SEAFORTH'S REINSTATEMENT
There is on the road between Vancouver and New Westminster a strip of
primeval bush. Beyond it the Fraser meadows stretch, open to wind and
sun, westwards to the sea, but beneath the great black pines it is dim
and shadowy, and Seaforth was glad of that as he stood leaning against
a hemlock one sunny afternoon. He would have found the task he had
undertaken almost impossible in the glare of the white road that ran
straight under the open sky, but the stillness of that green realm of
shadow where all things were softened in the faint half-light had made
it a trifle easier. Also, the essence of the spring, which had come
suddenly, was in the scent of pine and cedar, and it had given him
courage, and set his pulses throbbing faster. It is possible that the
man did not realize all the influences that upheld him then, but
something that sprang from the steaming earth and the life that was
stirring in every towering pine reacted upon him, and he gathered hope
when he saw the reflex of it in the eyes of his companion.
She sat a pace or two apart from him on a cedar-trunk, and a dusty
bicycle rested against the farther end of it. The dust was also thick
upon her simple dress and the cotton gloves that lay in her hands. Her
fingers had tightened upon them, and there was a flush in her cheeks
when for a moment she glanced at the man. His face was a trifle
colourless, but the girl looked aside again as she saw the tense
anxiety in his eyes.
"And that is all," he said, with a little tremble in his voice. "You
will think it is horribly too much?"
Nellie Townshead glanced away into the shadows of the bush, and there
was pain and a trace of shrinking in her face, but it had vanished when
she turned again, and her voice had a little imperious ring.
"And what made you tell me now?"
Seaforth spread his hands out with a little deprecatory gesture. "I
expected this. The story I have told you should have shown you what I
am--and while I wanted to tell it earlier I was afraid."
The colour was a trifle plainer in the cheeks of the girl, and her
voice slightly more imperious still.
"That leaves the question unanswered. I still want to know what gave
you the courage now?"
Seaforth understood her, and knew her pride. "I think Harry gave me
some of it. You see, I never had a great deal."
"Harry?" said Miss Townshead, with a trace of astonishment that was not
quite free from disdain.
Seaforth moved his head. "Yes," he said. "What I have told you I told
him, and he seemed to think that one could live--even that kind of
thing--down. He is, you see, a somewhat exacting man, and that gave me
the hope that you would be as merciful."
"Still, you have not answered me."
Seaforth flushed a little. "I know what you mean--but would even what
I have told you warrant you thinking that of me?"
"I must know," said the girl.
Seaforth was silent a moment. "There is a distinction--but it is
difficult to draw," he said. "Well, I could not bear to think of you
struggling on down here alone with everything against you. There were
times when it almost maddened me, and at last, though I knew it might
cost me all I hoped for, I had to speak."
The girl's face softened. "And there was nothing else. You did not
think that--because of anything which had happened--I should be more
apt to listen?"
Seaforth was usually undemonstrative in bearing and speech, but he
stood up stiffly, and his voice was a trifle strained. "That is what I
have been trying to make clear, and I can only give you my word that I
did not," he said. "If I had had more courage I would have told you
that story long ago."
Nellie Townshead's eyes were very gentle now. "I felt I must make
quite sure, because had it been otherwise I should never have forgiven
you."
"And," said Seaforth slowly, "you can forgive the rest. I can make no
protestations, but if I have gone straight in this country it was you
who helped me, and I should never have gone down into the mire if I had
known you in the other one. And now I have nothing, not even moderate
prosperity to offer you."
"You think that would have counted?" said the girl.
"No," said Seaforth quietly, "not with you. It is because I have so
little to offer I venture to ask so much. All the giving must be done
by you."
Seaforth had, though not an eloquent man, pleaded his cause
efficaciously, for although his words might have been better chosen,
the inference behind them was plain; and while parts of his story had
brought the colour to the cheeks of his companion, his blameless life
in Canada was a very acceptable offering since he owed it to her. It
is pleasant to feel oneself a refining influence, but it was not
gratified vanity which stirred the girl. She had a wide charity, and
was one of those whose mission is to give without looking for a return.
She rose up slowly, and stood before him with eyes that had grown a
trifle hazy.
"All that counts the most is yours still," she said. "And as to the
rest--I think it is done with, Charley. You have lived it down."
Seaforth stretched out his hands and drew her to him. "God bless you,
my dear, but you are wrong," he said, "All I had was yours two years
ago."
