CHAPTER XXV.THE BROADSTONE DECISION."Let's make the best of it."—Coriolanus, Act V. sc. v.Nearly two months had elapsed since the date when the agents in Quebec were instructed to make certain inquiries on behalf of Messrs. Quinion of Broadstone, when one morning, according to appointment, their solicitors called and were shown into the private offices of the firm.The solicitors were present, in the person of a dapper little bald-headed man of about fifty, wearing coloured glasses which concealed a pair of restless grey eyes, that allowed nothing to escape their observation.Laying his hat upon a chair, he took from a small valise he was carrying a bulky-looking document tied with the inevitable piece of red tape, which he declared was the report of their agent, come to hand the day preceding. After carefully untying and spreading the folio sheets in front of him, he, at the bidding of the two partners, who were seated at the table facing him, commenced to read their contents.Divested of the legal phraseology in which they were cast, and omitting the redundancy of expression so dear to the man of law, yet so bewildering to the average man of common-sense, the purport of what he read was to the effect—That the inquiry having been intrusted to the local police, they had placed the matter in the hands of one of the most trusted and skilful members of the force, who, from inquiries made on the spot, and information received through a variety of sources, was now fully able to confirm the statements made in the letter received from their correspondent.The motive prompting that letter, so far as the agent had been able to learn, was one of jealousy, the two men, Barton, and Fellows otherwise Sinclair, appearing to be rivals for the possession of a certain young woman employed on the same farm. And it was conjectured that Barton hoped, through the law being set in motion, to accomplish the arrest of Fellows, so that by his removal from Canada and the scene of his present influence the other might be left in unimpeded possession of the ground, to be able to press his suit with the greater probability of success."That, gentlemen, is our report; and it shows, I think," said the lawyer, "that we have done our best to get all the information for you that was possible.""Quite so," nervously responded the elder of the two men, who never spoke without conveying the impression that, whilst desirous of making his presence felt, he was terribly apprehensive lest he should say anything which might be construed in a sense other than was intended."But," added Mr. E. Quinion in a rough, hard, and curt tone, "beyond generally confirming what the letter told us, it adds very little to our knowledge.""No," replied the elder of the two men. "Perhaps not, perhaps not. It at least gives a motive for that letter.""Which, after all," said the other, "is not of so much importance to us.""Well, that I am not so sure about; the motive is, or seems to be so to me, a most unworthy one, which, if possible, we should do our utmost to discourage.""Suppose we drop this consideration for the present," said the younger man, "and consider what are perhaps the more important features of the case. Sinclair, in the first place, betrays the trust we had reposed in him, through the influence of the company he got into,—spends money which he had no right to, and so defrauds the firm of a very large sum. Being unable, and afraid, to face the consequences, he bolts, but succeeds in covering his escape by a ruse, which enabled him to take advantage of an accident occurring in the nick of time, of which he was prompt to avail himself. He deserves very little consideration from us, I think.""All you say is quite true," was the other's reply, "but I don't want to forget the fact that his father for years held a very responsible and honourable position in this firm, and died respected by all who knew him.""You think, then, that his good deeds should be capable of hiding a multitude of his son's sins," was the smiling comment of the younger man.Taking no apparent notice of the remark, the other continued, "Then there is his mother,—a lady for whom I have the very highest esteem,—who has always been regarded as a friend, and is at present in a rather delicate state of health. I feel much sympathy for her, and would be disposed to strain a good many points before venturing to do anything which would add to her grief.""Yes, I feel that as much as you do," replied the younger man; "but it must not be forgotten, with every desire to be merciful, we have a duty which as citizens we owe to the community, and that obligations are placed upon us by the laws which govern us which cannot always be safely set aside.""True; but there is no law which prevents a man forgiving another a trespass, rather the contrary.""Nor should we forget what is, after all, a most important consideration for us," said the other, "the mistaken interpretation which may be given to any act of leniency on our part, and the impression likely to be produced by it on those at present in our employ.""You are quite right there. It certainly is a most important point for our consideration. But, coming back to the point from which we started, the motive of the man who has written to us, which is most