
felt more than ever confirmed in his opinion that the man was guilty.
After Ranger had left, the two men sat silent for some time, smoking,
and occupied with their own thoughts.
John felt the position was an awkward one. His brother had been
practically dismissed. Where was he to go? What could he do to avert
it? He knew his brother's ways too well, and was conscious that it
would be no easy task to manage him. But time was pressing, and it was
of the utmost importance that whatever was decided upon should be
promptly and vigorously carried out.
The silence, which was becoming painful, was at length broken by John,
who, laying down his pipe, and turning to his brother, said, "This is a
rather unpleasant wind-up to our expectations, Charley?"
Receiving no reply from Charles, who sat moodily gazing into the fire,
he continued, "We've been together now ever since we were babies, and
although there will come a time when we must be separated, it does seem
a pity that out here it should have to take place in such a manner."
"Well, who's to blame?" asked Charles savagely.
"You heard what Ranger said?"
"And of course you believe him?"
"I don't say that I do. I want to hear your version of his story."
"You heard what I said also?"
"That amounted to nothing. You had better have told him you had not
written the letter."
"Why should I? What right had he to ask such a question?"
"It would have been so easy, and would have no doubt put an end to the
matter."
"Don't you believe it. That man had come with his mind made up, and any
denials on my part would have been of no avail."
"It would have put him to the proof of his statement, at all events; and
we should have known better the value to attach to it."
After a short pause, John added, "Well, Charley, I am sorry to be
obliged to confess it, but from the way in which you avoid the question,
I am beginning to be of the opinion there must be some truth in Ranger's
charge. Tell me candidly, did you write that letter?"
"Don't you bother your head about what you have nothing to do with."
"It _is_ something I have to do with. You are my brother, and we are
the only remaining members of a once united and happy family. Anything
that affects your honour or happiness equally affects mine, and I hope
you feel the same towards myself. If we are to be separated,--as seems
very probable,--don't let it be in anger. If you will give me the
assurance that Ranger is mistaken, and that you did not write the
letter, I'll believe you."
"It's a question that neither you nor Ranger have any right to ask. I
shall give no further answer. You may both think what you like, and do
as you like. I shall answer no more questions."
Rising abruptly, as if to put an end to what was clearly an unpleasant
topic of conversation, he retired to his room, leaving John to ruminate
alone upon the difficulties which lay before him.
*CHAPTER XXIX.*
*TO FRESH FIELDS.*
"All about him shadows still."--TENNYSON.
The Bartons were early on the move the next morning, and Charles was
soon busily engaged arranging and packing, ready for departure.
"Then you mean to go, Charley?" asked John, anxious to say something.
"Of course I mean to go! Didn't Ranger tell me to?"
"I know that; but I thought you might have made up your mind, after
sleeping upon the subject, to go and explain matters and put things
straight."
"Not likely, John! I wouldn't stay here now if he was to ask me."
"I'm very sorry to hear it, for you may travel a long way before meeting
with another man who will be as kind and considerate of his men as
Ranger is."
"I don't feel that I have much to thank him for."
"Ah, you are prejudiced at present."
"I don't think so,--I speak as I feel."
"Yes, yes! But, mark my words, you'll make a different statement before
long."
"We shall see!" Then, after a pause, he asked, "I suppose, John, you
will be able to drive me and my luggage over to M'Lean Station?"
"I don't suppose there will be much difficulty about that,--we are not
busy now. But where do you think of going?"
"I shall go for Maple Creek first. There I shall make inquiries, and
have a good look round. If I can't find anything there, I shall go on
to Calgary, which is a busy city, where I think I am pretty sure to
succeed."
"Yes, I should think it about as good an arrangement as you could make."
"I am only sorry, John, you are not going with me; I should have been
glad for us to have continued together."
"So am I, Charley. You can't tell how I feel your going."
"Well, it is not too late now, if you have a mind to make one with me.
I should be very glad if you would, John."
It was the first time he had appeared to evince any feeling at the
prospect of parting, and it moved his brother deeply. But his reply was
calmly and unhesitatingly given--
"It's no use, my boy; however much I might have liked to, it's too late
now!"
"What do you mean by too late?"
"I was on the point of letting you into a secret last night, when Ranger
came, and then the 'rumpus' with him upset all my little plan."
"What was it?" inquired Charles, with some astonishment.
"Why, nothing more nor less than that I am going to get married, as soon
as I can properly fix up matters."
"Never! Who are you going to marry?"
"I am only waiting for Mary Truman's answer, which she has promised in
about another week."
"Then it is not yet settled?"
"No, not quite," he replied rather solemnly.