It was some little time later when a creaking wagon swung round a bend
of the road, and the bronzed rancher on the driving-seat laughed softly
to himself as he saw Miss Townshead sitting demurely but with downcast
face on one end of the cedar, and Seaforth, who appeared suspiciously
unconcerned, at least six feet away. That was not just how he had seen
them when with the soft dust muffling the rattle of wheels he and his
team came out of the shadows which hung athwart the bend. The wagon
was old and weather-scarred, the harness rudely patched with hide, but
it is possible there was room in the life of strenuous toil the bushman
lived for the romance that brightens everything, and he shouted a
mirthful greeting to them as he whipped his team. Then as the wagon
jolted on out under the sombre archway into the brightness of the sun
there came drifting back to them the refrain of a song. It was one
sung often in the bush of that country at the time, and the two who sat
listening in the green stillness that sunny afternoon grasped the
verity that underlay its crude sentimentality. Shorn of its harshness,
by the distance the voice rang bravely through the thud of hoofs and
rattle, of wheels, and there was in the half-heard words and jingling
rhythm what there was in the sunshine and scent of steaming earth, the
life and hope of the eternal spring.
Seaforth laughed a little as he stretched his hand out to the girl, but
the light which shone back at him from her eyes was softer than that of
mirth.
"I think that man knows what we know," he said. "Come out into the
sunlight. The world is not what it was an hour ago."
They were plodding down the dazzling road, one on either side of the
dusty bicycle under the open sky when he spoke again.
"All this makes me sorry for Harry."
"Yes," said the girl reflectively, for she saw there was more to follow.
Seaforth bent his head. "He has so little now. Hallam has beaten us
all round, and Harry's face takes my sleep away. Everything he hoped
for has been taken from him, and he is lame, you see."
Nellie Townshead glanced at him swiftly. "One would scarcely notice
it. You have something in your mind, Charley."
Seaforth's face was troubled as he answered her. "It is a little
difficult to put into words, and if it was anybody else than Harry I
would not try. Still, Alice Deringham is almost as much to him as you
are to me--and I don't think she knows the truth, you see."
Nellie Townshead flushed a little, and there was a trace of anger in
her eyes. "If Miss Deringham is punished for her wicked pride what is
that to you?"
"Nothing," said Seaforth quietly. "Still--because of what I saw at the
ranch--I am sorry for her, and Harry, who has been a very good friend
to me, is being punished too. We have so much, you and I, and he has
nothing now."
The girl did not answer him for at least a minute, and appeared
concerned about something that rattled in the bicycle. Then she
stopped and looked up at the man with a great tenderness in her eyes.
"You want to tell her? Well, it will be very difficult, but I will do
it for you."
Seaforth stooped and kissed the little ungloved hand on the bicycle
reverentially. "I don't know how I asked you, and knowing how much has
been given me I am almost afraid," he said.
Nellie Townshead smiled at him, but she said nothing further until they
parted, and Seaforth turned back towards Vancouver city. He was
brimming over with good-will to everybody when he reached it, and as it
happened found storekeeper Horton, who came down there occasionally,
waiting for him. Horton was by no means a genius or well versed in
legal procedure, but he had a ready wit, and Seaforth felt prompted to
tell him the story of their first disastrous march, which Alton had
hitherto but partially narrated, though he suppressed its final
incident. Horton listened gravely with his most magisterial air.
"Harry's no fool, but he don't know everything," he said. "Now I see
where you and me can take a hand in."
"Yes?" said Seaforth thoughtfully.
Horton nodded. "It was Damer who recorded your claim."
"Damer?" said Seaforth. "That was the man Harry pitched into the river
at Somasco."
Horton chuckled. "You're right. Harry's just a trifle too handy at
slinging folks into rivers and down stairways. Well, the fellow was
hanging round my store, and I thought I knew him and wasn't sure, but
when I saw his name down on the Crown mining record that fixed me. Now
you're quite ready, you and Tom, to swear to the story you told me?"
"Of course, but still I don't see----"
Horton's eyes twinkled. "You will presently. That's where being a
magistrate comes in. I'm going to take hold of Damer for
horse-stealing."
A thought came swiftly into Seaforth's mind, and he smote the table.
"But I can't swear it was Damer. You would never convict him."
Horton laughed the bushman's almost silent laugh. "I don't know that I
want to. Anyway, I can keep on remanding him, and when I sent him up
for trial it would be a rancher's jury. That's going to give us a pull
on Mr. Hallam, who is standing in somewhere behind the whole thing--and
I kind of fancy there's another man with him."
