The Hunted Outlaw, or, Donald Morrison, the Canadian Rob Roy Part 2

CHAPTER VIII. HARD TIMES AT HOME.

Life is hard in the Megantic district. A very small portion of the land is susceptible of cultivation. The crops are meagre, and when the family is provided for, there is very little left to sell off the farm. Money is scarce. There is very little to be made in lumber.

When Donald went away there was a debt against his farm. He sent from time to time what he could spare to wipe it off. But the times were bad.

Donald's father got deeper into debt. The outlook was not encouraging.

"I wish Donald would come home," the old man frequently muttered. "I wish he would," his mother would say, and then she would cry softly to herself.

Poverty is always unlovely.

Too often it is crime!

CHAPTER IX.

"Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care."

"DEAREST DONALD,--I received your kind letter. That you are doing well, and saving money for the purpose you speak of, it is pleasant to hear.

That you still love me is what is dearest to my heart. I may confess in this letter what I could scarcely ever say in your presence, that I think of you always. All our old walks are eloquent of the calm and happy past. When I sit beneath the tree where I first learned that you cared for me, my thoughts go back, and I can almost hear the tones of your voice. I feel lonely sometimes. Your letters are a great solace. If I feel a little sad I go to my room, and unburden my heart to Him who is not indifferent even to the sparrow's fall. Sometimes the woods seem mournful, and when the wind, in these autumn evenings, wails through the pines, I don't know how it is, but I feel tears in my eyes.

"And now, Donald, what I am going to tell you will surprise you. We are going away to Springfield, in Ma.s.sachusetts. A little property has been left father there, and he is going to live upon it. Location does not affect feeling. My heart is yours wherever I may be.

"G.o.d bless you, dearest.

"Your own

"MINNIE."

Donald read this letter thoughtfully.

"My father going to the bad, and Minnie going away," he muttered.

He rose from his seat, and walked the narrow room in which he lodged.

"I will go home," he said.

CHAPTER X. "BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME."

Donald Morrison is back to the simple life of Marsden again. Five years had changed him enormously. His figure had always promise of athletic suppleness. It was now splendidly compact. He left the type of the conventional farmer. He returned the picturesque embodiment of the far West. Perhaps, in his long locks, wide sombrero, undressed leggings, and prodigal display of shooting irons, there may have been a theatrical suggestion of Buffalo Bill.

The village folk accepted him with intense admiration. Here was something new to study. Had Donald not been to the great and wonderful Far West, so much the more fascinating because n.o.body knew anything about it? Had he not shot the buffalo roaming the plains? Had he not mingled in that wild life which, without moral lamp-posts, allures all the more because of a certain flavoring spice of deviltry? Every farmer's son in Marsden, Gould, Stornaway, and Lake Megantic, envied Donald that easy swaggering air, that frank, perhaps defiant outlook, which the girls secretly adored. Is it the village maiden alone who confesses to a secret charm in dare-devilism? Let the social life of every garrison city answer. The delicately nurtured lady's heart throbs beneath lace and silk, and that of the village girl beneath cotton, but the character of the emotion is the same.

"Oh, Donald, Donald, my dear son!"

Withered arms were round his neck, and loving lips pressed his cheek.

Donald's home-coming had been a surprise. He had sent no word to his parents. His mother was sitting in the kitchen, when he entered unannounced. For a moment she did not know him, but a mother's love is seldom at fault. A second glance was enough. It pa.s.sed over Donald the bronzed and weather-beaten man, and reached to Donald the curly-headed lad, whose sunny locks she had brushed softly when preparing him for school.

"Yes, mother," said Donald, tenderly returning her greeting, "I am back again. I intend to settle down. Father's letter showed me that things were not going too well, and I thought I would come home and help to straighten them out a bit. I have had my fill of wandering, and now I think I would like to live quietly in the old place where I was born, among the friends and the scenes which are endeared to me by past a.s.sociations."

"Oh, I wish you would, Donald," the old mother replied, with moist eyes.

"Your father wants you home, and I want you home. We're now getting old and feeble. We won't be long here. Remain with us to the close."

"Well, Donald, my man, welcome back," a hearty voice cried.

Upon looking round Donald saw his father, who had been out in the fields, and just came in as the mother was speaking. The two men cordially shook hands.

"My, how changed you are," the father said. "I would hardly know you.

From the tone of your letters, you have had an adventurous life in the West."

"Well," said Donald, "at first the novelty attracted. I was free. There was no standard of moral attainment constantly thrust in your face, and that was an enormous relief to me. You know how I often rebelled against the strictness of life here. But even license fatigues; the new becomes the old; and where there is no standard there is but feeble achievement.

I became a cowboy because that phase of life offered at a moment when employment was a necessity. I remained at it because I could make money.

But I never meant this should be permanent. The wild life became dull to me, and I soon longed for the quiet scenes from which I had been so glad to escape. I learned to shoot and ride, and picked up a few things which may be useful to me here. And now, father, let us discuss your affairs."

CHAPTER XI. "THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE."

It was Sat.u.r.day night in the village of Lake Megantic. The work of the week is done. There is a brief respite from labor which, severe and unremitting, dulls the mind and chokes the fountains of geniality and wit. The young men,--indeed, there was a sprinkling of grey hairs, too,--had gathered in the one hotel the village boasts of. There was a group in the little room off the bar, and another group in the bar-room itself. It was well for the host that the palates of his guests had not been corrupted by the "mixed drinks" of the cities. He steadily dispensed one article,--that was whiskey. It was quite superfluous to ask your neighbor what he would take. The whiskey was going round, and the lads were a little flushed. At the head of the room off the bar a piper was skirling with great energy, while in the centre of the room a strapping young fellow was keeping time to the music.

The piper paused, and drew a long breath. The dancer resumed his seat.

"I say, boys," said one of the party, "have you seen Donald Morrison since he came home?"

Oh, yes, they had all seen him.

"What do you think of him?" the first speaker asked.

"Well," said a second speaker, "I think he is greatly changed. He's too free with his pistols. He seems to have taken to the habits of the West.

I don't think we want them in Megantic."

"I saw him riding down the road to-day," said a third speaker, "and he was using the cowboy stirrups and saddle. Talking of his pistols, he's the most surprising shot I ever saw. I saw him the other day in the village snuffing a candle, and cutting a fine cord at twenty paces."

"He'd be an ugly customer in a row," remarked a fourth speaker.

"No doubt," said the first young fellow, "but Donald never was a disorderly fellow, and I think his pistol shooting and defiant air are a bit of harmless bravado."

The previous speaker appeared to be a bit of a pessimist. "I only hope,"

he said, significantly, as it seemed, "that nothing will come of this carrying arms, and riding up and down the country like a page of Fenimore Cooper."