unworthy, and one I don't at all like to encourage; that it is a matter which we have long ago wiped out of our books; for the sake of his dead father's memory, and of the mother whom we have promised to consider as much as possible, I am decidedly of opinion we can very well let the transaction remain as at present, and take no steps to have the man arrested.""Very well," said the younger man, after a little hesitation. "I'm not quite sure we are doing our duty, but, on the principle that one ought always to give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt, as I am in some little doubt myself, let Sinclair have the benefit of it, and I will agree with you that nothing further be done.""That being settled, I think it will be best for you, Mr. Gaze, to have the briefest possible letter written to Mr. Barton, thanking him for his communication, the contents of which have been duly noted, but that no action is contemplated thereon."The lawyer having taken his leave, a letter was sent to Mrs. Sinclair acquainting her with the decision at which they had arrived, and expressing the pleasure they felt at having been able so far to fall in with her wishes.When this letter reached Railton Hall, the joy it occasioned none but a mother in similar circumstances can fully realise.The transition from fear to hope, and again from hope to despair, had been terribly trying to a constitution never strong, and already much enfeebled by the trials it had been called upon to endure.The tidings which had so unexpectedly reached her, that the son, so long mourned as dead (under circumstances which seemed to leave no room for reasonable doubt of its correctness), was still alive, had filled her with a new-born hope of yet once again looking upon those well-remembered features,—features which bore the unmistakable image of her dead husband,—giving rise to ideals and imaginings which the depths had apparently overwhelmed and shut out from all possibility of realisation.But such hopes and such visions had been shattered and dispelled as quickly as they had arisen by her visit to Broadstone, and the possible consequences which might result from the intelligence which was there being awaited from the North-West. Woman-like, she had anticipated the worst, and had even allowed her dire apprehensions to manifest their existence in the letter she had written Ralph. She advised—almost entreated—him to escape from Ranger's whilst there was time, lest the officers of justice should be set upon his track, before such a course became impossible.Once again, however, was hope rekindled in her breast, when the letter arrived which conveyed the welcome intelligence that the firm had abandoned all thoughts of having her son arrested.Again the reaction from the gloom of despair to the joys of hope was almost more than the poor mother could endure. Scientists tell us that joy never kills. It may be true. At all events its effects are not always as salutary as one could desire, and in Mrs. Sinclair's case it was some time before she could command sufficient strength of will, or obtain the control of her nervous system, to render her capable of dictating a letter to Jennie for her brother, to inform him of the gratifying news.Her anxiety now was, lest, acting upon the advice given in her previous letter, he should have put into practice the course she had thought it so desirable to urge upon him. It was possible a telegram might reach him in time to arrest his departure; she could scarcely hope to forestall her letter, which had probably already been received and its advice acted upon.Jennie was, however, instructed to lose no time in sending a "wire" to Ranger's, which ran—"Stay—All right," in the hope that it might produce the effect desired.The letter which followed was such as only a mother might be expected under the circumstances to write, and was filled with anxious inquiries as to his future intentions.CHAPTER XXVI.MARY TRUMAN."... He beheld a vision, and adored the thing he saw."WORDSWORTH.Mary Truman, the young woman so suddenly deprived of her only relations by the unfortunate accident on the railway near to M'Lean Station, and whose prospects had been so terribly blighted, had not been an idle spectator at the Ranch of the events which have been transpiring.With no fixed or clearly defined duties to perform, since her future was still undecided, she was yet able to find occupation in the house and its belongings of a character sufficient to prevent her from having many idle moments.Naturally of a cheerful disposition, she was wont to be considered the embodiment of good humour "in the old house at home."A pair of laughing blue eyes, a little "tip-tilted" nose, apetitefigure, and a mass of rich, wavy auburn hair, added to a saucy expression of countenance, made up anensemblethat her all too sensitive, and it may be sensible, cousin had found it impossible to resist.Her parents were originally in a small way of business at Exeter, but having the misfortune to lose her mother some three weeks after her birth, the father, within a week following the funeral, disappeared, and nothing had been seen or heard of him since.His brother, who farmed a few acres of land just outside the city, when appealed to, at once came forward, and agreed to