"Well, you know 'there's many a slip'----"
"Yes, I am aware of all that, but I don't anticipate one here."
"But if she does--shall you stay on?"
"No, not I!"
"In that case you could then come on and join me, so I'll take care to
let you have my address. But there, John, I hope you'll be more
successful than I have been."
"You don't mean to say that you have already proposed and been refused
by Mary?" asked John anxiously.
"No, no! not by her, but Jessie Russell."
"Oh, she's going to have Fellows! Didn't you know that?"
"I did not know it, but I thought so," he replied, as a fierce light
gleamed in his eyes.
"You've kept your little affair very quiet," was John's sly rejoinder.
"It's not a pleasant experience to talk about," he added. "It makes,
however, another reason why I am not sorry at having to leave the
place."
"I'm sorry for you, Charley, my boy; but I think she'll get a good
husband in Fellows."
"I'm not so sure about that. My advice to you is, be careful about
him."
"Why! what do you mean?"
"He's a man I should trust only as far as I could see him."
"Know anything against him?"
"Don't ask me any more questions."
The subject was dropped, and Charles went on with his packing, whilst
John went over to the Ranch to acquaint the farmer with his intention of
driving Charles to town.
There was no difficulty in arranging this, and Ranger having paid him
the wages due to Charles, together with a month's salary in lieu of
notice, in order that he might have something to go on with, he returned
and prepared for the journey before him.
After spending about a week at Maple Creek,--a small but flourishing
township, contiguous to the Crane Lake, from whence a distant view of
the Cypress Hills in the South may be obtained,--and finding nothing
offering to suit him, Charles Barton determined to proceed on to
Calgary, which lies about seventy miles east of the "Rockies."
Calgary is laid out at the juncture of two rivers,--the Bow and the
Elbow,--and is a busy trade centre for nearly all the ranching districts
of Southern Alberta; and as the Calgary and Edmonton branches unite here
with the main line of the Canadian Pacific Railway, it is rapidly
becoming a large and important emporium for the trade of the North-West
Provinces. Its edifices and public buildings are sound and substantial;
whilst its churches, hotels, stores, and factories, give ample evidence
of the successful nature of its business prospects. It has a population
exceeding four thousand people, but the stream of settlers is so
continuous in its direction, and the reputation which this province
enjoys is so good, that it will certainly not be very long before these
figures are largely exceeded.
The second day after his arrival at Calgary, Barton fell in with a
stockman belonging to a large and thriving rancher in the locality, by
whom he was taken in hand, and offered a position at one and a quarter
dollars a day, which was accepted, so that for a time his troubles were
at an end.
Barton's departure from the Ranch--where incidents of importance were
not matters of common occurrence--was scarcely to be classed as a
nine-days' wonder. His morose and taciturn disposition, which had kept
him aloof from his mates, had brought him few friends; they were
acquaintances, and that was all. No one was found regretting him, and
but few missed him. Here and there, the brother was asked, "What's
become of Charles?" but it was more for the sake of John himself than
for the one who had gone. To one who did venture the additional inquiry,
"Where's he gone too?" the reply was, "to Maple Creek or Calgary,
whichever appears most suitable and promising."
John, however, missed him; which after all was but natural.
They were brothers, and had never been separated for a quarter of a
century.
Charles had been but poor company for John, but it is not always the
most talkative that are regarded as the choicest company, and John felt
lonely now he was gone.
When he learned that he was safely and comfortably settled at Calgary,
he was pleased, and after a time became more reconciled to the change;
especially in the contemplation of another change which he hoped soon to
be making himself.
*CHAPTER XXX.*
*KINBRAE.*
"And thou hast also tempted here to rise,
'Mid sheltering pines, this cottage rude and grey."
WORDSWORTH.
With the arrival of the English mail came the expected letter from Mrs.
Sinclair, conveying the welcome news to Fellows, which her telegram had
prepared him for, that the Broadstone firm had decided to take no action
upon the information supplied them about himself.
It also expressed the mother's great desire to see him; but he was urged
to act as his circumstances might suggest. If he decided to come home,
she would see that he did not want; but as her income was limited, she
would not be able to supply him with pocket-money; and unless he saw his
way to obtaining employment in England, it would not be wise to disturb
present arrangements, if they were favourable. In his next letter, he
was to be sure and inform her fully with regard to his position and
prospects.
The decision at which he had practically arrived was only confirmed and
strengthened by the receipt of this letter.
By the same mail the letter which the Broadstone solicitors had been
instructed to send, came addressed to Charles at the Ranch.
