Читать книгу Alton of Somasco - Harold Bindloss - Страница 5

It was chilly and damp in the log-walled living-room of the Townshead homestead, which stood far up in a lonely valley amidst the scattered pines. The room was also bare and somewhat comfortless, for the land was too poor to furnish its possessor with more than necessities, and Townshead not the man to improve it much. He lay in an old leather chair beside the stove, a slender, grey-haired man with the worn look of one whose burden had been too heavy for him. His face was thin and somewhat haggard, his long, slender hand rather that of an artist than a bush rancher, and his threadbare attire was curiously neat. He wore among other somewhat unusual things an old red velvet jacket, and there was a little cup of black coffee and a single cigar of exceptional quality on the table beside him.

Townshead was, in fact, somewhat of an anachronism in a country whose inhabitants exhibit at least a trace of primitive and wholesome barbarity. One could have fancied him at home among men of leisure and cultivated tastes, but he seemed out of place in a log-built ranch in the snow-wrapped wilderness swept by the bitter wind. Perhaps he realized it, for his voice was querulous as he said, “I wonder if you have forgotten, Nellie, that we were sitting warm and safe in England five years ago tonight.”

Nellie Townshead looked up quickly over her sewing from the other side of the stove, and for a moment there was something akin to pain in her eyes. They were clear brown eyes, and it was characteristic that they almost immediately brightened into a smile, for while the girl’s face resembled her father’s in its refinement, there was courage in it in place of weariness.

“I am afraid I do, though I try not to, and am generally able,” she said.

Townshead sighed. “The young are fortunate, for they can forget,” he said. “Even that small compensation is, however, denied to me, while the man I called my friend is living in luxury on what was yours and mine. Had it been any one but Charters I might have borne it better, but it was the one man I had faith in who sent us out here to penury.”

Townshead was wrong in one respect, for it was the weakness of an over-sensitive temperament which, while friends were ready to help him, had driven him to hide himself in Western Canada when, as the result of unwise speculations, financial disaster overtook him. His daughter, however, did not remind him of this, as some daughters would have done, though she understood it well enough, and a memory out of keeping with the patter of the snow and moaning of the wind rose up before her as she looked into the twinkling stove. She could recall that night five years ago very well, for she had spent most of it amidst lights and music, as fresh and bright herself as the flowers that nestled against her first ball dress. It was a night of triumph and revelation, in which she had first felt the full power of her beauty and her sex, and she had returned with the glamour of it all upon her to find her father sitting with his head in his hands at a table littered with business papers. His face had frightened her, and it had never wholly lost the look she saw upon it then, for Townshead was lacking in fibre, and had found that a fondness for horses and some experience of amateur cattle-breeding on a small and expensive scale was a very poor preparation for the grim reality of ranching in Western Canada.

Presently his daughter brushed the memories from her, and stood, smiling at the man, straight and willowy in her faded cotton dress with a partly finished garment in her hands, which frost and sun had not wholly turned rough and red.

“Your coffee will be getting cold. Shall I put it on the stove?” she said.

Townshead made a little grimace. “One may as well describe things correctly, and that is chickory,” he said. “Still, you may warm it if it pleases you, but I might point out that, indifferent as it is, preserved milk which has gone musty does not improve its flavour.”

The girl laughed a little, though there was something more pathetic than heartsome in her merriment. “I am afraid we shall have none to-morrow unless Mr. Seaforth gets through,” she said. “I suppose you have not a few dollars you could give me, father?”

“No,” said Townshead, with somewhat unusual decisiveness; “I have not. You are always asking for dollars. What do you want them for?”

“Mr. Seaforth has packed our stores in for a long while, and we have paid him nothing,” said the girl, while a little colour crept into her face.

Townshead made a gesture of weariness. “The young man seems willing to do it out of friendship for us, and I see no reason why we should not allow him, unless he presumes upon the trifling service,” he said. “To do him justice, however, he and his comrade have always shown commendable taste.”

The girl smiled a little, for considering their relative positions in a country where a man takes his station according to his usefulness the word “presume” appeared incongruous. “Still, I should prefer not to be in their debt,” she said.

“Then we will free ourselves of the obligation with the next remittance Jack sends in,” said Townshead impatiently.