adopt the little waif rather than it should be taken charge of by the Union.When the business was sold, and the debts paid, there remained nearly one hundred pounds, which the uncle very considerately, and with no thought of self, caused to be invested for the child.At the age of ten the aunt died, after a lingering illness, and in process of time, as the years rolled on, little Mary, besides being the life of the household, became also its presiding deity, and the ruler of all the domestic life and arrangements of the place.When, therefore, the lease of John Truman's holding expired, and it became a necessity to seek another dwelling, they determined to try their fortunes in the Far West, and of course it was inevitable that Mary should form one of the party.She felt her physical strength was rapidly returning. The pure dry air,—so notable a feature of the Dominion,—the sunshiny days, and the abundant opportunities for out-door life, had, combined with rare constitutional endowments, contributed in no ordinary degree to that recovery which was every day becoming more manifest.With the restoration to health there was a corresponding improvement in spirits, as the buoyancy and elasticity of youth asserted their influence, and she began to throw off much of that gloom and depression, so unnatural to the young, and quite foreign to Mary's nature, but which the tragic events with which the swift current of her life had been so suddenly arrested sufficiently accounted for.The elder Barton had not been unmoved, although a silent spectator of the change that was taking place.He had witnessed, with a daily increasing interest, her growing health; but it was with even more satisfaction that he marked the improvement in her spirits, as it indicated the arrival of that period when, with some degree of assurance, he might hope to be able to express to her in words the feelings which he had allowed himself to cherish towards her.Life at the Ranch was uneventful as a rule, and comparatively lonely. Visitors were rare, and the settlers, with their own people, were thrown much together, not only during the hours of labour, but for that companionship which human nature naturally looks for.The frequent opportunities which such occasions offered for little delicate attentions, kind inquiries, and the like, John was not slow in taking advantage of, nor in noting their effect.The encouragement which such attentions received was not much; nor could it be regarded as a very safe foundation on which to build hope for the future, yet he did not feel altogether without warrant for so doing.So when, one evening after the work of the day was over, as the twilight was deepening, and Mary was standing at the entrance to the dairy, watching the stars as they one by one made themselves visible, Barton's approach was all unnoticed until he was close upon her."What, star-gazing, my lass?" he exclaimed."Well, what if I was, Mr. Impudence," she retorted."Oh, nothing," he replied, somewhat at a loss what to say."It's a lovely night for star-gazing, as you call it," she added, with a little less asperity in her tones, as if to make amends for the sharpness of her previous retort."Haven't seen many better," replied Barton."You'd scarcely guess how my thought was then running?""If you tell me, I shall know without the trouble.""I was back in my childhood, and thinking of that sweet little couplet auntie used to repeat so often—'Twinkle, twinkle, little star,How I wonder what you are.'""I am sorry that I so rudely broke in upon your reflections. I always turn to the memory of my childhood's happy days with pleasure and satisfaction.""Bless me, how extremely sentimental we are getting! But I must be going——""Stay a moment, Mary, I would like to have a word or two with you, if you can spare a few moments?""What impudence, sir!""In what way, may I ask?""Since when, and by what right, have you taken to address me by my Christian name?" she inquired, with a good-humoured smile."It was a liberty, I must confess, but one which I hope my explanation will lead you to pardon.""Well, if it's going to take long I am afraid I shall not be able to stop and listen.""I daresay I can manage it in a few words, although it's a subject I have had no previous experience of. Until I saw you, Mary,—for so I must call you until forbidden to do so,—I never set eyes upon the woman I could say I truly loved. But, from the day you first made your appearance amongst us, the feeling has been growing, until I now fully realise you are that other half I need to make my life complete.""What a very pretty speech. I suppose I ought to feel flattered. For a novice—professing no experience—I think I may say you have accomplished the task charmingly," was Mary's laughing reply."Be serious, Mary, there's a dear girl; for it's a serious matter to me.""Oh well, Mr. Longface, then I'll try. To speak candidly, I've not thought about the matter, and don't want to. So there, you have an answer.""But not a final answer, I hope?" he added."Yes; why not?" she naïvely asked."I'd rather you'd say you'll think it over, if what I have said has caused you surprise.""Surprise? I should think it has! Do you suppose for a moment I was waiting for you to come and tell me what you have?""No, Mary," he