ELEANOR SPEAKS HER MIND
The afternoon was hot and drowsily still when Merril drove his daughter
down the dusty road which runs from New Westminster through the Fraser
meadows. The team was a fast one, and the man, who had an appointment to
keep in Vancouver, did not spare them. There were also reasons why he
found rapid motion and the attention the mettlesome horses required a
welcome distraction, for just then he was troubled with a certain sense
of irritation which was unusual with him.
Merril was not a hot-tempered man; in fact, he owed his commercial
success largely to the dispassionate coolness which rarely permitted his
feelings to influence his actions, and it was characteristic of him that
while he had a finger in a good many schemes the man himself never
figured prominently in connection with any of them. His influence was
felt, but he was in one sense rather an abstract force than a dominant
personality. It was said of him that he always worked underground, and
he certainly never made political speeches or favored the newspapers
with his views; while, when the results of his unostentatious efforts
became apparent in disaster to somebody, as they usually did, it
generally happened that other men incurred the odium. There are, of
course, financiers whose enterprises benefit the whole community, since
they create new corn-fields and open mines and mills, but Merril's
genius was rather of the destructive order, and it was not to anybody's
advantage that he knew how to choose his time and instruments well. In
person, he was little, somewhat portly, and very neatly dressed, a man
who had never been known to lose his temper or force himself upon the
citizens' attention.
Still, he was human, after all, and as he sat behind his costly team
that afternoon he was thinking somewhat uneasily of the unexpected
resistance certain land-jobbers in New Westminster had shown to his
demands, and the attack on him which had just appeared in a popular
journal. It was the second time the thing had happened, and, though he
was not directly mentioned and the statements could scarcely be
considered libelous, it was evident that a continuance of them would
have the effect of turning the attention of those who read them upon his
doings, which was just then about the last thing that he desired.
It accordingly happened that he drove a little faster than he generally
did, until as the team swung out of a strip of shadowy bush he saw a
jumper-sled loaded high with split-rails on the road close in front of
him. He shouted to the man who walked beside the plodding oxen, never
doubting that way would be made for him, especially as the teamster
looked around. The oxen, however, went straight on down the middle of
the road, and it was a trifle too late when Merril laid both hands upon
the reins. In another moment there was a crash, and Anthea was almost
shaken from her seat. When Merril swung himself down he saw that one
wheel had driven hard against the jumper load. Then as he called to
Anthea to move the team a pace or two, the patent bushing squeaked and
groaned, and the wheel, after making part of a revolution, skidded on
the road. The man who drove the oxen turned and favored him with a
little sardonic grin.
"I hope the young lady's not shook too much," he said.
Anthea, who fancied it was with a purpose he confined this expression of
regret, if, indeed, it could be considered such, to herself, was as a
matter of fact considerably shaken and very angry.
"Why didn't you get out of the way when you heard my father shout?" she
asked.
It was Merril at whom the man looked. "Well," he said reflectively, "I
guess that load is heavy, and the oxen have been hauling hard since
sun-up, while there's no reason why a rancher shouldn't use the road as
well as anybody from the city. You should have pulled up sooner. Anyway,
you're not going far like that."
Merril said nothing, though he could not very well have failed to notice
the hint of satisfaction in the last remark. He very seldom put himself
in the wrong by any ill-considered utterance, but Anthea was a trifle
puzzled when he quietly walked to the horses' heads. She knew that the
small ranchers are, for the most part, good-humored and kindly men,
while, although she could not be certain that the one before them had
contrived the mishap, it was evident that he had done very little to
avert it. He made no further observation, and when he led his oxen into
a neighboring meadow Merril told the girl to drive the horses slowly
toward a ranch they could see ahead, and walked beside the wagon
watching the wheel. It would turn once or twice and then stick fast and
skid again; but they contrived to reach the ranch, and found a bronzed
man in dusty jean leaning on the slip-rails.
"Have you a wagon-jack and a spanner?" asked Merril.
"I have," said the man, who made no sign of going for them.
"Then I should be obliged if you would lend me them," said Merril.
The man smiled dryly. "It can't be done. If that wheel won't turn, Miss
Merril can come in and sit with my wife while you go somewhere and get
it fixed. That's the most I can do for you."
"I suppose the man who wouldn't let us pass back yonder is a friend of
yours?" and Merril looked hard at him.
"That's so. Runs this ranch with me. Guess you've seen me once before,
though it was your clerk I made the deal with. That's why we're here on
rented land making 'bout enough to buy groceries and tobacco. You know
how much the ranch you bounced us out of was worth to you. Anyway, you
can't have that jack and spanner."
Anthea flushed with anger, but she saw that her father was very quiet.