Seeing, by the printed address on the envelope, that it was from a firm
of solicitors at Broadstone, what had been but suspicions before were
now regarded as facts,--that it was Charles who had overheard the
conversation between Ranger and Fellows, and had at once communicated
with Broadstone. There was nothing else that the brother knew of, which
could bring him into correspondence with such a place as Broadstone.
"Look at that," said the farmer, as he handed the letter to John to be
forwarded; "if anything was wanted to confirm the charge I made against
your brother, is not that good proof?"
"It certainly looks like it," replied John, in a disgusted tone.
"Yes; and to play with words, as he did, up to the very last," added
Ranger, "rather than try to undo the mischief he had been aiming at."
"I feel it very sorely, Ranger, he being my own brother; more especially
when I remember that nearly his last words to me were a caution to
beware of Fellows. I am quite at a loss to understand what he could
have been dreaming about."
The letter, when it reached Charles, in no way tended to increase his
happiness. He saw, only when it was too late, what a fool he had been.
He had gained nothing, and had lost a good situation, besides being
separated from a brother for whom he felt a very strong affection,
although he may have had a queer way of showing it.
He would gladly have recalled the act, could he have done so, since it
had involved him in its consequences; but no thought of reparation to
the wronged ever entered his narrow mind.
Fellows--who now felt himself partially, at all events,
re-habilitated--was anxious that the procuring of a home, to which he
might be able to take the woman he was looking forward to making his
wife, should not be delayed.
He had still another object in view. He had resolved, that if his
efforts were attended with success, to invest his savings, in order to
repay the firm the moneys belonging to them, which he had
misappropriated. He had written a very full and penitential letter,
informing them of his intention, and therefore he was desirous that no
time might be lost. Ranger, who was a man of the highest integrity,
commended him for his desire, and promised to aid him in every possible
way.
Two days later, in pursuance of his promise, Ranger took Fellows with
him into town, that together they might learn some particulars of
Kinbrae, which was known to be in the market, and to see what other
holdings were to be had.
Kinbrae was a small settlement some ten or twelve miles south-east of
Crescent Lake, near to the head-waters of a tributary stream flowing
into the Qu'Appelle River, after pursuing a fairly straight course for
about fifty miles.
The holding was one of one hundred and sixty acres, on which a
well-built homestead had been erected, together with most of the
buildings needed for carrying on the work of a farm. The owner, Dennis
Crowley, on the death of his wife, three years previously, had, with his
two sons, young men of eighteen and nineteen respectively, left their
home in County Kerry, Ireland, to try their fortunes in the Far West.
With little experience to guide them, they had just managed to exist
during the three years they had been in possession; and, having
frittered away the small capital they possessed, were now only anxious
to clear out and return, with whatever they might succeed in realising
on the sale of their stock.
In a state of society such as that which prevails amidst the boundless
prairies of the North-West, however favourable the circumstances may
be,--and that they are _most_ favourable there is abundant testimony to
prove,--there are sure to be some who will go to the wall. Like the men
in other stratas of society, who, although they may be placed in
positions of affluence to-day in a little while will be found grovelling
amid scenes of penury and want, they seem to lack the secretive and
acquisitive qualities which the more successful possess, and they fail.
But the fault is never with themselves, it is their misfortune--at
least, so they tell us!
This was Crowley's case, and the reason given for wishing to dispose of
his holding. At the suggestion of Ranger, it was determined to ride
over and view the place, but there was not time to do this at present.
The following week, however, when work was not quite so pressing, and
their services could more readily be dispensed with, a day was selected,
and, making an early start, they reached Kinbrae soon after midday.
The buildings were substantial, commodious, and in fairly good
condition, but the so-called stock was poor in the extreme. The farming
utensils were ill-conditioned and of little value; and the household
furniture, which scarcely included the barest necessities, was rudely
constructed, of the roughest material, and possessed no features of
attractiveness. Three horses, five steers, two dogs, and one cat,
constituted the live stock. About thirty acres had been under
cultivation, but nothing had been done since the late harvest to prepare
the land for the next.
Crowley--who originally had been asking three hundred pounds for the
holding as it stood--was willing now to take almost any offer that would
enable him to get away.
Ranger was well satisfied with the position of the location, and the
prospects it held out, and had no hesitation in advising Fellows to
offer two hundred pounds down, which, after a very little demur, was
accepted, with option of possession within a month.
The farmer was pleased with the future which appeared to be opening for
Fellows, notwithstanding it would be at some considerable sacrifice to
himself.
The services of Barton he could well dispense with, but those of
Fellows, and Russell in addition, would be a serious depletion of his
working staff, which it might be a work of time efficiently to replace.
He, however, felt he had done no more than was his duty. It was the
correct thing to do. And he had no fears that he would come out all
right in the end.