replied, feeling a little abashed at the thought that he had committed himself by his answer."Well then, sir, you had better be content with the answer I have given.""If you give me credit for sincerity, do you think it possible I can be content with such a reply?" he asked, gazing steadfastly into her half-averted eyes, at the same time attempting to take her hand."You are too forward, sir," she exclaimed, as she snatched her hand away."Well, take time to think about it, Mary; only give me some little hope.","As you please, sir, for I must be going.""When may I come for my answer—to-morrow?"Oh, la, no!" she replied; "I shall not be able to make up my mind in that time—that is, if you want a different reply to the one I've given?""A week then?" he asked."Dear me, how pressing you are! Say a month," she added."Don't be so cruel, Mary," he pleaded. "Surely a week is long enough?""Well, I'll try what can be done in a week. But mind, I make no promise.""Good-night, my love! God bless you, and bring you to a right decision," was his reply, as she disappeared into the house.The stars were twinkling overhead as he made his way to his little shanty, feeling he scarcely knew how, yet strongly tempted to believe that behind the affected gaiety and levity which had been displayed throughout his interview, there was flowing an under-current which might possibly bring him to the haven of his hopes.CHAPTER XXVII.BRIGHTENED HOPES."Enough, if something from our hands hath powerTo live, and act, and serve the future hour."WORDSWORTH.When the telegram arrived, which Mrs. Sinclair had sent in the hope that it might be in time to stay her son from hasty action, there was much rejoicing at the Ranch by all concerned. A load of care and anxiety seemed at once to be lifted, and the course which Fellows had announced his intention of pursuing felt to be fully justified.All obstacles to future movements being thus removed, it remained to be determined what those movements should be.If the telegram from his mother conveyed the meaning which he hoped it did, then the way was open for his return to England without any fear of the consequences which might have been expected to attend his so doing.But what were the prospects which returning held out to him? He had lost his reputation. Under the most favourable conditions he could never expect to be able again to show his face at Broadstone. To be a burden on his doting mother for the remainder of her life was not to be thought of.He had not been long enough with Ranger to enable him to add much to the little he brought with him on his arrival. Then, added to these reasons, there was the thought of Jessie,—a new factor which had now entered into his life since his arrival at the Ranch, and one which he was not prepared under any circumstances to ignore.He was willing to be guided by the next letter from home, which the telegram was intended to prepare him for; but in any event he saw, or thought he saw, that it was clearly his best course to stay where he was, and as soon as possible procure a homestead of his own.Later in the day, when discussing the matter with Ranger, the farmer could not help admitting that it seemed about the only possible thing for him to do."And I suppose," said the farmer, "you'll be wanting to make a home of your own as soon as you can, to take Jessie to—eh?""That is my next ambition," he replied."And a proper one too," was Ranger's rejoinder. "We must see what can be done to get you one.""Thank you," replied Fellows, "but it need not be hurried over.""That may be, but if an opportunity offers no time should be lost, as they are soon snapped up.""Inquiry can be made of the agent when you are next in town to learn what he has on hand.""I saw to-day, when I was at M'Lean, a holding was for sale which would be likely to fit very well.""Where was it?" asked Fellows."Close to Kinbrae, about eight miles from the Crescent Lake.""Did you take notice of the particulars concerning it?" said Fellows."No, I did not; except that the owner is returning to the Old Country, and wants to sell.""Well, it might be worth while to inquire about it.""Yes, I'll do so," replied Ranger.When the work of the day was over, Fellows lost no time in visiting Jessie at her father's shanty to acquaint her with the receipt of his telegram, in order to relieve her of all fears with regard to the possibility of his being arrested.The way in which this was likely to affect his future was a question very naturally presenting itself."I suppose you will want to return home?" she asked, with just a suspicion of anxiety in her voice."No, I think not, Jessie.""But if your mother desires it?""I shall wait and see what she says, but I don't think it will make much difference."Jessie coloured slightly as she asked, "Why not, Ralph?""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.""Itissomething 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 XXV.
THE BROADSTONE DECISION.
"Let's make the best of it."—Coriolanus, Act V. sc. v.
Nearly two months had elapsed since the date when the agents in Quebec were instructed to make certain inquiries on behalf of Messrs. Quinion of Broadstone, when one morning, according to appointment, their solicitors called and were shown into the private offices of the firm.