The girl’s face grew troubled. “I am afraid that will not be for some little time,” she said. “Poor Jack. You surely remember he is lying ill?”

“It is especially inconvenient just now,” said Townshead querulously. “It has also been a sore point with me that a son of mine should hire himself out as a labourer. I am sorry I let him go, the more so because the work upon the ranch is getting too much for me.”

Nellie Townshead said nothing, though she sighed as she pictured the young lad, who had been stricken by rheumatic fever as a result of toiling waist-deep in icy, water, lying uncared for in the mining camp amidst the snows of Caribou. She did not, however, remind her father that it was she who had in the meanwhile done most of the indispensable work upon the ranch, and Townshead would not in any case have believed her, for he had a fine capacity for deceiving himself.

In place of it she spread out some masculine garments about the stove and coloured a trifle when her father glanced at her inquiringly. “The creek must be running high and Mr. Alton and his partner will be very wet,” she said. “I am warming a few of Jack’s old things for them. They cannot go back to Somasco to-night, you know.”

“I confess that it did not occur to me,” said Townshead languidly. “No, I suppose one could scarcely expect them to, and we shall have to endure their company.”

A faint sparkle that had nothing to do with laughter crept into the girl’s eyes, for there were times when her father tried her patience. “I wonder if it occurred to you that we shall probably starve to-morrow unless Mr. Alton, who is apparently not to be paid for it, makes what must be a very arduous march to-night?” she said.

“I’m afraid it did not,” said Townshead, with a fine unconcern. “I think you understand, my dear, that I leave the commissariat to you, and you have a way of putting things which jars upon one occasionally.”

A little trace of colour crept into the girl’s cheek, but it faded again as she sat down beside the stove. Still, now and then she pricked her fingers with the needle, which she had not done before, and finally laid down the fabric and laughed softly. “There is,” she said, “something distinctly humorous in the whole position.”

“You,” said her father, “had always a somewhat peculiar sense of humour.”

“Well,” said his daughter with a slight quiver of her lips, “I feel that I must either cry or laugh to-night. Do you know there is scarcely enough for breakfast in the house, and that I am dreadfully hungry now?”

Townshead glanced at her reproachfully. “Either one or the other would be equally distasteful to me,” he said.

The girl sighed, and turned away to thrust a few small billets into the stove. She chose them carefully, for the big box whose ugliness she had hidden by a strip of cheap printed cotton was almost empty. The hired man, seeing no prospect of receiving his wages, had departed after a stormy interview, and shortly after his son followed him. Townshead discovered that sawing wood was especially unsuited to his constitution. Then the girl increased the draught a little and endeavoured to repress a shiver. The house was damp for want of proper packing, and the cold wind that came down from the high peaks moaned about it eerily. It was also very lonely, and the girl, who was young, felt a great longing for human fellowship.

Her father presently took up a book, and there was silence only broken by the rattle of loose shingles overhead and the soft thud against the windows of driving snow, while the girl sat dreaming over her sewing of the brighter days in far-off England which had slipped away from her for ever. Five years was not a very long time, but during it her English friends had forgotten her, and one who had scarcely left her side that memorable night had, though she read of the doings of his regiment now and then, sent her no word or token. A little flush crept into her cheek as, remembering certain words of his, she glanced at her reddened wrists and little toil-hardened hands. She who had been a high-spirited girl with the world at her feet then, was now one of the obscure toilers whose work was never done. Still, because it was only on rare occasions that work left her leisure to think about herself, it had not occurred to her that she had lost but little by the change. The hands that had once been soft and white were now firm and brown, the stillness of the great firs and cedars had given her a calm tranquillity in place of restless haste, and frost and sun the clear, warm-tinted complexion, while a look of strength and patience had replaced the laughter in her hazel eyes.

Suddenly, however, there was a trampling in the snow and a sound of voices, followed after, an interval by a knocking at the door. It swung open, and two whitened objects loaded with bags and packages strode into the room. The blast that came in with them set the lamp flickering, and sent a chill through the girl, but she rose with a smile when rancher Alton stood, a shapeless figure, with the moisture on his bronzed face, beside the stove.

