Part 9

"Provided the necessary capital can be found, next to good health, what is most needed is a good equipment. The mounted police who have been sent there are all right, because they have been well provided by the Government with food and clothing. Women and children stand the climate; and all reliable testimony is to the effect that the climatic drawbacks are trivial to those who are well equipped."

"It appears to me," said Russell, "that for the inexperienced, and those who know little or nothing of roughing it, to venture into such a region as the Yukon is known to be at its best is the extreme of folly. Under the most favourable conditions it offers so many hardships, that those who have not what the Yanks call 'grit,' and endurance, should keep out of it."

"I quite agree with all you say," replied Fellows. "Yet I think," he added, "that much of the mischief and hardships we hear about have been due to the mode of travelling and the routes taken."

"Which, then, do you regard as the better way to go?"

"Certainly not through the passes over the mountains, in which so many hundreds are said to have met their deaths."

"How then would you propose getting there?"

"By what is now known as the 'All-Water-Route,' up the Yukon River to Dawson City."

"But isn't that a long and tedious way, which, if commenced when navigation opens, is completed so near the end of the season that you have practically no time left for operations that year?"

"I think that was so," said Fellows, "when the rush first began, but the conditions have now been rendered far more favourable."

"Is that so?" asked Russell.

"The agents say that through the passes it takes from forty to seventy days to get from San Francisco to Dawson City; but by the 'All-Water-Route,' although you have to start later from the same port, the time taken need never exceed about four weeks; so that with more comfort and convenience, at the cost of less time, you really reach Dawson City sooner than by means of what may be termed the overland route."

"Well, when I've got a couple of hundred pounds to spare I may think more seriously about the desirability of running the risk, but at present I have not the means, and therefore, however great the facilities, it's no use my thinking much about it."

"That would be my difficulty likewise," said Fellows; "and it is one, too, which it will take the Bartons some time to overcome, I'm thinking."

"My opinion," said Jessie, "is, that if the majority of men who are never satisfied with what they have, but who are ever ready to run after the latest craze, would develop the same amount of energy in trying to improve their position amid existing circumstances as they do when they find themselves in the midst of fresh scenes, with new surroundings, there would be less dissatisfaction and more success in life at home than is usually considered possible."

"Quite true, Miss Russell," replied Fellows; "and I suppose it must be put down as a man's weakness."

"Still, if a weakness, not one that is, or should be regarded as, wholly incurable."

"Yet 'What will Mrs. Grundy say?' is an influence quite as strong in operating upon men as upon women."

"What a misfortune! It seems a sad admission to have to make."

"It is, however, unfortunately too true, since the opinions which others form of us enter very largely into the rule of conduct regulating our daily life. It is seldom until old age begins to overtake us, that men assume that independence of the world's frowns and sneers which alone enables them to act and speak upon sound principles, regardless of consequences."

The time had passed so pleasantly and rapidly that they were not a little surprised to find it was long past the usual hour for retiring.

After a hasty "Good-night," Fellows went home, well pleased with what he had seen and heard, and more than ever determined to make an opportunity, at no distant date, for a confidential talk with Jessie Russell.

*CHAPTER XXII.*

*"DEAD, BUT IS ALIVE AGAIN."*

"Alive again? then show me where he is." _Henry VI._, Part II. Act III. sc. iii.

Mrs. Sinclair had been slowly, yet gradually, recovering from the long illness which had followed upon the news of her son's death, and the terrible revelations with respect to his conduct preceding.

The habits of her small household had of late been considerably disarranged, so that since her illness she had become accustomed to having her morning meal served in her bedroom. As the season advanced, her indisposition to struggle against the growing love for this indulgence became more marked, until it had almost become a recognised habit which it would have been difficult to overcome.

Autumn tints had already begun to tinge with their brilliant hues the lovely summer foliage, which the rough winds were rapidly stripping from twigs and branches, exposing them to all the effects of dews and damps, the chills and frosts of northern skies.

It was a chill October morning, and the sun had not yet attained sufficient power to dispel the mist which hung over the face of nature, as the result of the heavy dew which had fallen.

Jennie, after visiting her mother as usual, had descended to see that her breakfast was sent upstairs at the accustomed hour. A letter addressed to her mother was lying on the table in the hall, which she was surprised to find bore the Canadian postmark. The handwriting did not suggest the writer, so, curbing her curiosity, and carrying it with her, she placed it upon the tray which the maid was already waiting to take up to Mrs. Sinclair's room.

Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed when her mother's bell was rung so violently that Jennie determined to answer it herself.

On entering her bedroom she saw that her mother had fainted.

The breakfast had not been touched, but tightly grasped in her clenched hands was an open letter--the one which had that morning been received.

