Alton of Somasco. Harold Bindloss
he said. "Still, it don't count for much. You would look like a picture in anything."
Nellie Townshead glanced at him sharply, and for a moment there was a faint sparkle in her eyes, for she had a trace of temper.
"Whatever made you say that?" said she.
Alton laughed. "I really don't quite know. I just felt I had to," he said with a naive simplicity. "I wouldn't have done it if I had thought it would vex you."
After this he listened while his comrade talked—and Seaforth on occasion could talk gracefully—until at last he said, "England's not so very big, Miss Nellie. I wonder if you know a place called Carnaby."
"Yes," said the girl. "I once went to see rather a fine old hall there."
"Carnaby Grange?" said Alton quietly.
"Yes," said the girl with a trace of curiosity. "We spent some little time in the grounds. They lie deep in the woods, and there is a famous rose garden."
"Yes," said Alton. "All kinds of roses. And the old place? Tell me about it!"
"Is very picturesque," said the girl. "It looked quiet and grey, and almost stately under its ivy that autumn day, but I could scarcely describe it you. You have nothing like it in Canada."
"No," said Alton gravely. "I have seen nothing like it in Canada. But wasn't there a lake?"
The girl glanced at him curiously. "There was," she said. "I remember it lay shining before us between the woods. It was very beautiful, quieter and calmer than our lakes in Canada."
A slight flush crept through the bronze in Alton's face, which grew a trifle grim, and a light into his eyes. "There is a lake at Somasco where you can see the white peaks lie shining, and the big Wapiti come down to drink," he said. "There are cedars and redwoods about it which except for a few in California, haven't their equal in the world, but there's nothing about that lake or valley that's quiet or calm. It's wild and great and grand. No. They've nothing of that kind in the old country. Are not Abana and Pharfar better than all the waters of Israel?"
"Apposite!" said Townshead. "You apparently read the Scriptures?"
"Sometimes," said Alton simply. "They get hold of me. Those old fellows went right down to the bed rock of human nature back there in Palestine, and it strikes me there's no great difference in that between now and then."
"When," said Townshead smiling, "I was a King in Babylon."
"No," said Alton reflectively. "You're a little late on time. The
Christian slave don't quite fit in."
Townshead glanced at him sharply, and said nothing, for the rancher had once or twice already somewhat astonished him.
"Well," said Alton, "tell me, Miss Nellie, were the lilies where the ashes hung over the lake? I want to know all about Carnaby."
The girl seemed somewhat thoughtful, and a trifle astonished, but she made the best use of her memory, and Alton listened gravely. "Yes," he said. "I seem to see it. The rose garden on the south side, the big lawn, and the lake. There's a little stream on the opposite side of it that comes down through the fern from the big beech wood."
"But," said the girl, "how could you know that?"
"I think I must have dreamt it," said Alton gravely. "Or perhaps my father told me. He used to talk of Carnaby, and I feel I know it well."
The girl stared at him in her wonder. "But what is Carnaby to you?" she said.
Alton rose up, and stood still a moment, somewhat grim in face. "It
should have been my father's, and now when I don't know that I want it,
I think it's mine," he said. "Anyway, I'm kind of tired, and I think
I'll turn in. Excuse me."
He went out, and Nellie Townshead glanced at his comrade. "Do you know what he means?" she said.
Seaforth smiled and shook his head. "I've never seen Harry taken that way before," he said. "Still, we'll hope he'll be better to-morrow. He has been through a good deal to-day."
Miss Townshead did not appear contented, but she changed the topic.
"Then what did you mean when you spoke about the dress packet?"
"I'll tell you," said Seaforth, "if you don't tell Harry. Well, when the packet slipped down to the edge of the big drop I'm not sure that the price of two ranches would have induced most men to follow it."
"But why did Mr. Alton go?" said the girl, with an expression which was not quite the one the man had expected to see in her face.
Seaforth smiled. "He may have fancied you wanted it. Anyway, Harry is a little obstinate occasionally, and when a thing looks difficult he can't resist attempting it. In the language of my adopted country that's the kind of man he is. Now I think I had better go after him, because I fancy he wants soothing after that last speech of his."
CHAPTER III
HARRY THE TEAMSTER
The sun was on the hill slopes, and there was a dazzling glare of snow, when Miss Alice Deringham stood with her travelling dress fluttering about her on the platform of the observation car as the Pacific express went thundering down a valley of British Columbia. The dress, which was somewhat dusty, had cost her father a good deal of money, and the hat that was sprinkled with cinders had come from Paris; while the artistic simplicity of both had excited the envy of the two Winnipeg ladies who, having failed to make friends with Miss Deringham during the journey, now sat watching her disapprovingly in a corner of the car. The girl was of a type as yet not common in Western Canada, reserved, quietly imperious, and annoyingly free from any manifestation of enthusiasm. She had also listened languidly to their most racy stories with a somewhat tired look in her eyes.
They were, however, fine eyes of a violet blue, and gold hair with a warmer tinge in it clustered about the broad white forehead, while the rest of the girl's face was refined in its modelling, if a trifle cold in expression and colouring. Miss Deringham was also tall, and as she stood with one little hand on the rail and the other on the brim of the hat the wind would have torn away from her, her pose displayed a daintily-proportioned figure. The girl was, however, as oblivious of her companions as she was of the dust, and her eyes were at last keen with wonder. She had seen nothing which resembled the panorama that unrolled itself before her as the great mountain locomotives sped on through the primeval wilderness, and the wild beauty of it left a deeper mark on her because her Canadian journey had been more or less a disappointment.
Alice Deringham had tasted of the best that England had to offer in the shape of sport and scenery, art and music, and had grown a little tired of it all; while, when her father had announced his intention of crossing the Canadian Dominion, partly on an affair of business and partly for the benefit of his health, she had gladly accompanied him in the hope of seeing something new. Deringham was a promoter and director of English companies, but his daughter having the fine disdain for anything connected with finance which occasionally characterizes those who have never felt the lack of money, asked him a few questions concerning one object of his journey. She only knew that the Carnaby estate, which would in the usual course have reverted to her, had been unexpectedly willed to the son of a man its late owner had disinherited, on conditions. The man, it appeared, was dead, and Deringham desired to see whether any understanding or compromise could be arrived at with the one son he had left behind in Western Canada.
To become the mistress of Carnaby Hall would have pleased Alice Deringham, but, as she had already realized there was no great hope of that, she had prepared to enjoy her Canadian journey. It had, however, fallen short of her expectations. Ontario reminded her of southern Scotland, and there was nothing to impress one who had seen the Highlands when the cars ran