Part 2

It was high noon, and eight bells had just struck. Black clouds hid the sun from view. The wind was blowing in gusts from the north, whilst the white-crested waves were dashing and breaking over the vessel as she laboured through the trough of the billows, or mounted the crests of the foaming waves. The deck was continually being swept by the rolling seas, so that, with but few exceptions, all the passengers were closely confined below; but the exceptions seemed to be, like those stormy petrels sailors tell us are to be met with in mid-ocean, enjoying what they pleasantly described as "the fun."

The good ship was just succeeding in again making headway through the troubled waters, after clearing herself of a huge wave which had seemed as if it would engulf her, when a cry was heard from the stern of the vessel, "Man overboard!" The engines were at once stopped, the vessel's head brought round to windward, and, notwithstanding the nature of the sea prevailing, everything got ready for lowering a boat when the order should be given.

"Lower away, men!" came from the captain. And the next moment the ship's lifeboat was tossing on the crest of the waves, but pulled by strong arms, with a skilled hand at the helm. The crew, and those on deck who witnessed this scene, were full of eagerness and anxiety as to the result. It was, however, felt from the first to be an almost hopeless quest; and so in the end it proved, for after half an hour's vain search, during which time it was with difficulty the rowers kept their boat from being swamped, it was hoisted in with its living freight, and the vessel again headed for the English coast.

The intelligence of the disaster had rapidly spread through the ship, and now the question on the lips of everyone capable of attending to anything but their own condition was, "Who is it?" But this no one seemed able at present to give a reliable answer to.

After a careful inquiry had been instituted amongst the passengers, attention became concentrated upon the last arrival on board. The captain remembered to have seen him in conversation with one of the passengers during breakfast, and to have caught occasional snatches of the topics under discussion; but since then neither captain nor any of the passengers remembered to have seen him, nor could a careful examination of all on board succeed in bringing him to light. No one appeared to have noticed him on deck, and yet his absence seemed undoubtedly to point to the fact that he must be the missing man; but who he was, and whether his death was to be attributed to accident or design, none were able to say.

Later in the day an overcoat was discovered stowed away in one of the bunks, which none of the passengers could identify as belonging to them. On a careful scrutiny of the pockets, papers were found which seemed to point more definitely to the identity of the lost man. When, therefore, the _Kestrel_ at length reached her moorings in the Thames, and made her report to the proper authorities, it was taken charge of by the local police, and the matter was left with them to investigate.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*RAILTON HALL.*

"Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides." _King Lear_, Act I. sc. i.

"Come, Jennie, it's time you began to think about retiring."

"Yes, mother; in a minute," responded the young girl thus addressed.

"But do you know, child, that it is ten o'clock? an hour that is quite too late for more minutes to be allowed."

"I know, mother, but I do so want to finish what I am reading."

"You have been intent on that book for the last two hours," replied the mother,--"so intent, that you have scarcely spoken a word since you commenced; and if you sit at it much longer you will be ill to-morrow, and unable to get up when the time comes. So put it away, and go at once."

Thus fairly admonished, the girl addressed closed her book, not without evident reluctance, and prepared to obey her mother's injunction.

Mrs. Sinclair had been a widow about five years, her husband having died, after a painful and lingering illness, just as he had reached what is generally looked upon as the prime of life. Being well provided for, as soon as affairs could be settled, and her house and belongings disposed of, she left the neighbourhood in which they had for years resided,--and, with her two children, a girl and boy, now her sole charge,--to take up her abode amidst her native hills, a few miles outside the city of Aberdeen.

Her son Ralph had been given a position of some promise in the firm of H. & E. Quinion, Broadstone,--where his father had long held a high and honourable post,--with the prospect of a junior partnership in the course of a few years, in the event of all things going on satisfactorily.

Jennie, who had not yet reached her sixteenth year, was tall for her age, well proportioned, and, although not what would generally be called handsome, was an attractive girl. And the bright, clear grey eyes, beneath a more than usually broad and expansive brow, indicated a degree of intelligence which was not slow in displaying itself.

The house in which they dwelt was one of those old-fashioned ones so often to be met with outside our large towns and cities, possessing no apparent design in its construction, through the numerous additions and alterations from time to time made, to suit the convenience or taste of successive tenants, without any regard for harmony or unity.

Spacious and convenient, it was also rambling and not handsome. Surrounded by extensive grounds, and well wooded, it was hidden from view of the ordinary traveller, but well known to the residents around,--who were frequent visitors at Railton Hall,--as well as to cottars and villagers, with whom Mrs. Sinclair kept up a close acquaintance.

"What time do you expect Ralph in the morning, mother?" asked Jennie, as she prepared to retire for the night.

