The Hunted Outlaw, or, Donald Morrison, the Canadian Rob Roy Part 3

"By the way," interposed the first speaker, "did you hear that Donald and his father had a dispute about the money which Donald advanced when he was away, and that legal proceedings are threatened?"

No, none of the party had heard about it, but the pessimist remarked: "I hope there won't be any trouble. Donald, I think, is a man with decent instincts, but pa.s.sion could carry him to great lengths. Once aroused, he might prove a dangerous enemy."

The young man said these words earnestly enough, no doubt. He had no idea he was uttering a prophecy.

How surprised we are sometimes to find that our commonplaces have been verified by fate, with all the added emphasis of tragedy!

CHAPTER XII. MODEST, SIMPLE, SWEET.

Minnie is in her new home in Springfield.

Springfield is a village set at the base of a series of hills, which it is an article of faith to call mountains. They are not on the map, but that matters little. We ought to be thankful that the dullness of the guide-book makers and topographists has still left us here and there serene bits of nature.

Springfield had a church, and a school, and a post office, and a tavern.

It was a scattered sort of place, and a week of it would have proved the death of a city lady, accustomed to life only as it glows with color, or sparkles with the champagne of pa.s.sion. Minnie had never seen a city.

She was content that her days should be spent close to the calm heart of nature. She felt the parting with old friends at Lake Megantic keenly.

She murmured "farewell" to the woods in accents choked with tears.

All the a.s.sociations of childhood, and the more vivid and precious a.s.sociations of her early womanhood, crowded upon her that last day.

Donald occupied the chief place in her thoughts. He was far away. Should they ever meet again? Should their sweet companions.h.i.+ps ever be renewed?

The cares of her new home won her back to content.

Minnie's mother was feeble, and required careful nursing. Her own early life had been darkened by hards.h.i.+ps. When a young girl she had often gone supperless to bed. Her bare feet and legs were bitten by the cutting winds of winter. Her people had belonged to the North of Ireland. She herself was born in the south of Antrim. Her mother was early left a widow, without means of support. She worked in the fields for fourpence a day, from six to six, and out of this she had to pay a s.h.i.+lling a week for rent, and buy food and clothing for herself and orphan child. Her employer was a Christian, and deeply interested in the social and spiritual welfare of the heathen! When the outdoor work failed in the winter, she wound cotton upon the old-fas.h.i.+oned spinning-wheel, and Minnie's mother often hung upon the revolving spool with a fearful interest. Mother and child were often hungry. The finish of the cotton at a certain hour of the day meant a small pittance wherewith bread could be bought. A minute after the office hour, and to the pleading request that the goods be taken and the wages given, a brutal "No" would be returned, and the door slammed in the face of the applicant. This was frequently the experience of the poor woman and her child.

At least death is merciful. It said to the widow--"Come, end the struggle. Close your eyes, and I will put you to sleep."

Minnie's mother was adopted by a lady who subsequently took up her residence in Scotland, and a modest ray of suns.h.i.+ne thence continued to rest upon her life: but her early sufferings had left their mark.

Of her mother's life Minnie knew but little. What she perceived was that she needed all her love and care, and these she offered in abundant measure.

CHAPTER XIII. A LETTER FROM DONALD.

Minnie is in her little bedroom, and she is looking, with a shy surprise mixed with just a little guilt (which is sometimes so delicious), at her blushes in the gla.s.s. In her hand was a letter. That letter was from Donald. It had been handed to her at the breakfast table, and she had hastened to her room to have the luxury of secret perusal. With love there are only two beings in the entire universe. You say love is selfish. You are mistaken. Love loves secrecy. A blabbing tongue, the common look of day, kills love. The monopoly that love claims is the law of its being. If I transcribed Donald's letter you would say it was a very commonplace production. But Minnie kissed it twice, and put it softly in her bosom. The letter announced that he was home again, and that he would shortly pay her a visit. It just hinted that things were not going on well at home; but Minnie's sanguine temperament found no sinister suggestion in the words.

The letter had made her happy. She put on her hat, and, taking the path at the back of the house that joined that which led to the mountain, she was soon climbing to the latter's summit.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sunlight seemed new, and young, and very tender. The green of the trees was of that vivid hue which expresses hope to the young, and sadness to the aged. To the former it means a coming depth and maturity of joy; to the latter, the fresh, eager days of the past--bright, indeed, but mournful in their brevity.

