Chapter 11

THE UNDELIVERED MESSAGE

The afternoon was slipping by when, some time after the capture of the steer, Alice Deringham sat waiting for Alton under a big fir. He had promised to take her out upon the lake, and the little breeze that stirred the cedars to drowsy music would, she knew, ripple the shining surface and render the capture of a big trout the less problematical. The trout of British Columbia are also at least equal to those of England in their faculties of discrimination and observation, and during the listless autumn days Miss Deringham's angling had not been especially successful. Still, though she not infrequently returned with an empty basket, the girl apparently retained an enthusiasm for it she had not always displayed at home.

The lake she declared was beautiful, and this was beyond contravention, while even when no splash disturbed its mirror-like shining she found it pleasant to slide across its black depths in a light canoe. She knew, and so did Alton, that under those conditions the silver and vermilion lure would have been quite as useful in the bottom of the craft, but the man usually seemed too content to lazily dip the paddle while the girl would lead him on to talk with judicious questions. Alton could on occasion talk well, displaying a vigour and freshness of thought which at the commencement had slightly astonished his companion, who found a curious pleasure in sounding this and that depth of his nature.

As a rule, he responded readily, and she was conscious of the same sense of power that a master of the organ might feel as his fingers touched the stops and keys. Alton had lived simply in close touch with nature, and though he had read much, his thoughts had something of the pristine purity and vigour of the land he dwelt in, and were in a fashion musical; but now and then the girl venturing overfar chanced upon a chord that rang harsh and discordant, and shrinking a little recognized, she fancied, the undertone of primitive barbarity.

On the afternoon in question she was, however, slightly angry with him. He had fixed no special time, but she had waited some while, and Alice Deringham preferred that other people should wait for her. She had also taken some pains with her toilet and though her attire was neat in place of ornate, its simplicity was the result of lavish expenditure and artistic selection. To some extent, and so far as she could ascertain it, it was also in accordance with the taste of the man who was to accompany her.

It was very still. Nobody moved in the clearing, though from beyond it rose the faint humming of saws, and the little breeze was heavy with a resinous fragrance. The log-house was silent save for an occasional clatter from the kitchen, where Mrs. Margery was apparently busy. Alice Deringham did not like Mrs. Margery, and had reason to believe the latter returned the feeling, though she had noticed that the somewhat grim old lady had a smile that was almost gentle for rancher Townshead's daughter. Presently the rattle of plates also ceased, and the girl found the silence exasperating. The time was slipping by, and there was still no sign of Alton.

At last, however, there was a thud of horsehoofs in the orchard, and a man rode out from among the trees, but Miss Deringham, who had risen with a smile, shut the fingers of one hand a trifle viciously when she saw that it was not Alton. The man sat loosely in his saddle, and his face was a trifle flushed when he pulled the horse up.

"Is Harry Alton anywhere around, miss?" he said, and the girl noticed that his voice was uneven.

"He may be here presently," she said. "I don't know where he is."

"I've a long way to ride, and can't wait for him," said the man, swaying a little as he gathered up the bridle. "There seems to be nobody around the place, and when he comes you might tell him to go up to Townshead's as soon as he can. Miss Nellie's wanting to see him, and it's Thursday."

"Thursday?" said Miss Deringham.

"Yes," said the man. "Harry will understand. There was some more about it, but I've forgotten it. Well, you'll tell him. I must be getting on."

He lurched when the horse started, and though most men are abstemious in that country, Alice Deringham decided that he was under the influence of alcohol. She also felt distinctly displeased with him for bringing his message before she and Alton had set out for the lake. It was a favourable afternoon for fishing, and not pleasant to reflect that her amusement must be deferred at the bidding of the girl from the ranch. Then she decided that as Alton would not have received the message had he come when she expected him, it would not make any great difference if he did not hear it until their return. Miss Deringham did not remember by what reasoning she arrived at that result, but it seemed to her distinctly more fitting that Miss Townshead should be the one to wait.

Ten minutes later Alton rode up at a gallop. "Sorry I couldn't come before, but I was over at Thomson's borrowing a new trolling spoon," he said. "Jimmy's too slow for anything, and I had to look at a span of oxen he'd been buying."

"It seems to me that leisureliness is a characteristic of the country," said the girl.

