Thrice Armed

Merril, who lay in a big lounge chair, little, portly, and immaculately dressed, looked up at him quietly. "If it's any consolation to you, I'm holding as much stock as the rest of you put together. The thing hits me rather hard, but, as you say, we can only stand up under it – that is, if the appropriation grants are thrown out by the House."

"They will be," said another man. "Anyway, the road-making in which we are interested comes under a clause that will be struck off in Committee. It's a sure thing. I can't quite blame the Legislature, either, after the admissions made by the district member. He has gone back on you, Merril. You told us you were sure of him."

Merril smiled curiously. "Well," he said, "it's a little difficult to be sure of anything, and as the man will be here very shortly you can talk to him yourself. That, however, will not straighten anything out. The question is, what is to be done about the wagon-road?"

"Build it ourselves," said another man. "It's either that or let the mill go, and, considering the money I've put in, I'm for holding on. Still, it will practically mean doubling our capital."

Merril nodded quietly, and nobody could have told that to raise the sum required would be singularly inconvenient to him. "At least!" he said. "You can't get it from outsiders, either. All the money in this Province is in mines and mills; and bank interest's ruinous."

"Well," said one of the others, "I guess you don't expect us to feel obliged to you. There isn't any probability of those road-making appropriations getting passed."

"You'll know when Shafleton comes," said Merril dryly. "Somebody was to wire him as soon as the result was known in the House. He came across from Victoria this afternoon, and should be on his way from Westminster now."

They discussed the wagon-road, growing more and more impatient all the time, while an hour dragged by, and then two of them rose to their feet as a man, who appeared somewhat ill at ease, was shown in. The rest, including Merril, sat still and looked at him. He waved one hand as though disclaiming all responsibility and laid a telegram on the table.

"That's all I can tell you, gentlemen. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped," he said.

One of them took up the message, and when he passed it to his comrades the storm broke.

"You practically asked them to vote no more money, in your last speech," said Merril.

"Played us for – suckers!" said another man, while a third struck the table with his clenched fist.

"Leslie's right. The straight fact is that we're fooled," he said.

It was significant that nobody had asked the member of the Provincial Legislature to sit down, and he leaned on the arm of a big lounge as though he required support, and blinked at them.

"Well," he said, "when I first saw you about it I was willing to do what I could, but on going further into the thing I found it couldn't be considered quite in line with the interests of the country."

One of them laughed aloud, sardonically, and Merril's face contorted into an unpleasant smile.

"It's rather a pity you didn't make sure of that before you took what we offered you," he said.

The baited man turned to them appealingly. "You know what I promised. I would support the bridge-building and road-making policy as long as I considered it in line with the interests of the country."

The man who had struck the table shook his fist at him. " – the interests of the country. You know what you meant, and you got your price," he said.

"That remark," said Merril, "is quite warranted. Mr. Shafleton made a perfectly understood bargain – and he got his price. It is also likely that he would never have been elected if we had not set certain influences to work. Owing to the Government's finding a change of policy convenient, he has not kept his bargain. The question, however, is how – "

One of the men who was standing up looked around just then.

"I guess it might be as well to have that door shut," he said.

"If you wish," said Merril. "Still, there is nobody in this part of the house."

"Well," said the other man, who crossed the room, "I fancied I heard somebody a moment or two ago."

He closed the door, and when he sat down Merril commenced again, and the member of the Provincial Legislature had to listen to a good many things that did not please him. The rest also spoke bitterly, in lower tones now; but it was in one respect unfortunate they had not displayed that caution earlier, for the man who had fancied he heard a footstep was, as it happened, not mistaken.

CHAPTER XX

ANTHEA MAKES A DISCOVERY

While Merril discussed the prospects of the pulp-mill with his companions, Anthea sat by the open window of an upper room. There was an open book on her knee, but it lay face downward, and she leaned back in a cane chair, looking out upon the Inlet across the clustering roofs of the city. The still water lay shining under the evening light, with a broad smear of smoke trailing athwart it from the steamer which had just vanished behind the dark pines that overhang The Narrows. It drifted across the tall spars of the Agapomene, and through it a big passenger boat's tier of deck-houses showed dimly white. Further up the Inlet another dingy cloud drifted out from behind the piles of stacked lumber about the Hastings mill, while the clatter of an Empress liner's winches came up through the clear evening air with the tolling of locomotive bells and the grind of freight-car wheels.

All this had a certain interest as well as a significance for Anthea Merril. In England the business man, as a rule, endeavors to leave his commercial affairs behind him when he turns his back on the city; but it is different in the West, where he has no privacy and his calling is his life. Mills and mines, freight rates and timber rights, are seldom debarred as topics at social functions, and Anthea had acquired a considerable knowledge of these things, though she had not lived very long in that city. It was, of course, also evident to her that her father was regarded as a man of influence and one who had a share in directing the activities of the Province, and this afforded her a certain pleasure. Several expressions overheard and facts that had lately been forced on her attention might, perhaps, have rudely dissipated that satisfaction had she not resolutely endeavored to attach a more favorable meaning to them than a good many people would have considered justifiable. She had spent most of her life with her mother's relatives in the East, and it was not altogether astonishing that there was a good deal in her father's character with which she was unacquainted. Merril had a desire to stand well with his daughter, and he had sufficient ability to accomplish what he wished, in most cases.

By and by, as she glanced at the shining Inlet, the fading smoke-trail led Anthea's thoughts away to the man who was then doubtless standing on the Shasta's bridge, and her eyes softened curiously. She could now admit that she knew what he felt for her, because, although he had never told her, there had been occasions when his face had, perhaps against his will, made it very plain. What the result of it would be, she did not know, but she could wait, and be sure of his steadfastness, in the meanwhile, for circumstances which were unpropitious now might change, as, indeed, they were rather apt to do with almost disconcerting suddenness in that country. Then she tried to reconstruct the interview she had had with his sister, an occupation in which she had indulged somewhat frequently of late, although it troubled her; and that, by a natural transition, once more led her thoughts back to her father.