*CHAPTER XXXI.*
*JOHN AND MARY.*
"I will hereupon confess, I am in love."
_Love's Labours Lost_, Act I. sc. ii.
Barton's duties at the Ranch were of such a nature, that he was seldom
to be seen in the neighbourhood of the house during the daytime; for the
most part he was out on the prairie, attending to the cattle, of which
Ranger had now a pretty considerable stock.
Mary Truman's attention was chiefly devoted to the dairy, which of late
had quite outgrown the powers of Mrs. Ranger, and she was only too glad
to avail herself of the assistance which Mary was very willing and quite
competent to render.
The two had but few opportunities of seeing each other; and during the
week which was to elapse, according to arrangement, before the reply he
had asked her for was to be given, they had seen nor heard nothing of
one another.
Mary had learned from Mrs. Ranger of the departure of Charles, and the
circumstances which had brought that event about.
Whatever may have been her feelings for John, she had no sympathy with
Charles, and felt, in common with others, no pang of regret when told he
had gone.
With the exception of his brother, the man seemed to have left not a
friend behind him.
Mary kept herself as much in the house as possible, as though carefully
bent upon putting obstacles in the way of any accidental meeting between
herself and John.
The week, however, was barely out, when the anxious swain, eager to know
his fate, and unwilling to brook delay, made his appearance at the dairy
door, at the close of the day, to inquire if Mary was too busy to see
him.
She herself was nowhere to be seen, but Mrs. Ranger chanced to be
standing at the door, and to her he addressed his inquiry.
[Illustration: MARY WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN, BUT MRS. RANGER CHANCED TO
BE STANDING AT THE DOOR.]
"Mary has just gone upstairs," replied Mrs. Ranger. "Shall I tell her
you want her?"
Barton hesitated for a moment, scarcely knowing what reply to make, till
at last, with a confused smile, he stammered out, "Yes, do please."
Going to the foot of the stairs which led to the rooms above, Mrs.
Ranger called, "Mary! here's John wants to see you. Shall I tell him to
wait?"
"Oh, tell him I can't come at present," was the reply, which was plainly
heard by those in the room below.
"Is he to wait?"
"No; please tell him I can't be bothered to-night."
On her return, John remarked, "I heard what the young lady said, and I
suppose I must be content with that for my answer."
"Is it anything you want, John, that I can do for you?" asked Mrs.
Ranger, with a good-humoured smile.
"No, I think not--at least, I know you can't," he added, quickly
correcting himself.
"Do you care to wait then?" she inquired.
"No; I daresay I shall see her before long,--I should be sorry to bother
her."
Following him to the door, as he was leaving, she whispered, "I think I
can see what's brewing. Now, don't be offended if I offer you a bit of
advice. I have had some experience, and seen a little of life, and have
some knowledge of the ways of my own sex. Don't be too ready to take a
woman at her word. Just remember, she doesn't always mean all she says.
You see what I mean, I think? No offence. Good-night."
It was with very mixed feelings that John returned to his solitary
dwelling. He had considerable confidence in Mrs. Ranger, as a shrewd,
common-sense woman, yet he hesitated to place full reliance upon her
judgment. She no doubt meant well, and spoke as she did with a desire
to reassure him. But he felt sorely puzzled to account for Mary's
unwillingness to see him. Experience he had none; he had learned
nothing in that school. He had but just entered as a pupil, and the
first lesson was now being studied.
Books had been his only tutors, and the few he had read had imparted
theories which opportunity had not enabled him to test.
Men with a wider knowledge, and a deeper insight into the mysteries of
the female mind, could have told him that Mary's unwillingness to see
him, and her brusque--it might even be rude--message, were favourable
rather than unfavourable auguries of what was likely to be the nature of
her reply.
But he had no one he could draw inspiration from. Imagination was
therefore allowed to run riot, and the most unfavourable result
anticipated, rather than the sensible advice of Mrs. Ranger being
allowed to have its way.
Before retiring for the night, he had so far overcome his scruples--or
shall we rather call them doubts?--as to resolve that he would make
another effort on the morrow to see her, and learn the fate that was in
store for him.
When Mary joined the couple in the sitting-room below, some ten to
fifteen minutes later, there was a mischievous gleam in her sparkling
eyes, and slightly nervous but mirthful twitching about the corners of
her pretty lips, which betrayed the humour she had been indulging at the
expense of her love-sick swain.
A broad smile was upon Ranger's face, but his wife, looking up from the
work she had in hand, merely remarked, "Mary, I could not help noticing
how disappointed John seemed with your message."