By the application of a few simple restoratives, with which her daughter seemed perfectly familiar, consciousness soon began to return.

As she opened her eyes, what was Jennie's astonishment to hear her exclaim, "My boy! my boy! Where is Ralph?"

The letter which had been held so tenaciously now lay upon the bed, as it had fallen from her nerveless hand. Picking it hastily up, the daughter looked to see who it was from, and with a surprise which was almost overwhelming, saw the well-known signature of her brother Ralph at the end.

A flood of tears relieved the elder woman, in the midst of which she exclaimed, "Read it, Jennie!--The letter!"

In a state of excitement almost beyond description she proceeded to do so. It was a long letter, and took her some time to get through. It was indeed from her brother--the brother they had long mourned as dead, but who, it appeared, was alive and well in a distant land.

Acting upon the advice which Ranger had given him, he had written a full confession of his conduct, omitting nothing, and not attempting to excuse himself in the least degree, nor to say anything which would tend to palliate the acts of which he had been guilty. He did not fail to express how keen and bitter was the regret he felt at the sorrow he had caused the fond mother whose love for her boy he was deeply sensible of, and could never by any possibility hope to repay. He was unwilling to return home and take the consequence of his acts, not so much because he dreaded the punishment, as that he was fearful of the additional suffering it would entail upon those he still so much loved. He therefore concluded by requesting his mother to see his late employers, let them see all he had written, but to conceal from them the place where he was living.

By the time Jennie had finished reading the contents of the letter, both women had obtained sufficient control over their emotions as to be able to hold converse together.

"My poor deluded boy!" was one of the many exclamations of a similar character with which the mother continually sought to relieve her overburdened mind.

"Poor boy! what he must have suffered! Now mind, Jennie! not a word of this to anyone, but ascertain at once the time of the trains to Broadstone, that I may arrange the most convenient one to travel by; and I must get you to go with me."

"But I think, mother, it would be better to wait a day or two until you have got over the shock the letter has given you, or you will not be in a fit condition to see the people at Broadstone."

"Well, see how the trains serve first, and after I am up I shall be better able to talk about when we may start."

Having rung for the maid, and instructed her to send for a time-table, she proceeded to assist her mother to dress.

* * * * *

The next morning, soon after seven o'clock, Mrs. Sinclair and her daughter started by an early train, due at Broadstone--a station on the main line--shortly before eight o'clock in the evening, which was duly reached, after a fatiguing journey, only some half-hour late.

A telegram, despatched at starting, had secured them apartments at the railway hotel; to these, on their arrival, they at once retired, and, after partaking of an early supper, sought that rest they each so much stood in need of.

The wind, which had been blowing in fitful gusts throughout the journey, grew in intensity as the day wore to its close, and as the night advanced it increased to the force of a hurricane. The poorer class of inhabitants trembled for the security of their little dwellings, not usually constructed in the most substantial manner. And as it swept round corners, or drove through old chimney-stacks, dislodging insecure pots on its way, the whistle became a roar as it rushed down the chimneys, or beat with fury against window-panes, which every now and then seemed on the point of yielding to the vehemence of the gale; many were the would-be sleepers whose nerves were kept on the rack, unable to rest amid the strife of elements which prevailed.

As the morning dawned the wind dropped, and rain fell in torrents.

The two ladies, in their strange apartments, with such a raging storm outside, passed a very restless and almost sleepless night, so that they felt but little refreshed when the time for rising arrived.

Breakfast over, and as the rain continued to descend in torrents without any apparent indications of its early cessation, although the distance to be traversed was trivial, they ordered a cab to be at the door by eleven o'clock, in which they duly made their appearance at the offices of the factory in Broadstone.

Finding the partners were to be seen, they sent up their cards, and, instructing the cabman to wait, were ushered into the private office of the firm, where the two gentlemen were seated.

After greeting them with that warmth and friendliness which is a marked feature in the character of the natives of the Midlands, and which also, from the long-standing friendship existing, might naturally have been anticipated, they sought to know the nature of the special business to which they felt so unexpected a visit was due.

Speaking with much emotion, and not without a strong effort to control her feelings, Mrs. Sinclair, whose pallid features bore vivid traces of unmistakable suffering, said--

"I yesterday received a letter which, when I show you, will, I expect, be as much a surprise to you as it was to myself and daughter."

Pausing for a few moments, as she searched in her pocket for the letter referred to, she added, as soon as the important document was brought to light, "If you will kindly read this, it will fully explain the object of my visit much better than I should be able to do."

Taking the letter which was offered them, they sought and obtained permission to retire into an inner room, where it might be perused without fear of interruption.

On their return, after the lapse of some ten minutes, the younger of the two men remarked;--

"No doubt, Mrs. Sinclair, you were greatly surprised at the news which this letter brought?"