Alton glanced at her with a faint twinkle in his eyes. "Now if you feel vexed with me, look at the horse," said he. "Anyway, the canoe's ready and the lake all rippling, and I've one of the new flight-hook spoons."

Miss Deringham, who saw the spume upon the bit and the horse's whitened sides, smiled graciously, and decided that Nellie Townshead's message could very well wait until the evening.

"I will be ready in about five minutes," she said.

She kept the man waiting twenty, possibly because she believed it would be a salutary discipline, and was not displeased to notice that he stamped impatiently up and down. Then she went down with him to the lake, and it was dusk when they returned with several fine trout, in the state of content with each other which occasionally characterizes comrades in a successful angling expedition. They had also so much to talk about that Miss Deringham completely forgot the message, and her pleasure was only dissipated when she met her father alone for a minute. His pose expressed dejection and indecision as he came towards her along the verandah.

"You do not look well," she said.

"That," said Deringham dryly, "is quite possible. Things are not going well with me just now."

"Business worries?" said the girl.

Deringham nodded. "And domestic too, if the affairs of Carnaby come under that heading. In fact, I am hemmed in by difficulties I cannot see a way through, and to make it worse Alton will come to no decision until he has sent somebody over to report upon the property. I have wondered now and then if he was talking altogether at random when he told you that he was willing to give it you."

"Of course!" said his daughter, smiling outwardly to cover her indignation. "It would be preposterous to think that I could accept such a favour even if he had the slightest intention of relinquishing his claim!"

"Yes," said Deringham dryly. "Still, I fancy there are young women who would not disdain to be mistress of Carnaby."

The girl straightened herself a little, and the colour crept into her face. "Do not be foolish, father. You cannot fancy that the man was speaking seriously."

"I don't know," said Deringham. "I am not sure that he does himself, and if you do not, there is an end of the affair. Still, if there had been anything in the speech the possibility alluded to would have lifted a great load from me."

He said nothing further, but passed on, leaving the girl standing on the verandah with head bent a trifle, and a face that was less cold in colouring than usual. Presently, however, she stood upright suddenly as Alton came up the stairway, but not before he had seen her. After a swift glance at her he put his hand gently on her shoulder.

"You are in some trouble. Can't you tell me what it is?" he said.

Alice Deringham could just see his face in the moonlight, and it was gravely compassionate, but there was in it, none of the personal admiration she had sometimes noticed there, which had its effect upon her attitude towards him. He was, she felt, sorry for her because she was a woman menaced by some difficulty, and that she should be an object of pity to this bush rancher stung the pride, of which she had a good deal. Had he tendered his sympathy because she was Alice Deringham it is possible that she would have told him something, though not exactly the simple state of the case. As it was, however, she shook his hand off, and looked at him with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Why should you suppose that, and venture to presume upon it?" she said.

"Would it be presuming?"

"It would," said the girl very coldly.

"Then," said Alton, "you can't tell me?"

"No, of course not. Is there any reason why I should?"

Here at least was an opportunity, but if the man desired to gain his companion's confidence he made an indifferent use of it. "We are some kind of relations, and you promised to be friends with me," he said.

Miss Deringham laughed a little. "One seldom tells one's troubles to one's friends," she said.

Alton seemed to sigh. "Then there is nothing I can do?"

"Yes," said Miss Deringham. "People are usually best alone when they have to grapple with a difficulty."

Alton still lingered a moment. "If you don't want to tell me, I don't know how to make you, and I'm sorry, because I might fix the thing up," he said gravely. "Well, I'm going, but it hurts me to see anything worrying you, and know that somebody else has brought it upon you."

"How could you know that?" said the girl.

The man smiled a little. "It's quite simple," said he, "You are too good and kind to bring sorrow upon yourself or anybody."

This was much better, but it was over-late now, and, for the girl said nothing, he moved away, and presently met Seaforth as he strode down the trail.

"Hallo!" said the latter. "Where are you going, Harry?"

"I know where you can go," said Alton grimly, "and that's right away to the devil."

Seaforth laughed a little. "And that's the woman's work. It's a pity Harry can't distinguish between paste and diamonds," said he.