"The train is due at Aberdeen at nine-forty-five, and if it keeps time we may expect him here about ten-fifteen," said her mother. "I have ordered Donald to have the trap ready to drive me to the station to meet him at that hour; so we breakfast at eight-thirty."

"Very well, mother; then I will tell Alice to call me at eight"; and with a good-night kiss the young girl left the room.

Before following her daughter's example, Mrs. Sinclair drew a letter from her pocket bearing a foreign postmark, to read--not for the first time--the intelligence which was already well impressed upon her memory--

"DEAR MOTHER,--I leave Antwerp to-morrow morning at six o'clock, and hope to return by the night mail, due in Aberdeen at nine-forty-five the next morning. Your loving son, RALPH."

With fond anticipations of the morning, the anxious mother retired to rest.

* * * * *

The morning broke in the midst of a proverbial Scotch mist, and everything presented a damp and uncanny appearance, calculated to produce a depressing influence upon minds expectant and anxious.

Mrs. Sinclair had spent a restless and uneasy night, thinking of him she hoped so soon to clasp in a motherly embrace. Her son had been absent now some months, travelling on the Continent, on business for the firm by whom he was employed, and the nearer the time of his return, the greater was the mother's agitation and anxiety; so that it was only by a supreme effort she was enabled to control her feelings and maintain an outwardly calm appearance. Breakfast was all too rapidly despatched for full justice to have been done to it, and mother and daughter mounted the trap, which Donald drove with all needful speed to the station, where they found they had still some time to wait.

The train was late in arriving, but when it drew up at the platform eager and anxious glances were directed on each passenger as he alighted. They failed, however, to discover the one they were in search of; and when at length the platform was deserted, they had reluctantly to admit that Ralph had not travelled by that train, but what could have prevented his doing so they were utterly at a loss to conjecture.

*CHAPTER V.*

*VISIONS OF THE KLONDYKE.*

"Much have I travelled in the realms of gold."--KEATS.

When Arnold reached home in the evening, from Broadstone, he felt anything but pleased on learning that visitors had arrived and were awaiting his return. Tired and disappointed, he would have preferred being left to his own thoughts; but this was a privilege which for the present, at least, he found he had to forego. The first greetings over, his little wife informed him that his cousins from Jersey had arrived about an hour before him.

"They are on their way to Liverpool, bound for the Klondyke," she added.

"Where are they staying?" asked Arnold.

"I have not asked them that," she replied, "as I wanted to hear what you thought about our trying to accommodate them here for three nights, so as to save them the expense of going to an hotel."

"But you know how very limited is the space at our disposal, my dear!"

"True," said Mrs. Arnold; "but it is not for long, and no doubt they will be much better pleased."

"Well, if you feel that you can manage it, and they are willing to accept what accommodation we have to offer, I shall be quite prepared to fall in with whatever arrangement you like to make."

"Very well; then I have no doubt we shall be able to settle matters to their satisfaction. And now, dear, you had better go and change your things, and make yourself look spruce, and then join us in the drawing-room, which will leave me at liberty to see to the supper."

Later in the evening, when the proposals of Mrs. Arnold for the disposal and accommodation of the cousins were laid before them, they were only too pleased to avail themselves of the offered hospitality.

John and Charles Barton, whose ages were respectively twenty-three and twenty-seven years, had worked on a small farm which their father rented until the old man died, which event happened three or four years prior to the present period. For the past three years they had continued it on their own account, but, failing to make it pay, they had sold everything off and resolved to emigrate. It was just about this time that the Klondyke successes began to be all the talk, and so taken were they with the marvellous stories related of that region that they determined to try their fortune on its inhospitable shores. Their purses were not too well lined, nor their prospects sufficiently promising, to render them independent of any little help or assistance they might meet with from friends on their way.

"What port are you bound for, Jack?" inquired Arnold.

"We go to Montreal, and thence by Canadian and Pacific line across the American Continent to San Francisco."

"Isn't that the longest way there?" asked Arnold.

"That is so; but then it is by far the easier. All accounts are pretty unanimous in depicting not only the danger but the difficulties of the so-called Chilcoot Pass."

"But what about the White Pass?"

"That appears to be the worst of the three, since it leads through a very rough country, over steep hills, through swift streams, and over a pass which, although said to be one thousand feet lower than the Chilcoot, is declared by surveyors to be two hundred feet higher. And as it is longer and more difficult we have thought it best to take the river route."

"What is the difference in the matter of time over--say the Chilcoot route?"

"The time of starting may be somewhat later, as we shall have to wait until it is known that the navigation of the Yukon River is opened."

"What distance have you to travel on the Yukon?"

"To Dawson City is one thousand seven hundred and fifty miles; and from San Francisco to Dawson City, which is altogether about four thousand five hundred and nine miles, the Steamship Companies estimate the time needed for this journey at thirty days, whilst through or over the passes it varies from fifty to seventy days."