The solicitors were present, in the person of a dapper little bald-headed man of about fifty, wearing coloured glasses which concealed a pair of restless grey eyes, that allowed nothing to escape their observation.
Laying his hat upon a chair, he took from a small valise he was carrying a bulky-looking document tied with the inevitable piece of red tape, which he declared was the report of their agent, come to hand the day preceding. After carefully untying and spreading the folio sheets in front of him, he, at the bidding of the two partners, who were seated at the table facing him, commenced to read their contents.
Divested of the legal phraseology in which they were cast, and omitting the redundancy of expression so dear to the man of law, yet so bewildering to the average man of common-sense, the purport of what he read was to the effect—
That the inquiry having been intrusted to the local police, they had placed the matter in the hands of one of the most trusted and skilful members of the force, who, from inquiries made on the spot, and information received through a variety of sources, was now fully able to confirm the statements made in the letter received from their correspondent.
The motive prompting that letter, so far as the agent had been able to learn, was one of jealousy, the two men, Barton, and Fellows otherwise Sinclair, appearing to be rivals for the possession of a certain young woman employed on the same farm. And it was conjectured that Barton hoped, through the law being set in motion, to accomplish the arrest of Fellows, so that by his removal from Canada and the scene of his present influence the other might be left in unimpeded possession of the ground, to be able to press his suit with the greater probability of success.
"That, gentlemen, is our report; and it shows, I think," said the lawyer, "that we have done our best to get all the information for you that was possible."
"Quite so," nervously responded the elder of the two men, who never spoke without conveying the impression that, whilst desirous of making his presence felt, he was terribly apprehensive lest he should say anything which might be construed in a sense other than was intended.
"But," added Mr. E. Quinion in a rough, hard, and curt tone, "beyond generally confirming what the letter told us, it adds very little to our knowledge."
"No," replied the elder of the two men. "Perhaps not, perhaps not. It at least gives a motive for that letter."
"Which, after all," said the other, "is not of so much importance to us."
"Well, that I am not so sure about; the motive is, or seems to be so to me, a most unworthy one, which, if possible, we should do our utmost to discourage."
"Suppose we drop this consideration for the present," said the younger man, "and consider what are perhaps the more important features of the case. Sinclair, in the first place, betrays the trust we had reposed in him, through the influence of the company he got into,—spends money which he had no right to, and so defrauds the firm of a very large sum. Being unable, and afraid, to face the consequences, he bolts, but succeeds in covering his escape by a ruse, which enabled him to take advantage of an accident occurring in the nick of time, of which he was prompt to avail himself. He deserves very little consideration from us, I think."
"All you say is quite true," was the other's reply, "but I don't want to forget the fact that his father for years held a very responsible and honourable position in this firm, and died respected by all who knew him."
"You think, then, that his good deeds should be capable of hiding a multitude of his son's sins," was the smiling comment of the younger man.
Taking no apparent notice of the remark, the other continued, "Then there is his mother,—a lady for whom I have the very highest esteem,—who has always been regarded as a friend, and is at present in a rather delicate state of health. I feel much sympathy for her, and would be disposed to strain a good many points before venturing to do anything which would add to her grief."
"Yes, I feel that as much as you do," replied the younger man; "but it must not be forgotten, with every desire to be merciful, we have a duty which as citizens we owe to the community, and that obligations are placed upon us by the laws which govern us which cannot always be safely set aside."
"True; but there is no law which prevents a man forgiving another a trespass, rather the contrary."
"Nor should we forget what is, after all, a most important consideration for us," said the other, "the mistaken interpretation which may be given to any act of leniency on our part, and the impression likely to be produced by it on those at present in our employ."
"You are quite right there. It certainly is a most important point for our consideration. But, coming back to the point from which we started, the motive of the man who has written to us, which is most unworthy, and one I don't at all like to encourage; that it is a matter which we have long ago wiped out of our books; for the sake of his dead father's memory, and of the mother whom we have promised to consider as much as possible, I am decidedly of opinion we can very well let the transaction remain as at present, and take no steps to have the man arrested."