"Indeed? I don't see why he should be," was Mary's reply, in a tone of
assumed ignorance which was far from deceiving the older couple.
"He said he should be sorry to bother you, but he had no doubt he should
see you before long."
"Will he! Perhaps he may or he may not." Then, after a brief pause,
she asked, as though anxious the subject should not be dropped, "Did he
say what he wanted me for?"
"Not likely, child! Did you imagine he would?"
"I never took the trouble to think. Why should he not? I have no
secrets!"
"Are you sure, Mary?" asked Mrs. Ranger, looking round at her with a
comical kind of questioning glance.
"Oh, dear me, yes!" she replied.
"Well, I think I had very little difficulty in reading John's secret,
which I imagine is not much of a secret to you."
"I suppose, if I cared to take the trouble, I might guess what brought
him here to-night."
"No doubt of it, my dear."
"And I don't know any reason why I should hesitate to tell you. The
fact is," she added, "a week ago he asked me if I would be his wife."
"And what did you tell him?"
"That it was a subject I had not thought about, and did not want to."
"Of course that was all quite true, Mary?"
"I daresay it was," she replied; "at all events, it was as true as most
of the things said under such circumstances are."
"Did the answer satisfy him?"
"Oh, dear no!" she replied, with a laugh. "He wanted a reply in a
week."
"And you promised to give it?"
"No, I did not! I told him if he wanted a different answer to the one I
had given, he must let me have a month to consider it."
"Well, and what then?"
"On his pressing me to be, as he termed it, more reasonable, and to let
him know in a week, I promised that I would try what could be done in
the time."
"And so he came to receive your answer tonight--which you were not
prepared to give. Is that it?"
"My opinion is," answered Mary, "that a woman gains nothing by making
herself too cheap."
"Well, it's a serious matter, my child, and one not to be trifled with,"
Mrs. Ranger added seriously.
"Yes, I know; but really I cannot help laughing when I see what long
faces the men put on if they want to tell a woman they love her."
"Well, that may be because they feel how very serious are the
consequences of such an act."
"Bother the seriousness! I don't believe that enters into their minds.
They are too frequently wondering what sort of figure they will cut if
the woman or girl should happen to say 'No' to them."
"That's not the case with all of them."
"It may not be, but it is with most of them."
"I'm afraid you are rather cynical, Mary."
"Well, I can't help it if I am."
"And I don't think you care much for poor John."
"To tell the downright truth," added Mary, "I don't think I do, either."
"Then, regardless of the man's feelings, don't say yes to him unless you
feel you can love him."
"That's why I want more time," she replied a little more soberly. Then,
after reflecting for a while, she continued, "You know, when I came out
here it was with the intention of marrying my cousin; and but for the
sad accident which befell us, I should in all probability by this time
have been Joe's wife. The change was so sudden, and his loss
comparatively so recent, that really I have scarcely had time to get
over it, and to examine the state of my own feelings thoroughly."
"I can quite believe you, my dear," was Mrs. Ranger's motherly comment.
"Candidly," she went on, "I do not dislike the man, but I cannot say
that I love him; and unless I can bring myself to do that, I shall
certainly act upon your advice and not say yes."
"Quite right, so far," said Mrs. Ranger; "but your duty now is, not to
refuse to see John, nor to play too much with honest love, but to tell
him what you have told us; and if he cares for you, as I believe he
does, he will see the reasonableness of your request, and be prepared to
wait. At all events, try him."
"Well, perhaps I will. I think very likely the next time he comes I'll
act upon your advice."
The farmer, who had listened with interest to the conversation which had
been carried on by the two women, seeing they were on the point of
leaving him, ventured to add, "And I think you have come to a very
sensible conclusion."
"But please, Mr. Ranger," exclaimed Mary, "I hope you will not mention
any portion of our conversation to John, if you should see him."
"Trust me for that, my girl," he replied. "I shall leave him to fight
his own battle; and you may reckon that what has been said to-night is
safe in my keeping."
*CHAPTER XXXII.*
*PREPARATIONS.*
"The food of hope is meditated action."--WORDSWORTH.
Fellows--or rather Sinclair, as we may now call him, since all necessity
for concealment of identity had passed--was not free from some little
excitement whenever he reflected upon the change which he contemplated
so soon making in his position.
He had not forgotten those at home at "Railton." Ralph had written a
long letter to his mother, giving a full account of his Jessie--the
wedding that was in prospect--and the home he hoped to have the
happiness so soon of taking her to.
She lost nothing from his description of her personal charms; and her
character and conduct, and everything that affected her, were so
graphically and faithfully delineated, that to the mother's imagination
she appeared a paragon of all the virtues.