It happened about this time that Miss Townshead sat in an attitude of expectancy in her father's house. Townshead, still wearing the red velvet jacket, sat in the old leather chair, with the resignation of the incapable stamped upon him, and the cigar and cup of coffee close by. His attitude seemed to imply that he was a very ill-used man, but had discovered that it was no use protesting. He sipped his coffee delicately, and then glanced towards his daughter with a trace of irritation.

"I wish you could keep still, my dear," he said. "There is an inquietude in your very pose that unsettles me, and with a little fortitude one can get used to anything. For instance, if anybody had told me five years ago that I could take my after-dinner coffee without a slight flavour of old cognac I should not have believed them."

Nellie Townshead evinced a little impatience. "It might be slightly more difficult to dispense with the dinner, as well as the coffee, and that is what we shall probably have to do presently," said she. "Why did you borrow that money from Mr. Hallam, father? Any one could have seen that he was a rascal, and I believe that Mr. Seaforth warned you."

Townshead sighed. "The difficulty," he said, "is to arrive at a correct decision before one knows what will happen. Afterwards, it is comparatively easy. It appeared desirable to buy some cattle, and that I should visit Victoria, where I made an unfortunate speculation, to recuperate after my last attack. During my absence Jack, as you will remember, lost some of the cattle and mismanaged the ranch. Mr. Seaforth is also a young man who occasionally takes too much upon himself."

The girl flushed a little. "Jack worked from morning to night, and if we had spent a few dollars hiring somebody to help him, it would have been better for all of us," she said. "That, however, is not the question. What are we to do when we are turned out of the ranch, as we shall be very shortly?"

"There is," said Townshead, "no use in anticipating unpleasant probabilities. We will in the first place go down to Vancouver, where I fancy you will be able to earn a moderate sum by typewriting. The use of the instrument is, I understand, readily acquired, and while I regret the necessity for a daughter of mine to follow such an occupation, the emolument appears to be reasonable."

Nellie Townshead smiled somewhat bitterly, for the fact that she had ridden after straying cattle, and done a good many things that women do not usually undertake upon the ranch, had apparently escaped her father's attention.

"But is there anything you could do in Vancouver? You have no great knowledge of business," she said.

Townshead smiled wryly. "It is," he said, "a pity that I have so much, because on the two occasions I took an interest in it I lost a good deal of money. There is nothing for me to do here, at least. I cannot chop big trees."

"No," said the girl. "But have you nothing in contemplation?"

Townshead shook his head as though he were tired of the subject. "No," he said resignedly. "I have too much regard for my very indifferent health to worry unnecessarily."

The girl sighed a little, and felt very helpless, knowing that the task of maintaining both would devolve upon her and her brother. She was a dutiful daughter, but she occasionally found it difficult to maintain her respect for her father. Had he been beaten down after a stubborn struggle she would with almost fierce loyalty have been proud of him: but Townshead, who spent most of his time safeguarding his constitution, had never fought at all. Conflict of any kind jarred upon him. Answering nothing, she sat still listening, until at last a tramp of horsehoofs became audible. Somebody was riding that way, but there was another ranch farther up the valley, and her pulses throbbed when her strained senses told her that the horseman had reached the forking of the trail. If he passed on the blow she shrank from might be suspended a little longer.

The man did not, however, pass by, but turned into the home trail, and she rose with a little shiver when there was a knocking at the door. A man stood outside it with a horse behind him, and a paper in his hand, while his dress betrayed him as one from the cities. He was also young, and appeared considerably embarrassed, but he took off his hat and made the girl a little bow. She flung the door open, and stood very straight and still before him.

"You may come in," she said.

The stranger glanced at her swiftly, and Nellie Townshead was somewhat astonished to see the blood mantle to his forehead. "Very sorry, but I see you guess who I am," he said, with a crisp, English intonation. "I am here to--well, you understand--on behalf of Mr. Hallam, but I really wouldn't be if I could help it."

"You can put your horse in the stable, and then I will give you some supper," said the girl, in a coldly even tone. "There is still a little to eat here, and you must be hungry."

The man appeared dubious, and stood still a moment, then touched his hat again when he saw the crimson flame higher in the cheeks of the girl.

"Of course," he said; "I'm going."

Nellie Townshead laughed bitterly. "If I had intended to shut you out I should scarcely have asked you in," she said.

