Part 7

The quiet, unobtrusive host of duties they perform in the midst of unheard-of difficulties; their patient endurance of suffering; the privations they are willing to undergo for those they love; the obscurity and loneliness in which much of their lives are passed, yet the unmurmuring and ungrudging way in which devoted service is given: all this is known to the few, and has yet to be revealed.

It was probably due to one or more of these phases or traits of character, which the illness of Fellows had developed in Jessie Russell, that had caused the feeling of friendship he imagined he entertained for her to reveal itself to him as that of a much warmer and tenderer attachment, which might more properly be attributed to one of those well-directed shafts from Cupid's artillery which the little god, with so much precision, is so well able and so ready to discharge.

Fellows was in love with Jessie Russell. He had to admit that to himself, and he was longing to confess it to her.

But whenever the occasion presented itself--and opportunities occurred in abundance--remorse restrained him and kept him silent. Dare he link her future with one whose past was a record of shame and crime? If she cared for him--as he sometimes flattered himself she did--need he trouble her with that which could not possibly do her any good, and might do much harm?

Whatever may have been the follies and sins of his past life, his moral perceptions were still keen enough to see that such a course of conduct would be most dishonouring and dishonourable to the woman he professed to have a supreme regard for.

Thoughts such as these naturally cast a shadow over his life; he avoided the society of his fellows, or, when circumstances compelled him to associate with them, he was moody, taciturn, and reserved, so that in the house or in the field his converse or communications were of the briefest, and marked by no feature to lead to its continuance.

His habits and general demeanour had not escaped the notice of Mrs. Ranger, and, with that womanly intuitiveness so characteristic of the sex, she had not been long in divining the cause.

Taking advantage of an opportunity one evening when alone together, and the work of the day was over, she mentioned the subject to her husband.

"Have you noticed how quiet and reserved our chap Fellows has been lately?"

"Yes, I have, Bess; it seems difficult to get a word out of him."

"What do you suppose to be the cause?"

"Well, I have thought at times he was in love with that girl of Russell's."

"And if he is, I can't see the reason for his going about moping as he appears to be doing."

"Nor can I; although I know how hard it is to understand the goings on of two people in love."

"I'm sure it's not because there is any difficulty on her side. She is quite as much in love with him as ever he is with her. It's a case where the man has only got to ask to have."

"I wonder whether he has said anything yet to Jessie on the subject?"

"Well, you need not wonder long, for I can tell you that he has not."

"How do you know that, Bess?"

"Why, of course, from the girl herself. Having a women's natural curiosity, and exercising that privilege which my age gives me, I asked her if there was anything between them, and she assured me there was not."

"Well then, I'll tell you what my opinion is, wife; the chap has got something else on his mind which troubles him."

"What makes you think that?"

"Little things I have noticed from time to time; but more especially the few words dropped when he first came here, to the effect that his had been a wasted life. He said, if I remember right, that he had disgraced a good name, and now wanted to hide and escape recognition."

"Have you ever tried to gain his confidence?"

"No, Bess, for I have always felt a delicacy about it. In my opinion, the confidence that is worth the name, should be given willingly, and not forced."

"A little encouragement might not be thrown away,--natures, you know, are so different."

"Well, the very next opportunity that offers I will endeavour to draw him out."

Not many days after this conversation had taken place, Ranger was seated with Fellows, at the close of the day's labour, outside the house, smoking their pipes, which seemed to offer the opportunity the former was waiting for.

Breaking the silence which had reigned for some time, Ranger started by saying--

"Look here, Fellows, you have been here now sufficiently long to know that I am not the sort of chap that is anxious to pry into the private affairs of other people, and therefore what I am about to say is not with any desire to gratify an idle curiosity."

"That I am quite prepared to believe," he replied; "and anything you want to know, which I am able to tell, I shall be quite ready to do."

"Well then, to come to the point at once, from your manner of late I should judge you have something on your mind which is troubling you. Am I right?"

"Suppose I have! What then?"

"Why, my boy, it will relieve your mind if you feel you can tell me what is troubling you. And who knows but that I may be able to help you, as I shall be willing to do if I can."

"Your kindness touches me, but I am afraid your offer will not avail me much."

"The way to prove that will be by letting me know your difficulty."

"My difficulty, farmer, is the story of my life, which recent events have brought more prominently before me. For some time I have felt that I needed a friend,--one in whom I could confide, and who would be capable of advising me.

"Well, all I will say is, that if you feel you can do so, you may trust me; and if I am not able to help you, you will find that Ranger is not a man to betray a trust reposed in him."