"Well," he said dryly, "they belong to you, but I'm not sure it wouldn't
have been as wise to let me have them."
The rancher laughed. "You don't hold our mortgage now, and if I could
get hold of that newspaper-man I could give him a pointer or two. Seems
to me he's getting right down on to the trail of you. Are you coming in
out of the sun, Miss Merril?"
"Certainly not," said Anthea; and the man took out his pipe and quietly
filled it when Merril told her to walk the horses on again.
Though she was a trifle perplexed by what she had heard, it seemed to
her that her father's attitude was the correct one, and she seldom asked
unnecessary questions. She had lived away from home a good deal since
the death of her mother when she was very young, but her father had
always been indulgent, and she had cherished an unquestioning confidence
in him. It was also pleasant to know that he was a man of mark and
influence, and one looked up to by the community. Of late, however,
several circumstances besides the newspaper attacks on him had seemed to
cast a doubt upon the latter point, but she would not entertain it for a
moment, or ask herself whether there was anything to warrant them. It
was reassuring to remember her father's little smile when she had
ventured to offer him her sympathy; but she could not help admitting
that there must, at least, have been some cause for the rancher's
rancor. The man, she felt, would not have displayed such vindictive
bitterness without any reason at all. She, however, decided that he had
no doubt made some imprudent bargain with her father, and was
unwarrantedly blaming the latter for the unfortunate result of it.
They went on in silence, and Merril, who walked beside the wagon, shook
the wheel loose now and then when the horses stopped, until they reached
Forster's homestead. The rancher greeted Anthea pleasantly, but she felt
that there was a subtle change in his manner when he turned to her
father, who explained their difficulty.
"The trouble is that I have rather an important appointment in Vancouver
this afternoon," said the latter.
"My wife is there now with our only driving wagon, or I would offer to
take you over," said Forster. "I can, however, lend you a saddle-horse,
and Miss Merril could stay with Miss Wheelock until we see what can be
done with the wagon. If necessary, I will drive her across when my wife
comes back."
Merril thanked him, and presently moved away toward the stable with the
hired man while Forster led Anthea to the house, and left her in the big
general room where, as it happened, Eleanor Wheelock sat sewing. The
green lattices outside the open windows were partly drawn to, but the
shadowy room was very hot, and the little air that entered brought the
smell of the pines with it. It was not the aromatic scent they have at
evening, but the almost overpowering smell filled with the clogging
sweetness of honey the afternoon sun calls forth from them. The ranch
was also very still, and for no evident reason Anthea felt the drowsy
quietness weigh upon her. Her companion said nothing to break it, but
sat near the window sewing quietly, and Anthea became sensible of a
faint shrinking from the girl, though she would have liked to overcome
it for reasons she was not altogether willing to confess to herself.
Eleanor Wheelock's face looked almost colorless by contrast with her
somber dress, and there was a curious hardness in it, while Anthea, who
remembered Leeson's speech in the _Shasta_'s cabin, wondered whether she
were making the very dainty garment for herself, since it was suggestive
of wedding finery.
"That should be very effective," she said at length. "You intend to wear
it?"
Eleanor looked up from her sewing. "Yes," she said, "I believe I shall."
Something in her voice struck Anthea as out of place in the
circumstances, for one does not sew bitterness into wedding attire,
while the suggestion of uncertainty which the speech conveyed was more
curious still. Anthea felt there must be something more than the loss of
her father to account for her companion's attitude; but that was
naturally a thing she could not mention.
"I think I could venture to offer you my sympathy in what you have had
to bear," she said. "I was very distressed to see the brief account in
the newspaper."
Eleanor laid down her sewing, and looked at her steadily. "Why should
you be?"
It was a disconcerting question, and asked with a still more
disconcerting insistency. Anthea could not very well say that she did
not know, nor yet admit that the news had grieved her because of her
sympathy with Jimmy. Still, though she shrank from her, she desired this
girl's good-will, and she compelled herself to an effort.
"In any case, I was sincerely sorry," she said. "Although I only met you
that evening on board the _Shasta_, one could say as much without
presuming. Besides, when we were away in the _Sorata_ your brother did
a good deal to make the cruise pleasant for Nellie Austerly and me."
"When he was Valentine's deck-hand?" and Eleanor looked at her with a
little sardonic smile. "You no doubt allowed him to forget it
occasionally, and Jimmy was grateful. In fact, he admitted as much to
me. He was always foolishly impressionable."
Anthea felt her face grow warm, and though she was as a rule courageous,
she was glad that she sat in the shadow. In several respects her
companion's last suggestion appeared almost insufferable.