It was impossible to doubt that Eleanor Wheelock believed she had grounds for bitterness against him, and a curious something in her brother's manner had once or twice suggested that he shared it too; but Anthea endeavored to assure herself that they had merely adopted their father's views without sufficient investigation. She was aware that men who failed were frequently apt to blame somebody else for it instead of their own supineness, while it was clear that both parties could not always expect a bargain to be advantageous. For all that, the girl's assertions had been startling, and once more Anthea wished that she had not heard them. They vaguely troubled her, since she would not have her father's probity left open to doubt.

Then, rising somewhat abruptly, she flung the book aside, and went down the wide cedar stairway to search for another that might, perhaps, hold her attention more firmly. When she reached the foot of it she turned into a corridor, and stopped a moment when she heard a murmur of angry voices. She was aware that a member of the Provincial Legislature had reached the house not long ago, and that the rest of her father's guests had come there to discuss something with him, while as the door of the room reserved for them had been left open a foot or so she could see within from where she stood.

The house stood high, and the sunlight still streamed into the room, while there was something in the pose of the men that seized and held her attention. She had heard nothing clearly yet, but the strung-up attitudes and intent faces had their dramatic suggestiveness, and she lingered. She could see her father sitting at the head of the table with one hand closed hard on the edge of it, and a grim smile that was quite new to her in his eyes; the member supporting himself by the big lounge and apparently shrinking from his gaze; and one of the others leaning forward in his seat with his fist clenched. In fact, the scene burned itself into her memory, and she never forgot the look in her father's face.

Then the voices suddenly became intelligible, and she heard Merril say, "It's rather a pity you didn't make sure of that before you took what we offered you."

She caught the legislator's answer, and saw the man who leaned forward shake his fist at him, while the latter's exclamation sent a little thrill of dismay through her.

"You know what you meant, and you got your price," he said.

This was sufficiently plain in connection with what had gone before it, and she waited in tense suspense to see whether her father would discountenance it, though she felt that he would not do so. She saw him make a little sign of concurrence, and once more was sensible of an enervating dismay when he flung his answer at the shrinking member of the Legislature.

"A perfectly understood bargain, and he got his price," he said. "He would never have been elected if we had not set certain influences to work."

Then she roused herself with an effort, and, thinking no more of the book she had come for, turned softly and flitted back up the stairway to the room she had left. She made sure the door was fast, with a vague, instinctive feeling that she must be quite alone, then sat down by the window again, a trifle colorless in face, with both hands clenched. She was a woman of keen intelligence, and realized that there was no room for doubt. Her father, the man she had endeavored to look up to, had openly condemned himself.

It was perhaps strange, considering that she was his daughter, that she had wholesome thoughts as well as mental ability, and that honesty formed a prominent part of her morality. The fact made the blow more cruel, for it was clear that her father and his associates had been engaged in an infamous conspiracy. They had bought a member of the Legislature – bribed him to betray the confidence the people had placed in him; and though she did not know whether the bribe had been actual money, that, as she recognized, scarcely affected the question. He had, at least, promised to do something that was against the interests of the country, for which, as one had declared, they cared nothing, and would evidently have kept his promise if circumstances had not been too strong for him. Anthea had sense enough to attach as little credence to his assertions as the others had done.

She supposed that things of the kind were sometimes done, but only by men without morality, and it was almost intolerable to realize that her father had been the instigator of one of them. The fact seemed to bear out all the newspaper had charged him with, and made it more than probable that Eleanor Wheelock's assertions, too, had been well-founded. It was with a little shiver that Anthea realized that in such a case the father of the man who loved her had in all probability been ruined by a nefarious conspiracy. His daughter had told her plainly that his death was the direct result of it, and if that were so, Jimmy must hold her father accountable. The thing was becoming altogether horrible.

She did not know how long she sat there after she heard the guests take their leave, but at last she realized that since she must meet him on the morrow there was little to be gained by keeping out of her father's sight that night. She was not deficient in courage, but it was with an effort that she nerved herself to go down, knowing that she could not meet him as though nothing unusual had come to her knowledge. He was still sitting in the room where he had spoken with his guests, with a litter of papers in front of him, when she went in, but on hearing the rustle of her dress he looked up. The lamps were lighted now, and he started slightly when he saw her face. Then he brushed aside the papers, and sat still, looking at her with a little grim smile. Anthea felt her heart beat, for she saw that he understood.

"Ah!" he said. "Sprotson fancied he heard somebody. It was you?"

Anthea nodded, standing very straight in the middle of the big room and wondering, with a fierce desire that he should do so, whether he would offer any explanation in which she could place a little credence. Almost a minute passed, and the man never took his eyes off her. She longed that he would speak, for the tension was growing unendurable.

"You heard – something – at least?" he said.

"Yes," replied Anthea, with a cold quietness at which she almost wondered. "Enough, I think, to make me understand the rest."

Again Merril said nothing for a while, though he still kept his keen eyes fixed on her face, and at last it was without any sign of anger, and in a tone of grave inquiry, he broke the silence.

"Well?" he said.

There was an appeal in Anthea's voice. "Can't you say anything that will drive out what I think?" she asked. "I want to believe that I could not have heard or understood aright."

Merril raised one hand, and for a moment she could have fancied that there was pain in his face. "I almost think you are too clever, and, perhaps, I am too wise. By and by you would not believe me. I have known this moment would come since I brought you to Vancouver, and – though you may scarcely credit this – almost dreaded it. The thing has to be faced now."