He expressed sincere and heartfelt regret that his mother and sister
could not be present to take part in the celebration of what must be
regarded as the event of his life.
It was a source of much satisfaction to Mrs. Sinclair thus to learn of
her son's progress and happiness. But occurring so far from home, in a
land to which she was an entire stranger, and under circumstances which
she was only able but dimly to realise, the event which, had it happened
at home, would have been a joy to anticipate and prepare for, and a more
than "nine-days' wonder" to talk about, was shorn of much of that
exciting interest a mother might naturally be expected to feel at the
coming marriage of her only son.
Her congratulations and good wishes, with such maternal counsel as
seemed to her only fitting, were at once put into a letter and posted,
that it might reach him before his wedding-day should have passed.
Crowley had been informed by Sinclair that he would be prepared to
complete the contract entered into, and to take possession at the end of
the third week; which had been assented to.
It was Sinclair's intention to spend a week or so at "Kinbrae," seeing
that everything was prepared for the "home-coming," which it was
contemplated should be at the end of the month.
Russell had arranged to quit his shanty also, a week before, in order to
help Sinclair as much as possible; and during that last week Jessie was
to be the guest of Mrs. Ranger, who, woman-like, was full of excitement
at the prospect.
From time to time much animation prevailed at the Ranch. Silks and
satins were not expected to be in evidence, but the women were busy
putting little mysterious touches to dresses and hats, and adding pieces
of finery when obtainable, so as to mark the occasion, which was a new
experience, yet one which it would never do to allow to pass without a
decent show being made.
The wedding was to take place at the homestead, and a parson from the
town had been arranged with to come over and "hitch-on" the couple.
The day was to be observed as a holiday for the hands, and all were to
be invited to the wedding-feast.
Ralph and Jessie had to endure a deal of rough, but good-humoured, chaff
during the intervening period.
Society in the Far West, at the time of which we write, was not that
unsophisticated and half-civilised agglomeration of human beings which
before the advent of the Pacific Railway was to be found in the isolated
and sometimes sparsely-populated settlements dotted about the prairie,
or away up in the backwoods, remote from the haunts of men. Facilities
for improved transit had created growing towns and cities, and the
influx of the stranger from many lands had given rise to wants which
traders found it their interest to meet.
The ubiquitous representatives of the great emporiums in the "States,"
as of the large commercial houses of the foreigner from across the seas,
were indefatigable in pushing the wares of the firms they were
commissioned to represent; not only supplying, but contributing largely
to sustain a demand their energy had done so much to create.
With the exception of some few of the labourers on the Ranch, the whole
of Ranger's people might be described as belonging to the upper strata
of the working classes.
Sinclair himself--before his fall--was not what would be generally
defined as a working-man. The working-men would be the first to resent
his inclusion in their ranks, whilst those resembling Ralph would not be
over-eager to claim the doubtful privilege. Since his arrival at the
Ranch he had found it necessary to step down, and don the appearance, as
well as join in the tasks of, the working-man.
Humiliated, as he already felt himself to be, by his past career, this
was no hardship, for he knew that if he had received the due reward of
his deeds, he would probably now be working out a sentence of
imprisonment, only to emerge, it might be, as a hardened ruffian,
further to prey upon society; or else to take his place with the lowest
dregs of a society which the honest working-class look down upon,
sometimes with pity but too often with contempt.
On the day the contract for "Kinbrae" was to be settled, Ranger rode
over with Sinclair and Russell to the neighbourhood of the Crescent Lake
to complete the transaction.
Crowley was ready for them on their arrival. His luggage, and such
things as he intended to take with him, had been packed, and carted to
Bredenbury the previous day, for transmission by a branch of the Pacific
Railway running from Yorkton, until it unites with the main line a short
distance east of Winnipeg. The stock having been inspected, the business
was soon completed, and wishing the homeward voyagers farewell, the
three men were left in possession of "Kinbrae."
Besides the stock, there was one farm-hand--a youth of about seventeen,
employed by Crowley, who had consented to remain with the new owner.
When Ranger had left, the two men set out on a general tour of
inspection.
"It strikes me, Russell, that fellow Crowley, who has just gone back
home, must have been a very lazy chap to be willing to part with such a
capital location as this is for the money he did!"
"I don't understand him at all, sir," said Russell, as they walked over
the fields, and through the rich grasses of much that was still
untouched prairie-land. "He appears to have done very little. There has
not been more than about thirty acres under cultivation all the time he
was here."
"I suppose he must have run out his capital, and left nothing to buy
stock with."
"I daresay that was about it. He probably sent all he raised the first
season to market, or nearly all, and the quantity for the next harvest
was so small that he never recovered."