"Perhaps I laid myself open to this," she said. "It is seldom wise to
make advances until one is reasonably sure of one's ground, but I do not
understand why you should resent a few words spoken out of
friendliness."
The little hard glint grew plainer in Eleanor's eyes. "Then I think you
should do so. There is a very convincing reason why friendliness--of any
kind--would be very unfitting between you and me--or, for that matter,
between you and Jimmy."
Anthea would not ask the question that suggested itself, for it seemed
to her, as, crushing down her anger, she sat and watched her companion,
that the latter had been waiting for this opportunity. There was no
mistaking the meaning of the thrill in her voice or the spot of color in
her cheek, while the reference to Jimmy had its significance. She felt
that the girl wished to hurt her.
"You admitted that you read the newspapers?" said Eleanor abruptly.
"Ah!" said Anthea; "I think I know what you mean by that. Naturally, I
cannot discuss those libels with you."
"Libels!" and Eleanor laughed. "If you can believe them that, one would
almost envy your credulity. Presumably your father has never mentioned
our name to you?"
Anthea was somewhat startled, for, though Merril certainly had not done
so, she remembered the momentary expression of his face when Forster had
mentioned Miss Wheelock. She also remembered Jimmy's attitude on the
evening she met him at Austerly's, and the suggestion of distance in
Forster's manner to her father. It seemed that there were others as well
as the rancher who did not believe the statements made in the paper to
be libelous.
"He has not," she said very quietly. "Still, as I said, these are
subjects I cannot discuss with everybody."
"And yet you were anxious to know why friendliness was out of the
question between you and me! Well, I admit that I find a certain
pleasure in telling you, and it isn't quite unnatural. You read how my
father--Jimmy's father--died, but you do not know how he came to be
living in that sordid shanty, an infirm and nerveless man. Your father
slowly ruined him, wringing his few dollars out of him one by one, by
practices no honorable man would condescend to, until there was nothing
more he could lay his grasping hands upon. When that happened my father
was broken in health and courage, and only wished to hide what he felt,
most foolishly, was shameful poverty. There wore other things--things I
cannot tell you of--but they make it clear that your father is directly
responsible for my father's death."
She stopped abruptly and took up her sewing, but her face looked very
grim and vindictive in its dead pallor, for the spot of color had faded
now, and presently she flung the dainty fabric down again and looked
steadily at her companion. Neither of them spoke for almost a minute,
and once more Anthea felt the stillness of the ranch-house and the heavy
honey-like smell of the pines curiously oppressive. She believed in her
father, or had made up her mind to do so, which was, however, perhaps
not quite the same thing; but she could not doubt that Eleanor Wheelock
was firmly persuaded of the accuracy of the indictment that she had
made. The passionate vindictive thrill in her voice had been absolutely
genuine, and Anthea recognized that it could not have been so without
some reason. Then Eleanor spoke again.
"You may wonder why I have told you this--though I am not quite sure
that you do," she said. "Well, you at least understand why I resent your
sympathy, and if I had any other purpose it may perhaps appear to you
when you think over what you have heard."
Anthea rose at last, and turned toward her quietly, but with a certain
rigidity of pose which had its significance. She stood very straight and
looked at her companion with big, grave eyes.
"You have, at least, said all I care to listen to," she said.
"And I think sufficient," said Eleanor, with a bitter smile.
Then, and it was a relief to Anthea, Forster came in, and dropped into a
chair.
"I fancy Jake will fix that wheel; but he may be an hour yet, and it's
very hot," he said. "I don't want to break off your talk, but perhaps
you could make us some tea, Miss Wheelock. I don't feel like waiting
until supper."
Eleanor went out, and Anthea found it cost her an effort to talk
tranquilly to Forster. She liked the man, but her mind was busy, and had
there been any means available she would gladly have escaped from him.
It was evident that Eleanor Wheelock believed what she had told her. The
rancher who had kept his jumper in the way was as clearly persuaded that
Merril had injured him, and it was conceivable that the newspaper-man
also believed his statements warranted. If they were right, her father
must have treated several people with considerable harshness, but she
could not bring herself to admit that--at least, just then. She
naturally did not know Eleanor Wheelock had foreseen that once her
doubts were aroused, enlightenment would presently follow. Then there
was the latter's veiled suggestion that she was attracted by Jimmy
Wheelock, and had condescended to cajole or encourage him. Had she been
alone, her cheeks would have tingled at the thought of it, for in one
respect the notion was intolerable. Still, though it cost her an effort,
she contrived to discourse with Forster, until at last the hired man
announced that the wheel was fixed, and, thanking the rancher for his
offer to accompany her, she drove on to Vancouver alone.