Seaforth's face grew grave. "Then, as Harry wouldn't like it and
there's nothing in it, I'd get rid of that fancy. Now, of course, you
know what you can do, but isn't it playing a little too much into your
own hand? And you see folks might get talking about the thing."
Horton put on his most impressive air. "There's justice by statute,
and there's equity, as well as a lot more you never heard about," said
he.
Seaforth could not check his smile. "And which of them is what we're
going to do?"
"This," said Horton solemnly, "is--all of them. It's the square thing.
Is there any reason why a man shouldn't do what is right because it
suits him? Anyway, it needn't worry you, because you can just sit up
and watch the circus begin."
"Just one question. Was Damer the man who rode out for the railroad
one snowy night, shortly before I started after Harry?"
Horton nodded, and wondered a little at the change in his companion,
for there was a little flash in Seaforth's eyes and his voice had a
ring. "Then," he said grimly, "I'm going to take a hand in, but there
are several good reasons why we should not tell Harry."
It was a week later when Forel came home one night looking somewhat
anxious and depressed. He said little during the evening meal, but
after it spoke to his wife alone, and Mrs. Forel came upon Alice
Deringham soon after she left him.
"I'm not going to get the new ponies after all," she said. "Poor Tom
has been unfortunate again."
"I am sorry," said Alice Deringham. "You mean in the city?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Forel with a little sigh. "He is always a trifle
sanguine, and he put a good many dollars into a venture Mr. Alton
recommended. Tom expected a good deal from it--but the dollars have
all gone."
Alice Deringham did not look at the speaker. "They have lost the
money?"
"Well," said Mrs. Forel, "I believe they will do. I don't understand
all of it, but Tom tells me that he can't see any hope for Alton unless
a new railroad's built, or the Government does something for the
Somasco country, and that does not seem likely."
"Please tell me all you know."
Mrs. Forel looked thoughtful. "It isn't a great deal. The land and
ranches up at Somasco are not worth very much just now, but Alton
persuaded Tom they would be presently, and he helped Alton to borrow
more dollars from everybody who would lend them. Then they built mills
and things which will not be much use to anybody unless a railroad
comes in. The people would only lend him the money for a little while,
and Alton had hoped to pay them out of a silver mine, but Hallam, it
seems, has been working against him and got somebody to relocate the
mine because Alton did not get there in time. Now unless Alton and his
company can pay those dollars back the other people will take all he
has away from him, and if the railroad is ever built it is they or
Hallam, who has been trying to buy the mortgages from them, who will
benefit."
"But," said Alice Deringham, "how was it that Mr. Alton did not make
sure of the mine?"
"That is just what puzzles Tom. He stayed down here too long, and then
there was a flood or something that delayed him. Still, if he had gone
when he intended he would have been in time."
Mrs. Forel glanced at her companion curiously, but the girl sat very
still with her face turned aside. It was almost a minute before she
spoke again.
"And Mr. Alton takes it hardly?"
"Tom doesn't seem to know. Alton, he thinks, must be beaten, but he
told him he meant holding on until the last dollar had gone. After
all, I can't help feeling sorry for him. It must be hard to get
oneself crippled and then lose everything, while Tom declares there was
nothing in that other affair about the girl."
Alice Deringham said nothing, but Mrs. Forel saw the blood creep into
the polished whiteness of her neck, and wished that she would look up.
The girl's rigid stillness was, she fancied, a trifle unnatural, and
suggested that there was a good deal behind it.
"Well," she said presently, "that is all I know, and I think Tom is
waiting for me."
Mrs. Forel went away, and Alice Deringham sat where she had left her,
white in face now, with something that was not wholly unlike horror in
her eyes.
"And," she said, "I kept him."
Half an hour passed, and she did not move. Anger against her father
and horror of herself were held in check as yet by a tense anxiety as
to the end of the struggle she had plunged the man who loved her in.
She could picture him standing with his grave quietness face to face
with ruin, and holding on until the last faint hope had gone. Still,
it seemed almost impossible that he should be beaten, and the curious
confidence she had had in him reasserted itself and crept as a ray of
brightness into the darkness of her humiliation. That might be borne
or grappled with afterwards if Alton came out triumphant, but in the
meanwhile she dare not think of herself or what she had done.
Presently there was a tapping at the door, and a maid came in.
"There's a lady--Miss Townshead--waiting to see you, miss," she said.