"Probably more often seventy than fifty days?"

"No doubt of it."

"And I suppose the river route has other advantages besides?"

"Oh, decidedly! Our luggage, for example, has not to be carried, or packed, as it would have to be if we went to Skagway, Dyea, or some one of the ports leading to the passes."

"That, of course, is a consideration, as well as a great saving in comfort and convenience."

"Exactly; for you must remember that with several hundred pounds weight of goods on the beach, it would be no very easy matter arranging and carrying out all the details necessary for transferring them over the mountains to the head-waters of the Yukon."

"No; I daresay you are right," added Arnold.

"Well, we have studied the matter, and, after careful thought, have no doubt whatever that although it may mean some delay at San Francisco or St. Michael's, waiting for the opening of navigation, and the possibility of arriving a little later at the 'diggings,' we shall not be worn out and fagged as we should be if we risked our goods and lives over the Chilcoot Pass."

"And you think you can stand the climate?" asked Arnold.

"We intend to try," was Jack's response. "Mr. Ogilvie, who was commissioned by the Canadian Government to make certain explorations on their behalf in that region, and who spent some eleven years off and on there, says, 'I know many Englishmen from all parts of England who have been in it, five, six, and even twelve years, without being injured by the cold. No one that I know of, taking proper care of himself, has ever been hurt by the rigour of the climate.'"

"All I can say is," wound up Arnold, "that I sincerely hope you may find it to be the El Dorado you are anticipating, and return home millionaires."

Three days later the cousins took their departure for Liverpool, and in due course embarked on board the outward-bound steamer for Montreal, full of hopeful anticipations of that future in a new land which imagination seldom fails to surround with a halo of romance.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS.*

"Things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike." _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act III. sc. xi.

To the outward observer the London business of H. & E. Quinion was unchanged. The carriages of its wealthy patrons stood outside, as for years had been the custom, whilst their titled occupants paraded round the palatial show-rooms, frequently with a desire to gratify the eye by a sight of the many objects of artistic beauty to be seen, rather than for the purpose of purchasing the wares exhibited. City men called on their way to business, gave their orders, and, without unnecessary delay, departed. Ladies entered later in the day, with little to do and plenty of time at their disposal, taking up the time of the patient salesmen, wearying them with needless questions, and compelling them to pander to their little whims and fads. But the undercurrent of dissatisfaction and annoyance which prevailed, together with the feeling of uncertainty and unrest which had been created, were not matters of concern for the general public, and therefore remained

"Unrevealed to mortal sense."

Yet they were influences which were working, and working prejudicially, for all concerned.

Scarcely a month had elapsed since the announcement of Mr. Houghton's retirement, when Roberts was called into the manager's office, and informed that the firm had resolved to dispense with his services, and that the notice was to take effect in a month from that day. It was not without much hesitancy, and a display of no little emotion, that the venerable manager communicated this very unwelcome piece of intelligence. Its effect on Roberts may be better imagined than described. It was a crisis which he had never for one moment anticipated; and it filled him with astonishment and dismay. As soon as he had somewhat recovered from the shock which it naturally gave him, his first inquiry was for the reason of this; when he was informed that the firm desired to make certain changes, in order to reduce the expenses of the London establishment, and that Gregory had also received a similar notice.

"But, sir," said Roberts, "what does the firm expect I am going to do?"

"They don't say," was the reply of Mr. Houghton, in a tone of helplessness.

"Well," added Roberts, "I should never have expected such treatment from a firm standing so high as this does in the opinion of all who have any knowledge of it."

"And a few months ago I should have expressed a similar opinion," said the manager; "but circumstances have changed."

"Changed! I should think they have!" exclaimed Roberts. "When a wealthy firm such as this is can say to a man who has been in their employ upwards of a quarter of a century--with whom they find no fault, but simply to enable them to reduce expenses--you are to leave us in a month! it is anything but a fair or honourable way of treating a man at my time of life."

"I deeply regret to be the bearer of such a message to you," said Mr. Houghton, "and can only advise you to write the firm, and fully express your views and feelings on the subject."

Acting upon this advice, Roberts at once wrote a long but respectful letter to the firm at Broadstone, setting forth the hardship of the position in which he was thus suddenly placed; the difficulty which a man of his years would experience in obtaining another situation; and suggesting that he be allowed an interview with the firm at Broadstone before such a drastic measure was put into force.

In course of post a reply was received declining the suggested interview, on the ground that it would be useless, since before arriving at their decision to act as they had done every circumstance had been fully considered; and whilst they recognised the value of the services which had been rendered, and had no fault to find with him, they must decline to reconsider an act the consequences of which had been well thought over before being made known.