"What I think of doing is, to try and get about fifty acres under wheat
for next harvest. We ought to be able to manage that."
"Yes, with some little additional labour, which I daresay can be hired
in town."
"What's the distance into town?" inquired Sinclair.
"I think the nearest is Church Bridge, about seven miles; the next is
Bredenbury, which is about two miles farther."
"I'll see to it to-morrow," he added.
The week that elapsed prior to the event which all were looking forward
to was a busy one for Sinclair and his two companions.
The house, with its farm-buildings, although sound and in a fairly good
condition, had been sadly neglected, and needed a considerable amount of
attention to render them clean and presentable and worthy of their new
tenant.
The waggons and carts wanted repairing,--nuts were missing, bolts were
loose, damaged spokes required replacing, and loosened tyres demanded
skilled handling.
Harness was not much better: where buckles had fled, cord or thong had
been substituted; broken straps were found pieced together with string;
and, in fact, every contrivance seemed to have been adopted to patch or
conceal a flaw rather than spend a penny on a necessary repair.
Agricultural implements were in a like shady condition; many being cast
aside as valueless which a trifling outlay would easily restore to
utility again.
The easy, negligent, and happy-go-lucky disposition of the Irishman was
so stamped on all around, that, had he not already known it, it would
have been a comparatively easy matter to have arrived at the conclusion,
from the condition in which things had been left, that the last tenant
must have been one of Erin's sons.
At the Ranch, Mrs. Ranger, with the two women, were fully employed, or
so they thought they were, and endeavoured to impress everyone else with
their own belief that they were. And if the difficulty experienced in
getting a plain answer to an ordinary question might be regarded as some
proof of the truth of the representation, there was abundant evidence of
the fact from that source alone.
Ranger was about the only person who seemed to be unmoved by pending
events. To judge from the equanimity of his temper, and the apparent
unconcern manifested at all that was transpiring, or the little heed he
gave to the flurry and excitement in the house, one might well have
supposed him to be entirely engrossed with the cares of the farm and the
duties which its out-door work involved.
Jessie, as the prospective chief actor in the coming ceremony, was
anything but an unmoved spectator of what was taking place.
Possessing, however, considerable powers of self-control to the outward
observer, there was little to mark the deep feelings of excitement
working within, which only by a vigorous effort she was able at all to
repress.
Until Sinclair made his appearance at the Ranch, followed shortly
afterwards by the Bartons, she had seen very few of the male sex, except
the labourers from time to time hired for the season by Ranger, with the
appearance of none of whom had she been in the least favourably
impressed. Her father and Ranger were her only male companions, if we
except the youth called Tom, who was generally looked upon as a little
"daft," and a common "butt" for everyone.
In the person of Ralph Sinclair, her woman's ready wit had been quick to
discover a man of more than ordinary intelligence, capable of noble
actions from honourable motives. Well-formed, and strongly-built, with
a pair of dark, thoughtful-looking eyes beneath a broad, high forehead,
his appearance won her admiration,---a sentiment, circumstance, or
feeling, known only to herself, and carefully hidden within the treasury
of her own breast. But the feeling of admiration was not allowed long
to sit solitary. It gathered strength, and rapidly developed into a
warmer and more tender emotion, which the teaching of her sex, as well
as her own natural modesty, would not allow her to confess to.
The attention given during the period of his illness and convalescence
but tended to strengthen and confirm the feeling she had been led to
cherish, adding volume and power to the influences which had been so
forcibly working to prepare the way for an all too easy conquest.
The revelation of Ralph's delinquencies came at first as a great blow to
her, as it threatened to rob her idol of some of the sterling qualities
she had in her imagination invested him with. Quickly recovering from
its effects she allowed her affections to centre on him with all the
ardour of which her nature was capable, so that now she was
contemplating marriage as the crown of true womanhood and the
commencement of a useful and a happy life.
*CHAPTER XXXIII.*
*"TILL DEATH DO US PART."*
"That man ... who shall report he has
A better wife, let him in naught be trusted."
_Henry VIII._, Act II. sc. iv.
Since his last rebuff, John Barton had been vainly seeking an
opportunity of meeting Mary Truman alone.
Her efforts to avoid him had been persistent and successful; but whether
dictated by a spirit of mischief, which finds delight in tantalising the
ardent swain, or from a mere desire to enjoy a little flirtation,--by
some designated "harmless," but which at the best is dangerous and
should be discouraged by the sex,--Barton felt at a loss to determine.
Shakespeare says--
"... Where love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's sentinel."