"So much so, sir, that I fainted; and it was some time before I was fully able to recover myself."

"I can well believe it. But you will, no doubt, be still more astonished when I tell you that we are already in full possession of all which that letter reveals, and a little more."

"You certainly do surprise me, sir, since I cannot see how you could have obtained the information, which my son alone was in possession of, since he begs in that letter that it may be communicated privately and confidentially to you."

"As a proof, we can tell you his address when he wrote was at Ranger's Ranch, M'Lean Station, Assiniboia, North-West Canada."

"You will have noticed the address at the top of his letter has been cut away; this I did at his request, that you might not at present be informed as to where he is to be found."

"Yes; and we could not help smiling as we observed what had been done."

"But," said Mrs. Sinclair, much agitated, "may I ask how you obtained your information?"

"Certainly," replied Mr. Quinion. "It is now six or seven weeks ago since we received a letter from a person in Canada, who, although giving us his name, has requested that it may not be made known, conveying just such information as the letter you now bring contains."

"Then it would be useless to ask you for the name of your informant?" said Mrs. Sinclair.

"Well, without the writer's permission it would scarcely be honourable on our part to do so."

"Does he state how he came by the knowledge of what he writes you?" inquired the mother.

"Yes; he states that it was a confession he overheard your son make, but to whom, or under what circumstances, is not mentioned."

"Does he give any reason for writing to you as he has done?"

"All he says on that point is, that he thought it right to do so, in case we should like to know."

"It cannot be regarded as a friendly act," Mrs. Sinclair, after some hesitation, found herself able to say.

"No; that is how we regarded it," said Mr. Quinion quietly.

"May I ask," inquired the mother, with some anxiety, "if you have taken any action in the matter?"

"Well, this is what we have done: through our solicitors here, we instructed agents in Canada to inquire fully into the truth of all the letter contains; to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the person referred to is the one in whom we have any interest; the character of the person who has written to us, and the motives which would probably cause him to act as he has done. We are expecting by every mail to receive this agent's report, as by it we propose being guided in the course we ought to adopt."

"Oh, my dear friends! I do hope," said Mrs. Sinclair in anguished tones, "you will not think of having my poor boy prosecuted?"

"That is a matter, Mrs. Sinclair, on which we have arrived at no decision at present," was Mr. Quinion's reply.

"Oh, but is it not possible to let matters remain as they are, without reference to the report you speak of?"

"We do not say that we shall take any action upon it; at the same time, as men of business, as well as in consideration of what is due to society, we shall wait at least this report we are expecting."

"But can't you, gentlemen, for the sake of the long and honourable career of his father, as well as for my sake, and that of my daughter, give up all idea of having him arrested? It would be the death of me, I know; and I feel sure you have no wish to see that take place."

"In that you only do us justice, Mrs. Sinclair; and if it be at all possible, you may rely upon our sparing your feelings, as we have no vindictive aims to gratify."

"If it is the amount my misguided boy has robbed you of which is the difficulty, and its payment will prevent the prospect of harm coming to him, I will willingly realise everything I possess, even if it beggars me, in order that my son may be saved!"

"Don't for a moment think of it, my dear madam; for under no circumstances should we accept the payment you speak of, as that would be to compound a felony. We either prosecute or pardon."

"Oh, let me, let me prevail upon you to decide now, at once!" reiterated Mrs. Sinclair.

"Pray do not say anything more, Mrs. Sinclair, but leave the matter where it is; and trust us, that in whatever we decide we shall endeavour to do that which is right and best for all parties."

It being clear that nothing further was to be gained at present, the ladies rose and took their leave, after receiving an assurance that on the arrival of the report for which they were waiting, they would, without loss of time, let them know their decision.

Returning to their hotel, they ordered luncheon, and announced their intention of departing by the afternoon train, which would enable them to arrive home by breakfast-time the next morning.

On reaching home, the mother's first concern was to ascertain the date of the next Canadian mail out, which she learned was two days hence.

Her next act was to write a very long and loving letter to her boy, giving a full account of her visit to Broadstone and its result. And whilst it was full of sorrow and regret for the past, there was not a word of upbraiding, but expressions of gratitude and joy for the welcome news which had practically given back to her a son previously mourned as dead.

In addition to stating the surprise she experienced on learning that his late employers were in full possession of the information she had come to impart, she could not refrain from adding, that as there was still doubt as to what their intentions might be, on receiving the report for which they were waiting, she must urge him to think very seriously of the desirability of getting clear away from his present station before it might be too late to do so.

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*THE STORY EVER NEW.*

"Let her speak of me before her father."--_Othello_, Act I. sc. iii.

