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."[image]"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 naïvely 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 motionBlush'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 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."
[image]"WE ARE ALREADY IN FULL POSSESSION OF ALL WHICH THAT LETTER REVEALS."
[image]
[image]
"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 naïvely 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 motionBlush'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.