Kenneth McAlpine Part 30

So he did, and so did all.

The only possible place to commence operations lay close to the banks of a turbulent river that came winding down through a pine-clad mountain land.

Silently, almost solemnly the trio worked, speaking but little, hanging on to their pipes (if I may use so strange a phrase), and hanging on to spade, and pick, and shovel.

All that day, and next, and next. About the coming of the fourth day, there was a shout from McGregor's claim.

"Hurrah, boys! Hurrah, boys! Run here, lads, run here!"

They did run.

McGregor held up before their astonished gaze a nugget of almost pure gold as big as a baby's shoe.

More gold was found every day for a week, and in gradually increasing quant.i.ties. They were already in possession of about three hundred pounds' worth. No wonder they rejoiced. No wonder they were merry.

Now, around the camp fire, what stories are told, what songs are sung, what castles in the air are built!

They will all be millionaires. Archie says he is going to have a nice mansion down in the Clachan, and close by the riverside, and will fish there and in the sea just as when he was a boy. Nothing will satisfy Kenneth but a house near the fairy knoll. He pulls out the old Bible, Nannie's gift, and opens it. There lie the withered flowers, and looking at them sets him a-thinking and a-wondering and a-dreaming.

"Little Jessie," he says to himself, "can she still be alive? Is it possible she might one day be mine?"

He restores the flowers, restores the Book of books, and lies back to gaze at the starry sky and think.

But he is not allowed to.

"Out with the flute, Kennie," cries Archie. "Oh, play me some dear auld Scottish lilt, that will make tears of joy well up in our eyes?"

Kenneth plays tune after tune, air after air; and then the trio join voices and sing "My native Highland home" till the woods ring and pine trees nod, and distant rocks send back the chorus.

There is hardly any need of a blanket to-night, for the day has been hot, and look, even now clouds are rolling slowly up and hiding the half-moon. Great round clouds they are, and little dark water-dog clouds lie nearer the earth, and seem to perch and leap from top to top of the pine trees, like birds of evil omen.

A storm is brewing.

By-and-bye, from far over the hills comes the muttering growl of distant thunder. Presently clouds go scurrying overhead, and a bright flash is followed by a rattling peal.

Rain, and terrible rain, followed, and the wind began to rise. The camp fire is drowned out, and our trio are fain to seek the shelter of a cave on the wooded hillside. None too soon; with a crashing roar, louder and more continued than any thunder ever heard, the storm bursts upon them with hurricane force. And all that night it continues. The pine trees have fallen in all directions. The river has risen in spate. Through the darkness they can see the ghostly glimmer of its foam, and they can hear the hurtling sound of the mighty boulders as they roll along.

Morning came at last, grim and grey.

"Saint Mary! what a scene is here!"

The whole face of the country is altered in appearance. Where is their claim, their gold mine, their hope of fortune, their joy of the previous evening? All swept away or buried in chaos.

Just three weeks after this fearful storm Kenneth and Archie bade good-bye to their friend and comrade Harvey McGregor. He had given up all hopes of finding fortune, and was returning to Scotland to claim his property.

They bade him good-bye at New Westminster. Then, hand in hand as if they were boys once more, they turned their backs to the coast, and went away towards the mountains.

"Archie," said Kenneth, "there is gold to be got among these hills, but _not_ by digging."

"You are right."

"Let us work for our fortune like steady, brave men. It may come, or it may not. At all events, we will be better working. And we will try to forget the past and build no more castles in the air."

"Agreed," said Archie; "let us work."

At Victoria these two brave young men changed the few nuggets they had found for coin. Then they pushed their way many miles inland in Columbia, and, having hired servants and bought a little land with plenty more to purchase lying right behind it, they set to work with a will. They built their house, a solid log-mansion. They planned and laid out their gardens. They hewed timber, and sawed it, and sent it down stream. They tore the roots from the ground and cleared it for grain, and, in a word, settled down in every way as farmers, determined to make the best of every chance.

And here, in their far-away western home, let us leave them for a while, and journey over the broad Atlantic with Harvey McGregor. There are those in Scotland whose lives and actions may not be quite devoid of interest to many who have read this history from the commencement.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

GLEN ALVA UNDER NEW GOVERNMENT.

"The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all, Knight and page and household squire Loitered through the lofty hall, Or crowded round the ample fire.

The stag-hounds, weary of the chase, Lay stretched upon the rushy floor, And urged in dreams the forest race, From Teviot Stone to Eskdale moor."

Walter Scott.

Scene: The tartan parlour of an old Highland mansion in the west of Scotland. Wine and walnuts on the table. About a dozen gentlemen seated round in att.i.tudes of ease and enjoyment. A great fire of coal and oak logs in the low and s.p.a.cious grate. From their accent these gentlemen are mostly English and American.

"Robinson!" cried Mr Steve, who was seated at the head of the table, and whose sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks told a tale that was far from difficult to read, "Robinson, the bottle is with you. What think you of the stuff? I paid thirty dollars a dozen for it at old Clintock's sale, and I guess you'll hardly match it in this country, if anywheres. Donald," he continued, addressing a white-haired old Highland servant, who stood near, "heap more wood on the fire, and look active. Don't stand and stare like the log figure on a tobacconist's sign. Move your joints, I say."

Donald hastened to do as he was told; but as he obeyed he muttered something in the Gaelic language, of which the following is a pretty fair translation.

"It is Donald's own self that would like to put _you_ on the fire.

Truth told, and it is then."

"Yes," replied Robinson, a wealthy draper from London, "the wine is truly excellent, and if I were to speak the truth now, I'd say earnestly that I don't think we _could_ match it in our old country."

"And after all, you know," said a white-faced, meek young man, who sat near Mr Steve, "this country is vewy nearly worn out."

"Oh! for the matter of that now," said Steve, "America, above all countries for inst.i.tooshuns, great armies, great navies--if we chose to build them--for tall mountains, broad lakes, big steamboats, and mighty rivers."

"Heah! heah!" from several voices.

"England," continued Steve, "is all very well to spend money in, 'cause you're near the Continent, and can run 'most anywhere without the trouble of crossing much water. But I say America's the country to make the money in."

"Heah! heah!"

"And, after all, what, I ask, would England be without America?"

"What, indeed?"

"Yet, _I_ wouldn't boast. Your true American never does. You Englishmen, pardon me, talk about the sun never setting on British territory, of your drum rolling and your reveille beating in a cordon right round the globe, and of your owning the sixth part of the land of this boundless universe, and _all_ the water. Now, if that ain't boasting--and mebbe it ain't--it is what I'd call pretty tall talk."

The laugh became general at this speech of Mr Steve of Glen Alva, and every face beamed.