"Very well," said the younger man, after a little hesitation. "I'm not quite sure we are doing our duty, but, on the principle that one ought always to give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt, as I am in some little doubt myself, let Sinclair have the benefit of it, and I will agree with you that nothing further be done."
"That being settled, I think it will be best for you, Mr. Gaze, to have the briefest possible letter written to Mr. Barton, thanking him for his communication, the contents of which have been duly noted, but that no action is contemplated thereon."
The lawyer having taken his leave, a letter was sent to Mrs. Sinclair acquainting her with the decision at which they had arrived, and expressing the pleasure they felt at having been able so far to fall in with her wishes.
When this letter reached Railton Hall, the joy it occasioned none but a mother in similar circumstances can fully realise.
The transition from fear to hope, and again from hope to despair, had been terribly trying to a constitution never strong, and already much enfeebled by the trials it had been called upon to endure.
The tidings which had so unexpectedly reached her, that the son, so long mourned as dead (under circumstances which seemed to leave no room for reasonable doubt of its correctness), was still alive, had filled her with a new-born hope of yet once again looking upon those well-remembered features,—features which bore the unmistakable image of her dead husband,—giving rise to ideals and imaginings which the depths had apparently overwhelmed and shut out from all possibility of realisation.
But such hopes and such visions had been shattered and dispelled as quickly as they had arisen by her visit to Broadstone, and the possible consequences which might result from the intelligence which was there being awaited from the North-West. Woman-like, she had anticipated the worst, and had even allowed her dire apprehensions to manifest their existence in the letter she had written Ralph. She advised—almost entreated—him to escape from Ranger's whilst there was time, lest the officers of justice should be set upon his track, before such a course became impossible.
Once again, however, was hope rekindled in her breast, when the letter arrived which conveyed the welcome intelligence that the firm had abandoned all thoughts of having her son arrested.
Again the reaction from the gloom of despair to the joys of hope was almost more than the poor mother could endure. Scientists tell us that joy never kills. It may be true. At all events its effects are not always as salutary as one could desire, and in Mrs. Sinclair's case it was some time before she could command sufficient strength of will, or obtain the control of her nervous system, to render her capable of dictating a letter to Jennie for her brother, to inform him of the gratifying news.
Her anxiety now was, lest, acting upon the advice given in her previous letter, he should have put into practice the course she had thought it so desirable to urge upon him. It was possible a telegram might reach him in time to arrest his departure; she could scarcely hope to forestall her letter, which had probably already been received and its advice acted upon.
Jennie was, however, instructed to lose no time in sending a "wire" to Ranger's, which ran—"Stay—All right," in the hope that it might produce the effect desired.
The letter which followed was such as only a mother might be expected under the circumstances to write, and was filled with anxious inquiries as to his future intentions.
CHAPTER XXVI.
MARY TRUMAN.
"... He beheld a vision, and adored the thing he saw."WORDSWORTH.
Mary Truman, the young woman so suddenly deprived of her only relations by the unfortunate accident on the railway near to M'Lean Station, and whose prospects had been so terribly blighted, had not been an idle spectator at the Ranch of the events which have been transpiring.
With no fixed or clearly defined duties to perform, since her future was still undecided, she was yet able to find occupation in the house and its belongings of a character sufficient to prevent her from having many idle moments.
Naturally of a cheerful disposition, she was wont to be considered the embodiment of good humour "in the old house at home."
A pair of laughing blue eyes, a little "tip-tilted" nose, apetitefigure, and a mass of rich, wavy auburn hair, added to a saucy expression of countenance, made up anensemblethat her all too sensitive, and it may be sensible, cousin had found it impossible to resist.
Her parents were originally in a small way of business at Exeter, but having the misfortune to lose her mother some three weeks after her birth, the father, within a week following the funeral, disappeared, and nothing had been seen or heard of him since.
His brother, who farmed a few acres of land just outside the city, when appealed to, at once came forward, and agreed to adopt the little waif rather than it should be taken charge of by the Union.
When the business was sold, and the debts paid, there remained nearly one hundred pounds, which the uncle very considerately, and with no thought of self, caused to be invested for the child.