"Good afternoon, Miss Russell," was the greeting which Jessie received one Sunday afternoon, as, on rounding a bend of the hill, on the other side of which was Ranger's homestead, she was suddenly brought face to face with Fellows, who was rapidly advancing along the track which led to her father's log dwelling.

The air was laden with the refreshing, invigorating scent of the pines from the wood towards which she was wending, but the rapidly falling leaves, and the changing hues of autumn, were everywhere giving indications that summer was nearly over, and that Mother Nature would soon be arrayed in more sober attire, befitting the wintry season of chill and gloom.

Jessie was accustomed to ramble on a Sunday afternoon, when the midday meal had been despatched, whilst her father indulged himself with his pipe, or sat and dozed in a chair at the door of his little shanty, which overlooked the small patch of garden in front.

"I was on my way to call upon you," added Fellows, "so that I am very glad to have met you."

"Father is all alone at home," said Jessie, as the colour mounted to her cheeks.

"If my company is not likely to prove irksome," he added, "I should much prefer a walk with you."

"Rather an unusual request," added Jess, "but I suppose I ought not to object."

After proceeding in silence for some moments, Fellows said, "I have been wanting to have a quiet talk with you, Miss Russell, for some time, and now the opportunity presents itself I scarcely know how to begin."

Jessie, whose face had suddenly become the colour of scarlet, could find no words with which to help him; therefore, after a brief pause, he proceeded to tell her of the feelings he entertained towards her, and the hope he cherished that she might be disposed to give his suit a little favourable consideration.

Whatever writers of romance may say to the contrary, out of an extreme desire to invest their heroines with qualities and attributes which, as a rule, ordinary mortals do not possess, it is seldom that a declaration such as Jessie heard this afternoon can be truthfully said to be altogether unexpected. Words may never pass to convey the intelligence, nevertheless there is a subtle magnetism in the language of the eye which telegraphs to the loved one, more vividly and more surely than words could express, the feelings with which each regards the other. So that generally, long before the declaration is made which is supposed to reveal the feelings with which the man regards the woman, she has discovered it all, and been waiting, expecting the inevitable to happen.

Except during his long illness, when Jessie had carefully and faithfully nursed him back to convalescence,--an illness, be it remembered, which had been brought about by his self-denying efforts on her behalf, in rescuing her from a position of considerable danger,--she had had but few opportunities of seeing him, or being thrown into his society. Few and brief, however, as many of those interviews had proved, they had not been without leaving their effects behind. The eyes as they had looked into each other's faces, or caught stolen glances which were thought to be unobserved, had given rise to thoughts and feelings too subtle for words to express, and too sacred even for themselves to admit, during that process of introspection which from time to time went on.

Jessie, therefore, whilst perfectly conscious in her own heart that the young fellow now by her side was entertaining feelings for her which might eventually find expression in words, was quite unprepared for the meeting this afternoon, and for what was in truth the sudden declaration of his affection for her.

Jessie, it may be added, was a woman possessing a fair amount of common-sense, yet of an ardent and enthusiastic temperament,--capable of loving intensely an object worthy of her affections.

The period which had elapsed since attaining womanhood had been so brief, that she was not yet quit of many of the high ideals and romantic notions with which lovers are wont to invest the heroes or heroines they are in search of; but her rough prairie-training, added to the common-sense shrewdness of her character, had enabled her to see that marriage ought not to be regarded as such a thing of chance as to be left dependent upon the fancied love, growing out of the attractions of a pretty form or a lovely face, calculated as they are to bewitch and bewilder the first enamoured noodle that casts his glances upon them.

It was, therefore, in tones of some hesitation that she expressed the opinion that they had scarcely known each other long enough, or seen sufficient of one another, to be able to judge as to their suitability for such an important arrangement.

"I was fully prepared for something like that, Jessie--if I may call you that?" said Fellows.

"Well then, don't you think it would be better for me to defer any answer at present?" she naively asked.

"I don't think so, my dear--and yet----" After some hesitation he added, "How can I venture to tell you all that is on my mind? and yet I feel it would not be fair on my part to win, perhaps, your consent to my suit, without first placing you in full possession of the facts in my past life, which may seriously affect your decision."

"But if the opinion I have been led to form of you be a correct one, it cannot be anything of which you need be ashamed or afraid to tell me."

"Ah, Jessie!" he exclaimed in mournful tones, "I am afraid you have estimated me too highly."

"Tell me, then," she added somewhat eagerly, her moistening eyes betraying only too plainly the anxiety she felt, yet was loath to reveal.

Thus encouraged, Fellows at once confided to her the story of his past life, which was much to the same effect as had been narrated to Ranger, and overheard by Barton, from the place where he lay concealed.