"I quite believe you, my friend; and as a proof of the opinion I had formed of you, I may say I have several times of late been on the point of opening my mind to you, but something or other has occurred to prevent my doing so."

After pausing awhile, he proceeded--

"When I came over to this country, I left, away up in the north of England, a widowed mother and sister with the full conviction that I had met my death by drowning. This is how it happened: I was travelling for a well-known firm of manufacturers in the Midlands, and had been absent on the Continent for some months. I had collected a lot of money on their account, when I was tempted one evening, with a so-called friend, to visit one of the many gambling hells which abound in most Continental cities. I was persuaded to play, and under the influence of the cursed drink, and the excitement of the game,--in which I met with some success at first,--I was led to plunge recklessly; until, when at length I was induced to leave, I found that I had lost heavily, and, what was worse, it was not my own money I had lost. In returning I had formed no clear idea as to what I was to do about the money lost, until, on board the boat I was travelling by, an event occurred which in a moment shaped out my course.

"During the passage, which was a rough one, a man fell overboard. The alarm was given, the engines were at once slowed down, and a boat was lowered, and for an hour every effort made to recover him. It was unavailing, as the body was not found.

"I had seen the man who was lost, and had been led to notice him rather closely, from the fact of his having taken up what I regarded as a dangerous position, with such a sea as was then on, in the stern of the vessel. So that when, from the sheltered position in which I was standing on the cabin stairs, I saw him fall over, I blamed myself that I had not warned him of the danger he was in.

"Whilst the attention of all on deck were engaged with the efforts being made to recover the body, a thought occurred to me which I at once proceeded to give effect to.

"I hastened down below, sought out the bunk in which I had seen the missing man during the morning,--it was next but one to my own,--and, as I remembered he was about my own age and size, I felt little hesitation in changing my own clothes for such of his as I found there, and with the result that, by remaining silent as to what I knew, on my clothes being found where his had been, and with papers in the pockets proclaiming who they belonged to, it was reported that I had been lost; whilst nothing, so far as I was able to learn, appears to have ever been said about the real man who was drowned, so that he must have had very few friends to inquire after him.

"Having thus effaced myself, I resolved to expatriate myself for fear of being discovered, and that is how I come to be here."

"A very infamous ruse on your part," said Ranger, who had listened with attention to all that Fellows had been relating. "Have you never written to let your mother know that you were alive?"

"No; I have always felt that that would be too risky a proceeding."

"Well, since this must have been a great trouble to you, and a burden on your mind ever since you went wrong, what circumstance has given rise to your present anxiety?"

"You may well ask, since, but for what has lately arisen, I should not have sought to inflict upon you my life's sad story."

"Out with it then, man, and make an end of the matter!"

"The simple fact is, I have formed what some would consider, in my circumstances, a mad attachment to Jessie Russell."

"No need to be ashamed of that, my boy! She's as fine a girl, and as good a girl, as can be found anywhere this side of the Rockies!"

"That thought, if anything, only increases my difficulty. You see, at present she is quite ignorant as to my past; and my fear is that if I tell her what I feel she ought to know, she will be inclined to despise me, and refuse to listen to me. On the other hand, if the goodness of her heart should prompt her to overlook my past misdeeds, and to favourably consider my suit, the knowledge of my past will only serve to increase her anxiety on my account, and burden her with a load of care which silence on my part might materially lessen. I cannot make up my mind as to what to do."

Ranger refrained from giving any immediate reply, and appeared for a time to be lost in thought. After considerable reflection he said--

"I have no hesitation about the advice I am going to give. There is undoubtedly much force in what you urge, as to the advantages of concealing all that relates to your past life; but I look upon it, that the woman who is to be a man's wife ought to be one he can trust. They should both possess each other's confidence. There should, therefore, be no secrets between them. And especially to begin married life it forms a bad precedent.

"Besides, we none of us know what the future may turn up for any of us; and although what you have told me seems hidden away secure enough at present, it would be almost too much to say that no circumstance, or combination of circumstances, could ever bring the past to light. And since it would be not only very awkward, but might be the means of wrecking your happiness, if anything should cause the past to be revealed, I say, by all means risk the reception it is likely to meet with, and tell Jessie all you have told me. She has a right to know the kind of man who is asking her to marry him. She deserves to have every confidence placed in her; and, unless I am very much mistaken in her character, she is not likely to cause a man's past to be a bar to his future in the matter contemplated, if she has any regard for him."

"I am neither surprised nor disconcerted at your advice," was Fellows' rejoinder. "It is, in fact, just what I expected from you. It is counsel which is quite in accordance with my own feelings, and what my conscience tells me is the correct course to pursue. I feel strongly disposed to act upon it at once; but I will just let the matter rest where it is at present, whilst I think over what you have said."