Now Alice Deringham was the reverse of a timid woman, but for a few
moments she felt her courage fail. Every instinct in her shrank from
that meeting, but the maid had no cause to suspect it when she rose
languidly and followed her. The interview was not of long duration,
and nobody ever heard all that passed between the two, but when
Seaforth, who had been waiting anxiously, handed Miss Townshead into
the cars her eyes were misty.
"Was it very hard?" he said.
"No," the girl said slowly; "not after the beginning. I was angry when
I went in, and I came away only sorry for her. There is a great deal
more that is lovable in Miss Deringham than I ever fancied there could
be."
"Yes," said Seaforth sapiently. "But it's much better when there's
nothing else, which is the case with somebody I know. I like my gold
free from alloy."
It was the next day when Deringham found his daughter alone in the
sunny corner of the verandah. He carried a handful of papers, and the
girl noticed that while he looked ill and haggard there was relief in
his face. It was, however, with a vacant curiosity she waited for him
to speak, for she had risen heavy-eyed and listless after a sleepless
night. Deringham leaned against the balustrade in front of her, and
appeared to find it somewhat difficult to begin.
"I have just spent an hour with Mr. Alton and a lawyer, and have
something of importance to tell you," he said.
"I am listening," said the girl languidly, though Deringham fancied
there were signs of a sudden intentness in her face.
"We will commence at the beginning. Alton appears to have been
doubtful respecting his right to Carnaby, and seems to have felt in the
first place that it would not be fitting for him to receive as a favour
what was his father's by right. I do not know that many men would have
regarded it in that light."
"I think," said the girl with a little quickening of her pulses, "that
Mr. Alton's view was right!"
"Well," said Deringham, with a little smile that seemed to indicate
that the point was not important, "that brings us to his other motive,
which displays a very creditable feeling. Tristan Alton, as you know,
only relented upon his deathbed, when, as I pointed out to our kinsman,
his senses were, in the opinion even of those who signed his will, a
trifle clouded, and Alton was reluctant to profit by a half-delirious
fancy which deprived us, or to be more literal, you, of what was
virtually your own. As I told him no man in the possession of all his
wits would have made such a will, and there was a probability that it
could he successfully contested."
"Then I think you blundered, father," said the girl.
Deringham raised his hand as though to indicate that he did not purpose
to discuss the question. "I have been trying to show you that Alton
never regarded Carnaby as his. You follow me?"
"No. I go farther," said the girl with a curious smile. "All that you
have told me was quite clear to me some while ago."
"Now we come to the present. Alton has proved to myself and the lawyer
that he is solvent. That is if he sold everything he could just pay
his debts, but because he does not intend to sell, he stands
figuratively speaking with his back to the wall, and appears to
consider that financial ruin may overtake him. That being so he has
while he has the power made over all his rights in Carnaby to you."
Alice Deringham rose up with a little gasp, quivering. "Father," she
said in a strained voice, "I don't think I can forgive you."
Deringham smiled deprecatingly. "I think that is beside the point," he
said. "It seems to me that Alton has acted most becomingly, and if he
survives his difficulties we could, of course, come to some amicable
understanding with him respecting the partition of the property."
The girl's face grew a trifle plainer, for one word had an ominous ring.
"There is more than you have told me," and once more it struck her that
Deringham was curiously haggard.
"Well," he said, "life is always a trifle uncertain, and Alton has
twice met with disaster in the ranges."
The girl stood still looking at him steadily with a vague terror in her
eyes. Then she said slowly, "And I am the mistress of all the Carnaby
property. It is mine to do what I like with. I could borrow money
upon it, or sell it?"
"Under conditions," said Deringham with a little smile of relief,
though his face grew clouded again. "Alton has made it yours, almost
too absolutely."
Alice Deringham did not remember what next passed between them or how
she dismissed her father, but presently she sat alone staring down
across the blue inlet with eyes that saw nothing. She was numbly
sensible of a horrible humiliation, but that troubled her the least.
Alton was standing with his back to the wall and in some vague peril of
his life, and it was she who had helped to betray him. She almost
hated her father, and she loathed herself, and yet a ray of hope shone
through her fears. Carnaby was wholly hers, and with it she held the
power to help him. That something which would test her courage to the
uttermost must be done before he would accept help from her she knew,
but the pride which had been a curse to her was in the dust, and when
the vague project slowly grew into shape she rose and sought Forel.
She was very composed in speech and bearing, but when the merchant
heard what she asked him he gasped with astonishment.
"I want it done as soon as possible," she said.