At the age of ten the aunt died, after a lingering illness, and in process of time, as the years rolled on, little Mary, besides being the life of the household, became also its presiding deity, and the ruler of all the domestic life and arrangements of the place.
When, therefore, the lease of John Truman's holding expired, and it became a necessity to seek another dwelling, they determined to try their fortunes in the Far West, and of course it was inevitable that Mary should form one of the party.
She felt her physical strength was rapidly returning. The pure dry air,—so notable a feature of the Dominion,—the sunshiny days, and the abundant opportunities for out-door life, had, combined with rare constitutional endowments, contributed in no ordinary degree to that recovery which was every day becoming more manifest.
With the restoration to health there was a corresponding improvement in spirits, as the buoyancy and elasticity of youth asserted their influence, and she began to throw off much of that gloom and depression, so unnatural to the young, and quite foreign to Mary's nature, but which the tragic events with which the swift current of her life had been so suddenly arrested sufficiently accounted for.
The elder Barton had not been unmoved, although a silent spectator of the change that was taking place.
He had witnessed, with a daily increasing interest, her growing health; but it was with even more satisfaction that he marked the improvement in her spirits, as it indicated the arrival of that period when, with some degree of assurance, he might hope to be able to express to her in words the feelings which he had allowed himself to cherish towards her.
Life at the Ranch was uneventful as a rule, and comparatively lonely. Visitors were rare, and the settlers, with their own people, were thrown much together, not only during the hours of labour, but for that companionship which human nature naturally looks for.
The frequent opportunities which such occasions offered for little delicate attentions, kind inquiries, and the like, John was not slow in taking advantage of, nor in noting their effect.
The encouragement which such attentions received was not much; nor could it be regarded as a very safe foundation on which to build hope for the future, yet he did not feel altogether without warrant for so doing.
So when, one evening after the work of the day was over, as the twilight was deepening, and Mary was standing at the entrance to the dairy, watching the stars as they one by one made themselves visible, Barton's approach was all unnoticed until he was close upon her.
"What, star-gazing, my lass?" he exclaimed.
"Well, what if I was, Mr. Impudence," she retorted.
"Oh, nothing," he replied, somewhat at a loss what to say.
"It's a lovely night for star-gazing, as you call it," she added, with a little less asperity in her tones, as if to make amends for the sharpness of her previous retort.
"Haven't seen many better," replied Barton.
"You'd scarcely guess how my thought was then running?"
"If you tell me, I shall know without the trouble."
"I was back in my childhood, and thinking of that sweet little couplet auntie used to repeat so often—
'Twinkle, twinkle, little star,How I wonder what you are.'"
'Twinkle, twinkle, little star,How I wonder what you are.'"
'Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.'"
"I am sorry that I so rudely broke in upon your reflections. I always turn to the memory of my childhood's happy days with pleasure and satisfaction."
"Bless me, how extremely sentimental we are getting! But I must be going——"
"Stay a moment, Mary, I would like to have a word or two with you, if you can spare a few moments?"
"What impudence, sir!"
"In what way, may I ask?"
"Since when, and by what right, have you taken to address me by my Christian name?" she inquired, with a good-humoured smile.
"It was a liberty, I must confess, but one which I hope my explanation will lead you to pardon."
"Well, if it's going to take long I am afraid I shall not be able to stop and listen."
"I daresay I can manage it in a few words, although it's a subject I have had no previous experience of. Until I saw you, Mary,—for so I must call you until forbidden to do so,—I never set eyes upon the woman I could say I truly loved. But, from the day you first made your appearance amongst us, the feeling has been growing, until I now fully realise you are that other half I need to make my life complete."
"What a very pretty speech. I suppose I ought to feel flattered. For a novice—professing no experience—I think I may say you have accomplished the task charmingly," was Mary's laughing reply.
"Be serious, Mary, there's a dear girl; for it's a serious matter to me."
"Oh well, Mr. Longface, then I'll try. To speak candidly, I've not thought about the matter, and don't want to. So there, you have an answer."
"But not a final answer, I hope?" he added.
"Yes; why not?" she naïvely asked.
"I'd rather you'd say you'll think it over, if what I have said has caused you surprise."
"Surprise? I should think it has! Do you suppose for a moment I was waiting for you to come and tell me what you have?"