“Take those things through into the kitchen, Charley,” he said. “I think we’ve got them all, Miss Townshead. I hope, sir, you are feeling pretty well.”

Townshead made some answer with a slight bend of his head, but Alton appeared a trifle dubious when the girl offered him hospitality.

“I’m afraid the beasts are used up, or I wouldn’t think of it,” he said.

Nellie Townshead’s eyes twinkled as she glanced at him. “Could you not have put it in another way?” she said.

Alton laughed, and brushed his fingers across the top of the stove. “Well, it doesn’t sound quite right, but after all the meaning’s the great thing,” he said. “This place isn’t warm enough for you, Miss Nellie.”

He turned and walked to the wood-box, and after glancing into it carefully straightened out its covering. Then he strode towards the door, and stopped a moment before he opened it. “Excuse!” he said simply. “No, don’t you worry; I know just where the saw and lantern are, and Charley, who comes from the old country, can talk to you for me.”

He went out in another moment, but the fact that he was very weary did not escape the attention of the girl, who also noticed the absence of any unnecessary questions or explanations. Alton was, she knew already, one who did things the better because he did them silently. Still, it was Seaforth whom, when nobody observed her, her eyes rested most upon.

It was half an hour before the former returned with a load of scented firewood upon his back, and, saying nothing, filled the box with it, packing each piece where it best fitted deliberately but swiftly; then he passed through the room into an adjoining one, and returned attired picturesquely in Jack Townshead’s overalls, which were distinctly too small for him. By this time supper was ready, and Seaforth, also dressed in borrowed garments, seated at the table, but though Miss Townshead had not lost the stamp of refinement she brought with her from England. and her father was dignified and precise, Alton showed no embarrassment. He also listened patiently to Townshead’s views on ranching and the mining prospects of that region, though he was already looked up to as a master of the former industry, and contrived meanwhile that the girl made a good meal instead of attending to him. When it was finished he unfolded a carefully wrapped up packet, and took an envelope out of it, though Miss Townshead noticed that several others he laid down were crumpled and wet.

“Here is a letter for you,” he said.

He glanced at the girl questioningly as she took it up, and fingered one of the envelopes upon the table. “Excuse?” he said.

Nellie Townshead smiled and nodded, and then, knowing that the communication handed her was of no importance, watched him covertly as he tore open a long blue envelope. There were documents inside it, and the man’s fingers shook a little as he spread out one of them. Then bewildered astonishment crept into his eyes, and was replaced by a flash of something very like anger, after which his face grew suddenly impassive, and he thrust the documents all together into his pocket.

“Get up, Charley, and bring the tray along,” he said.

Miss Townshead glanced at him sharply. “What do you wish to do?” she said.

“Wash up,” said Alton simply. “I don’t know how you fix these things in England, but this is a good Canadian custom. Stir around, Charley.”

“But,” said the girl, “you don’t know where the things are.”

“Well,” said Alton, smiling, “I figure I can find them.”

He laid the cups and dishes on the tray, gave it to Seaforth, and disappeared down a passage carrying the kettle, but not before Miss Townshead had noticed that while his comrade, who had apparently been used to the smoother side of life in England, displayed some awkwardness, everything the big rancher did seemed appropriate, and, because removing plates is not a man’s task, she wondered at it. They came back presently, and by that time the girl, who had opened some of the packages, held a roll of fabric upon her knee.

“If you can find a splash anywhere I’ll forfeit a dollar. Charley’s good at mopping up,” said Alton gravely. “I’m afraid that stuff’s a little wet, but it was the Cayuse’s fault. He started in kicking and burst the rope, you see.”

“It would have been wetter if it had gone into the lake,” said Seaforth.

“The lake?” said the girl.

Seaforth nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It was on the Tyee trail the pony commenced kicking.”

The girl looked up sharply, and there was a subdued brightness in her eyes, for she had more than once shivered when leading her horse along that perilous trail. Alton felt for his comrade’s leg under the table and kicked it grievously.

“There wasn’t any trouble, and the snow was soft,” said he. “You’re going to make a dress of that stuff, Miss Nellie?”

“Yes,” said the girl. “I could, however, wish the stuff was better.”

Alton smiled gravely. “Of course!” 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.”