Minnie sat down upon a rustic seat, and gave herself up to one of those delicious day-dreams which lure the spirit as the mirage lures the traveller.

She began to sing softly to herself--

"Thou'lt break my heart thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn; Thou 'minds me o' departed joys, Departed--never to return."

Why those lines were suggested, and why her voice should falter in sadness, and why tears should spring to her eyes, she did not know. To some spirits the calm beauty of nature, and the warm air that breathes in balm and healing, express the deepest pathos. The contrast between the pa.s.sion and suffering of life, and the calm a.s.surance of unruffled joy which nature suggests, pierces the heart with an exquisite sadness.

Poor Minnie, she sang the lines of "Bonnie, Doon," all unconscious that they would ever have any relation to her experience.

But Minnie would bear her grief, and say, "G.o.d is love."

She had never subscribed to a creed, and although Mill and Huxley were strangers to her, her whole nature protested against any system of which violence was one of the factors.

Minnie was simply good. When she encountered suffering, and found that it was too great for human relief, she would whisper to her heart, "By and by." What by and by meant explained all to Minnie.

We spend years upon the study of character, and the cardinal features often escape us. A dog has but to glance once into a human face. He comprehends goodness in a moment. The ownerless dogs of the village a.n.a.lyzed Minnie's nature, and found it satisfactory. They beamed upon her with looks of wistful love. She had them in the spring and summer for her daily escort to the mountain.

That was a testimonial of fine ethical value.

"Why, what am I dreaming about?" Minnie exclaimed, after she had sat for about an hour. "Why are my eyes wet? Why do I feel a sadness which I cannot define? Am I not happy? Isn't Donald coming to see me? Will we not be together again? Isn't the sun bright and warm, and our little home cheerful and happy? Fancies, dreams, and forebodings, away with you. I must run home and help mother to make that salad for dinner."

The world wants not so much learned, as simple, modest, reverent women, to sweeten and redeem it!

CHAPTER XIV. THE BEGINNING OF THE TROUBLE.

We will not afflict the reader with all the complexities of a dispute which for months exercised the Press, the people, and the Government of Lower Canada; which led to a terrible tragedy, and the invasion of a quiet country by an armed force which exercised powers of domiciliary visitation and arrest resorted to only under proclamation of martial law; and which, setting a price upon a man's head, resulted in an outlawry as romantic and adventurous as that of Sir Walter Scott's Rob Roy.

Certain large features, necessary to the development of the story, will be recapitulated.

Poverty has few alleviations. Where it exists at all it takes a malevolent delight in making its aspect as hideous as possible. Donald's father had got into difficulties. Donald had helped him more than once when he was in the West, and when he came home he advanced him a considerable sum. A time came when Donald wanted his money back. His father was unable to give it to him. There was a dispute between them.

Recourse was had to a money-lender in Lake Megantic.

The latter advanced a certain sum of money upon a note. In the transactions which occurred between Donald and the money-lender the former alleged over-reaching.

An appeal was made to the law.

In the Province of Quebec the law moves slowly. Its feet are shod with the heavy irons of circ.u.mlocution. It is very solemn, but its pomp is antiquated. It undertakes to deal with your cause when you have long outgrown the interest or the pa.s.sion of the original source of contention. Time has healed the wound. You are living at peace with your whilom enemy. You have shaken him by the hand, and partaken of his hospitality.

Then the law intervenes, and revives pa.s.sions whose fires were almost out. Before Donald's case came on, he sold the farm to the money-lender.

Donald claimed that the latter, in the transaction of a mortgage prior to the sale, and in the terms of the sale itself, had cheated him out of $900.

The sale of the farm was made in a moment of angry impetuosity. Donald regretted the act, and wanted the sale cancelled upon terms which would settle his claim for the $900.

The money-lender re-sold the farm to a French family named Duquette.

Popular sympathy is not a.n.a.lytical. It grasps large features. It overlooks minutiae.

Donald had been wronged. He had been despoiled of his farm. His years of toil in the West had gone for nothing, for the money he had earned had been put into the land which was now occupied by a stranger. This was what the people said. The young men were loud in their expressions of sympathy. The older heads shook dubiously.