"But there is still another bit of advice I should like to add, if I may," said Ranger.

"I think I can guess what that is,--still you may as well give it."

"Write at once home, and to your employers, a full account of all you have told me."

"Why? In order that a detective may be put upon my track?"

"That was not my idea. But if you fear such a result, then why not write your mother, and get her to call upon your firm with a statement from you, but without naming your present place of abode, and leave her to decide, after seeing them, whether it would be wise to let them know where you are?"

"I am very much obliged to you, farmer; but as what you have suggested will require very careful thought, and very delicate handling, I will let that stand over for further consideration. It has waited so long that no harm will be done by a still further delay."

"Except so far as your mother is concerned,--you do not know what state she may be in at present."

"Quite true! Yet-- Well, I will think it over, and let you know in a day or two."

It was with that understanding they separated.

But their rest would have been less easy had they known that all which had passed between them that night had been overheard, and was being treasured up for future use.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.*

"... Warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by, And overheard what you shall overhear." _Love's Labours Lost_, Act V. sc. ii.

Ranger's homestead had been erected on a clearing, in the midst of what at one period was a well-wooded stretch of country, thickly overgrown with the pine, balsam, maple, and other trees indigenous to the soil, interspersed with a rich undergrowth of luxuriant vegetation, the alternate growth and reproduction of ages.

The rear of this house, which all this wealth and prodigality of nature's productions extended up to, had been left untouched by the axe or saw of the invader, except where a narrow path had been cleared to admit of easy access to a patch of garden-ground beyond. Here and there a trailing creeper had been captured, until it seemed to have become part and parcel of the dwelling itself, so that at times it was not easy to decide where the house ended and the scrub or wood began.

If Ranger and his companion had been less intent upon the subject of their conversation, their attention might have been attracted by a suspicious movement, which occasionally agitated the undergrowth not far from where they were seated. It passed, however, unnoticed.

It was dark when they closed their conversation and entered into the house.

When, however, all was quiet around, the figure of a man might have been seen stealing stealthily away from amidst the thick bush which lay within a few feet of where the two men had been holding converse, and making towards a log-shanty, dimly discernible in the darkness on a piece of rising-ground beyond the circle forming the enclosure of the homestead.

It was the abode of the Bartons; and Charles, the younger of the two brothers, was the figure from the wood now to be seen entering the door.

The room was unoccupied, John having been sent on business to M'Lean Station, which would prevent his return until next day.

Procuring a light, and seating himself at a table, he seemed to be reflecting deeply. His thoughts were inspired by the conversation which had been passing between Ranger and Fellows, and to which it must be confessed he had been an attentive, because an interested, listener.

It was while passing through the bush behind the former's homestead, on his way home, at the close of work for the day, that his attention had been arrested by the mention of a name which caused him to stop, and gradually but quietly to draw as close to the speakers as he felt it would be safe to do. On discovering the nature of the conversation, he did not hesitate remaining concealed, in such a position, however, as would enable him to hear the whole of what was passing.

Charles Barton, for some time a silent admirer of Jessie Russell, had been only waiting a favourable opportunity to declare his passion.

But Jessie was not a girl who would willingly afford any young man the opportunity so desired, if she had the slightest suspicion that it was being looked for. She was no prude, yet she was not a flirt; and that, in an unsettled region where men were in abundance, whilst the women were few and far between, was saying a great deal in her favour.

She had not failed to notice that several times of late Charles was to be seen lounging in the neighbourhood of her father's shanty, and this had caused her to still more carefully seclude herself from the rough settler's gaze.

Charles was a man with big ideas, but a small soul. The god he worshipped was _self_; and anything that seemed to stand in the way of self must be made to give place by fair means or foul. Scruples he had none, where _self_ was in question. He had learned this evening, for the first time, of the additional difficulty which lay in his path to Jessie Russell's affections. After long and careful reflection he made up his mind how he would endeavour to get that difficulty "entirely removed."

Having provided himself with pen and ink and paper, he sat down at the table and began to write rapidly. At the end of about an hour he had finished a letter, which lay folded, sealed, and addressed in front of him.

It bore the inscription--

Messrs. H. & E. Quinion Broadstone England.

It contained a statement of the confession he had that evening heard given by Fellows, with an intimation of where he was now to be found in case the firm felt any desire to possess that information.

After hinting at sources of further information, it concluded with an urgent request that the writer's name, which was communicated in strict confidence, as a proof of _bona fides_, should be kept a profound secret.