This was cold comfort for a man in Roberts' position.

The day his notice expired a cheque arrived, which the manager handed him, with expressions of regret that such a course had been found necessary. The cheque was equivalent to two months' salary.

Thus at the age of fifty, after spending the best years of his life in the service of the firm, Roberts found himself thrown upon the world, with no stain upon his reputation, compelled to commence again the battle of life, and to join the ranks of the large army of the unemployed.

Such treatment is an evil of long standing, and is a tyranny which the poor and defenceless have to suffer from the wealthy.

"In the interest of the firm" was the only plea which could be urged for the course pursued. But the happiness, the future, the health, nay the very life, of the man concerned, were all nothing, and might well be sacrificed to the grasping capitalist "_in the interest of the firm_."

*CHAPTER VII.*

*FAR WEST.*

"To the West, to the West, to the land of the free."--HENRY RUSSELL.

Some thirty miles or more from the banks of the Qu'Appelle River, the scenery is wild and romantic. Winding creeks abound, into which are projected rocky promontories; deep ravines, formed by enormous boulders of red and grey granite, the beds bestrewn with the bones and relics of the former inhabitants of this vast country; stunted poplars, or weedy willows, with a varied undergrowth of wild fruit-bushes, contribute to form an impenetrable undergrowth and an almost pathless bush.

Still farther inland, the "rolling prairie" meets the traveller's view--a waving grassy expanse, which, when set in motion by the wind, is like nothing so much as the boundless ocean, of which nearly all writers agree it most vividly reminds them.

Towards the close of a Canadian summer's day, a solitary horseman might have been seen pursuing his weary way along the banks of a winding creek some few miles from the Qu'Appelle. An Englishman, not more than thirty years of age, well mounted; his cord breeches and hunting-boots, and a rifle slung across the shoulder, gave him an appearance of having some acquaintance with a settler's wild life.

Human habitations were only to be met with at long intervals, when occasionally a hunter's shanty made itself visible amongst the trees. Out on the prairie were to be seen log-houses and shanties here and there; and some twenty or thirty miles distant, eastward, the indications of a little town, only just faintly visible on the far horizon.

The jaded condition of both man and steed were unmistakable signs of the many weary miles which had been passed in the saddle, and it was with a feeling of relief that he espied a substantial-looking range of log buildings, marking out their owner as a man of some means, who must have made his way, and succeeded in overcoming the initial difficulties of a settler's life.

The deserted look of the place was not, at first sight, encouraging. As, however, he drew in rein at the door of the house, its owner--a man apparently in the prime of life--advanced to meet him. Dressed in a suit of homespun garments, remarkable for their ease and convenience rather than their elegance, his good-humoured and good-tempered looking face gave every indication of a hearty welcome awaiting those who happened to be in need of it.

"Good evening, friend," said the settler, as the rider jumped from his horse, retaining hold of the reins with a loose hand. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a stalwart-looking youth who had made his appearance from a row of wooden shanties which formed the stabling of the settlement, "take and put up this gentleman's horse. See that he has a good rub down before feeding, for he looks pretty well done up."

"And so I should think he was," said his owner, "since it is about seven hours since our last halt for rest or refreshment of any kind."

"Come in, come in, my friend; and we will soon see what the larder has to put before you."

"Well, if I may so far trespass upon Canadian hospitality, I shall only be too glad to accept anything you may be able to offer me."

"Rely upon it that Canadian hospitality will never be backward in giving a right good hearty welcome to travellers from the Old Country, whom fortune or misfortune may bring to our shores."

"Your words," said the tired horseman, as he followed his guide into the house, "have a true British ring in them, which makes one feel at home at once."

"Well, I don't want it ever to be said that James Ranger was the man to turn away the stranger needing help from his door."

Rough and unfinished in appearance as most of the appointments about the place seemed, there was yet that air of comfort and cleanliness which is the marked characteristic of nearly all Canadian houses. A living-room with a kitchen attached--the walls of which had been rendered smooth with endless coats of whitewash--formed the downstairs apartments. In the centre of the room was a rough deal table, on which a tidy white cloth was being spread by a comely-looking, matronly woman well past forty. A couple of cushioned rocking-chairs stood one on each side of a capacious fireplace, and two or three ordinary chairs, neatly cushioned, against the wall. In one corner was a serviceable chest of drawers, with a few books on the top; whilst in front of the window was a small but substantial-looking table, having all the appearance of being home-made, on which a pot with a flower in it was standing. The floor was painted yellow, and partly covered with rag carpets and rugs.

Seating himself, without waiting for any further invitation, our traveller at once proceeded to divest himself of his boots, preliminary to that rest and ease so necessary after a hard day's ride.