"No, Mary," he replied, feeling a little abashed at the thought that he had committed himself by his answer.
"Well then, sir, you had better be content with the answer I have given."
"If you give me credit for sincerity, do you think it possible I can be content with such a reply?" he asked, gazing steadfastly into her half-averted eyes, at the same time attempting to take her hand.
"You are too forward, sir," she exclaimed, as she snatched her hand away.
"Well, take time to think about it, Mary; only give me some little hope.",
"As you please, sir, for I must be going."
"When may I come for my answer—to-morrow?
"Oh, la, no!" she replied; "I shall not be able to make up my mind in that time—that is, if you want a different reply to the one I've given?"
"A week then?" he asked.
"Dear me, how pressing you are! Say a month," she added.
"Don't be so cruel, Mary," he pleaded. "Surely a week is long enough?"
"Well, I'll try what can be done in a week. But mind, I make no promise."
"Good-night, my love! God bless you, and bring you to a right decision," was his reply, as she disappeared into the house.
The stars were twinkling overhead as he made his way to his little shanty, feeling he scarcely knew how, yet strongly tempted to believe that behind the affected gaiety and levity which had been displayed throughout his interview, there was flowing an under-current which might possibly bring him to the haven of his hopes.
CHAPTER XXVII.
BRIGHTENED HOPES.
"Enough, if something from our hands hath powerTo live, and act, and serve the future hour."WORDSWORTH.
When the telegram arrived, which Mrs. Sinclair had sent in the hope that it might be in time to stay her son from hasty action, there was much rejoicing at the Ranch by all concerned. A load of care and anxiety seemed at once to be lifted, and the course which Fellows had announced his intention of pursuing felt to be fully justified.
All obstacles to future movements being thus removed, it remained to be determined what those movements should be.
If the telegram from his mother conveyed the meaning which he hoped it did, then the way was open for his return to England without any fear of the consequences which might have been expected to attend his so doing.
But what were the prospects which returning held out to him? He had lost his reputation. Under the most favourable conditions he could never expect to be able again to show his face at Broadstone. To be a burden on his doting mother for the remainder of her life was not to be thought of.
He had not been long enough with Ranger to enable him to add much to the little he brought with him on his arrival. Then, added to these reasons, there was the thought of Jessie,—a new factor which had now entered into his life since his arrival at the Ranch, and one which he was not prepared under any circumstances to ignore.
He was willing to be guided by the next letter from home, which the telegram was intended to prepare him for; but in any event he saw, or thought he saw, that it was clearly his best course to stay where he was, and as soon as possible procure a homestead of his own.
Later in the day, when discussing the matter with Ranger, the farmer could not help admitting that it seemed about the only possible thing for him to do.
"And I suppose," said the farmer, "you'll be wanting to make a home of your own as soon as you can, to take Jessie to—eh?"
"That is my next ambition," he replied.
"And a proper one too," was Ranger's rejoinder. "We must see what can be done to get you one."
"Thank you," replied Fellows, "but it need not be hurried over."
"That may be, but if an opportunity offers no time should be lost, as they are soon snapped up."
"Inquiry can be made of the agent when you are next in town to learn what he has on hand."
"I saw to-day, when I was at M'Lean, a holding was for sale which would be likely to fit very well."
"Where was it?" asked Fellows.
"Close to Kinbrae, about eight miles from the Crescent Lake."
"Did you take notice of the particulars concerning it?" said Fellows.
"No, I did not; except that the owner is returning to the Old Country, and wants to sell."
"Well, it might be worth while to inquire about it."
"Yes, I'll do so," replied Ranger.
When the work of the day was over, Fellows lost no time in visiting Jessie at her father's shanty to acquaint her with the receipt of his telegram, in order to relieve her of all fears with regard to the possibility of his being arrested.
The way in which this was likely to affect his future was a question very naturally presenting itself.
"I suppose you will want to return home?" she asked, with just a suspicion of anxiety in her voice.
"No, I think not, Jessie."
"But if your mother desires it?"
"I shall wait and see what she says, but I don't think it will make much difference."
Jessie coloured slightly as she asked, "Why not, Ralph?"
"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."
"Itissomething 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.