How to get this letter posted without its destination becoming a topic for conversation, was the difficulty which next presented itself.

For several days he was at a loss to know how to overcome this obstacle to the success of his scheme.

On the fourth day after the events narrated, Ranger announced his intention of riding over to Wolseley Station on business which would detain him until the evening of the next day.

It was too good an opportunity to be missed; so a few hours after the farmer's departure, securing a horse from amongst the many that are allowed free range without detriment, it being only imported horses of the better class which, as a rule, are stabled, he soon had it saddled, and was off for "Indian Head," where he expected to find a post-box convenient, into which his letter might be dropped.

After a couple of hours' sharp ride, he entered the little town, where, without much difficulty, he discovered the object of his search.

Having accomplished his mission, and given his horse breathing time, he set out on his return. The moon had not yet risen, but the stars shone out in a clear sky; and objects were plainly visible on the road to be traversed.

Mounting the crest of a hill, he was proceeding at an easy trot to descend a winding pathway which led on to the plains, when something--it was never known what--caused the horse to swerve and stumble, and the next minute, before its rider could recover himself, he was pitched forward with the horse on top of him.

Recovering his feet without much difficulty, the horse stood for a few moments, and then, as if it had taken in the situation, galloped off in the direction of home.

Barton was stunned by the fall, and lay on the road insensible.

Two hours passed before the man showed signs of returning consciousness. Then the keen wind which blew across his face, as he lay extended on the ground, caused a tremor to pass through his body, and opening his eyes he endeavoured to sit up, but at first the pain which the effort inflicted was so great he lay for a time trying to collect thoughts which were confused and scattered. A second effort was attended with more success, when he proceeded to make a careful examination of his limbs, to ascertain what, if any, injury had been sustained.

Satisfied with the result that no bones had been broken, yet suffering intensely from a sprained ankle and an injured knee-joint, which he found would prevent him standing, let alone attempting to walk, he realised that however desirous he might be of making progress, there was nothing for it but to remain where he was, with what fortitude he might be able to summon to his support.

By dint of a little exertion he managed to crawl on to the bank at the side of the track, and there, against the trunk of a large oak, he prepared to make the best of his position, in the hope that help of some kind would sooner or later turn up.

He had lain there some time--dozing between whiles--when he became conscious of sounds as of the distant grind of heavy wheels, and the slow measured tread of horses' feet. Listening intently, he soon made it out to be a waggon-team, which he judged to be from some neighbouring homestead, on its way to one of the stations,--M'Lean or Indian Head,--and, as subsequently proved to be the case, with produce to be railed on to Regina or Winnipeg. When within range of his voice, Barton had little difficulty in arresting the attention of the teamster, who, stopping his horses and dropping the reins, quickly dismounted, and, with lantern in hand made his way to the side of the track from whence the sounds proceeded.

The position of affairs was explained, when, calling his companion to help him, they together lifted the all but helpless man into as comfortable a position as it was possible to make for him in the waggon, an operation which was only accomplished with considerable difficulty, seeing that nearly every inch of space was well occupied with farm produce of a marketable kind.

Indian Head--his destination--was reached as daylight began to break, when, handing Barton over for the time being to some of the railway officials, he had just sufficient time left to get his load transferred to one of the empty trucks in waiting, before the whistle sounded and the heavily loaded train steamed out of the station on its way to Regina, distant about some forty miles farther.

Having successfully accomplished the object he had in view, the waggoner--a farmer whose homestead was but a few miles off the rail--next proceeded to question Barton as to what was to be done with him.

On learning that he was one of Ranger's men, and that Ranger could probably be found at Wolseley, having intended to stay the night there, he at once decided to send on a wire in the hope of intercepting him there and getting him to take Indian Head as his route home in order to pick up Barton.

In the course of the morning a reply came to say he would be there; and late in the afternoon Ranger drove up, not a little surprised at discovering who it was that was awaiting him, as well as the condition he was in.

Having had the injured man transferred to his own conveyance, he mounted and drove off.

On reaching home, he found an uneasy feeling had been spreading at the prolonged absence of Barton, especially when it got reported that a horse, saddled and bridled, had been found grazing, which it was believed must have been the one Barton had started out upon the evening before, and which had apparently returned riderless; but where his rider had been left, no one had any means of telling, since it did not appear to be known in which direction he had gone.

The farmer's return with the missing man at once put an end to all doubts, and, with as little delay as possible, he was conveyed to his own shanty, where both his sprained ankle and damaged knee received the attention needed, so that he was soon able to resume his usual duties on the farm.