But as there did not happen to be a second possible candidate for Mary's
favours at present on the Ranch, there was an entire absence of
employment for such a guard. That was a foe of whom he had no dread.
The week prior to the coming wedding, Mrs. Ranger had determined to
spend a day in town, making some necessary purchases; Tom was
accordingly ordered to have the buggy ready early on the day the farmer
had agreed to drive her in.
When Barton heard this, he thought he saw the opportunity offering he
had been waiting for. Leaving the fields sooner than usual, he marched
straight up to the house, where he had the good fortune to find Mary
seated alone.
"At last, Mary!" he said.
"What's at last?" she asked quite innocently.
"Why, do you know how hard I've tried to see you, and what a many times
you have refused me."
"Well, why keep on coming? I'm sure I never asked you to."
"You know why, Mary."
"You seem in a dreadful hurry," she added sharply.
"Not so much in a hurry, Mary, as anxious to know your answer."
"I'd much rather you were not so pressing," she replied.
"But you promised to let me have your reply to my question in a week."
"No! I only promised to see what I could do in that period, when you
urged that a month was too long a time to take for consideration. There
are circumstances which alter cases, you know."
"Do such circumstances exist in my case?" he asked.
"Yes, I think they do," she replied, a little nervous tremor visible in
her tone.
"I'm sorry if it is so."
"Besides, I'm not at all anxious to give up my liberty," she added
laughingly.
"I don't ask you to be my slave, Mary, but my wife," he replied with
some emphasis.
"And in too many instances there is little difference between the two
states."
"Perhaps that is too true. And my difficulty is how to convince you
that it will not be so in your case, if I can help it."
"Every man is good at promising, and you know the homely proverb about
'Promises being like pie-crust'?"
"Do I look like a deceiver, Mary?"
"I'm sure I can't tell--I've not seen enough of you to know."
"Is that one of the circumstances which you said altered cases?"
"Well--yes; or if it isn't it ought to be, as it's a matter of some
importance."
"What are the other circumstances you referred to?" he inquired.
"Well, I suppose you have not forgotten that when I came out here it was
with the intention of being married to one of my cousins, who was with
us?"
"No, I remember that. It was a dreadful loss, which must have deeply
affected you. But regrets for the past should not be allowed to mar all
future happiness."
"I know. Time is said to heal all wounds, but the length of time is not
stated."
"I was hoping, Mary, you had recovered from the effects by now."
"The scars left by deep wounds are not easily forgotten."
"And such a wound never need be forgotten."
"All very fine now, Mr. Barton," replied Mary. "Seriously, I do not feel
able so soon to give you an answer. The loss and disappointment to me
are yet too recent; I have seen so little of you (or you of me), and
have given the subject so little thought, that I am not prepared to say
what I may be willing to do."
"Well, tell me, Mary, there's a dear girl, in all seriousness, what you
wish in the matter, and I will try to make your wishes my law." It
must, however, in justice be stated that the question was asked in such
a mournful tone, and the assurance given with such a degree of
hesitation, that it looked exceedingly doubtful if all that was said was
really meant, or that the promise was one which would be kept.
"Since you really want to know my wishes----"
"I do, Mary!" he interrupted.
"Well, don't be so impatient, sir, and I'll try and tell you. My wish
is that you press for no answer for six months, during which time we
shall be able to meet as friends and become better acquainted with each
other, when it may happen that friendship will not improve upon
acquaintance; in which case, no harm will be done, as we shall each be
able to take our own course, and be saved many useless regrets."
"Your conditions are hard, Mary, but I can't say they are unjust; nor am
I afraid of the result you foreshadow."
"In that case, the subject can be again resumed. In the meanwhile, let's
agree to leave the future to look after itself."
"If I thought there was any chance of your relenting, Mary, I would try
and urge you----"
"Then please don't," she interrupted, "for it will not be the slightest
use."
This was said with so much of resolution and determination in the tone,
that Barton, seeing it would be useless to press his wishes further,
reluctantly consented to the arrangement proposed.
During the interval, as stipulated, Barton had frequent opportunities of
converse with Mary, the result being to bring out more clearly the fact
that there was an affinity of souls between them which paved the way for
that union of hearts which, when the six months had expired, and he
renewed his request, was confirmed by a union of hands, with the usual
formula--"_till death do its part_."
* * * * *
The wedding of Jessie Russell with Fellows was celebrated at the time
fixed, amid general merry-making. The company was not a large one,
comprising, as it did, besides the chief actors, only the few
work-people in Ranger's service--in all some fourteen persons.
When the ceremony was over, and the feasting had been vigorously
started, Ralph drove away for Kinbrae with his smiling bride, followed
by the hearty cheers and good wishes of all.