The young man came back in a few minutes, and by that time there were a few plates upon the table. He sat down, and then stood up once more when he saw the girl standing close by with a tray.

"You must let me wait upon myself," said he. "During the course of my last ranching visit they set savage dogs on me, and I wouldn't trouble you, only that I've ridden fifty miles, and am very hungry."

The girl seemed to soften, for she saw he was talking at random to cover her embarrassment as well as his own. "You are an Englishman?" she said.

"Yes," said the stranger. "I'm not especially proud of it just now, but, you see, a man must live."

Townshead looked up from his chair. "I fancy that is a slightly mistaken sentiment. Some men are better dead, and I occasionally feel tempted to include myself in the category."

The young man smiled a little. "The Frenchman put it a trifle more concisely, sir," he said.

Townshead nodded. "Still, he was correct. I don't mind admitting that I looked forward to your visit with apprehension, but I now fancy you will not jar upon me so much as I expected."

The stranger glanced at Miss Townshead, who, though she wished to, could not quite check a smile. He was very young, and had a pleasant face. "That was very kind of you," he said. "Now, I think the least that I can do is to retire to the barn or stable. I have some blankets, and can make myself comfortable."

He went out, knocking over a cup in his haste, and the girl sat still and laughed. There was not a great deal of merriment in her laughter, and the tears were close behind it, but it was a relief. Townshead, however, watched her disapprovingly.

"You should," he said, "endeavour to preserve a becoming serenity."

Nellie Townshead became grave again. "I fancy it would have been better if we had not displayed so much of it and let things drift, but that is not the question now," she said. "How could any one willing to help us do so, father?"

Townshead made a little grimace. "Are you not suggesting an impossibility?"

"But if there was somebody," persisted the girl. "What could he do on Thursday? I want to understand everything."

"Well," said Townshead, "I think this is the position. Hallam lent me money which I cannot repay him, and he sells us up. Incidentally, I fancy he has some reason for desiring this ranch, and as he has been acquiring a good deal of land lately will get somebody to buy it in. Very few of our neighbours have any dollars to spare, and the price will necessarily be a low one. Now if any man with the means to bid against him were here it would put heart into some of the others and run the prices up, and in that case Hallam would have to hand me over a balance, as well as pay a good deal more than he meant to for the ranch. I think that is simple, and I believe the manoeuvre has been used with some success in other parts of Canada."

"But," said the girl, "if the man offered more than Hallam or his nominee would outbid, he would have to take the ranch."

Townshead nodded agreement. "That," he said, "is the difficulty. Still, though I do not think there is any one who would do so much for us, I presume you would not have asked the question unless you had something in your mind."

The girl, who did not answer for a moment, stooped and stirred the stove. "No," she said very slowly. "I sent word to Mr. Alton."

"Alton?" said Townshead, and sat silent a while. "Well, although I do not altogether approve of him, I fancy that if there is anybody in this district able to help us that is the man. There remains the question is he willing?"

Nellie Townshead still busied herself at the stove. "I think he is," she said.

Townshead straightened himself a trifle in his chair. "Then, I am curious to know why he should be," he said.

"I do not know," said the girl, who rose and took up the supper dishes. "Still, I feel sure that he is."

Townshead turned towards her. "You fancied so a moment or two ago, and now you are sure," he said. "There must be some meaning to this."

His daughter looked round and laughed a little, holding the tray at a perilous slope. "He made me promise to let him know," she said.

Her father shook his head. "A young man of Mr. Alton's description does not do anything of the kind without a motive," he said. "Now I wonder if there are minerals upon the ranch."

The colour crept into his daughter's cheeks again. "They would in any case belong to the Crown," she said. "Can you not believe that the man who packed our provisions in through flooded fords and snow would do anything out of generosity?"

She turned away and left him, and Townshead puckered his face dubiously. "I should find it very difficult, and the care of a daughter is a heavy responsibility," he said. Miss Townshead did not return for some little while, but stood above the cedar washing-board scarcely seeing the dishes that once or twice almost slipped from her hand. There was, her father had told her, one man who could help them in the only way in which assistance could be accepted, and she felt sure he would. If rancher Alton failed to keep his word she felt it would be very difficult to believe in the honour of his sex again.