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."
This time it was Anthea who said nothing, and Merril went on again. "You
might never have had to face it had you been a pretty fool, but that
could hardly have been expected. You are my daughter. Still,
intelligence, as other people have no doubt discovered, is not always a
blessing to a woman."
Again he made a little abrupt movement. "You see, I offer no palliation.
The one question is simply--do you mean to turn your back on me?"
Anthea looked at him steadily. "No," she said, "I could never do that.
Still, must you continue what you are doing? Can't you give it up?"
"Sit down," said Merril quietly, and, rising, drew her a chair. "I think
we must understand each other now and altogether. To commence with, I
should have liked you to continue to think well of me, though,
considering what you are, I knew the thing was hardly likely. Now you
have made a discovery that hurts you."
He stopped a moment, and though there had been a certain elusive
gentleness in his voice, the girl was sensible that she shrank from him.
He was, she realized, without compunction, and had no regret for what he
had done. Indeed, his passionless quietness conveyed the impression that
some of the usual attributes of humanity had been left out of him. A
trace of confusion or anger would have appeared more natural, and
invective would have been easier to bear than this suggestive
tranquillity.
"Well," he said, "you asked a very natural question. What I am doing--my
view of life, in fact--displeases you. You ask, can't I give it up? I
ask why? Can you offer me any reason?"
Anthea said nothing. Reasons occurred to her, but they were rather felt
than concretely formulated, and, as she realized, would suffer from
being forced into shallow and inadequate expression. She also naturally
shrank from an unsuccessful attempt to play the teacher to her father,
and had sense enough to know that trite maxims and virtuous platitudes
would have very small effect on such a man. It was, perhaps, not an
unusual feeling in one respect, for the deep optimistic faith of the
wise cannot be rashly formulated without its suffering in the process.
It is, as a rule, the people with shallow beliefs who have the ready
tongues, and the result of their well-meaning efforts is seldom the one
they desire. Anthea, at least, recognized her disabilities, and kept
silence. She also saw that her father understood her, for he nodded.
"It is clear that you are not a fool," he said. "If you had been, the
thing would have been easier for both of us. I allowed you to be brought
up in the conventional morality, knowing that you would grow above what
was spurious in it, and cling to what you felt was real. If you felt
that, it would be sufficient for you. Still, that morality was never
mine. I had to face life as I found it, without the money that might
have made it easier to regard it virtuously, and scruples would have
insufferably handicapped me. As a matter of fact, I do not think I ever
had any. This existence is a struggle, as no doubt you have heard often
without realizing it, and it is the strong and cunning who get out of it
what is worth having. That, at least, is my point of view. It may be the
wrong one, but I am satisfied with it, and, what is more to the purpose,
quite content to leave you yours."
He broke off once more, and smiled before he went on. "We have done with
that subject. I would not influence you against your belief--which is
the prettier one--if I could, and I do not think you could influence me.
In fact, one feels diffident about having said so much. Well, it is the
days to come we have to consider. I am not likely to change my code, and
you do not wish to leave me?"
Again, for just a moment, the faint tenderness crept into his voice, and
the girl's nature stirred in answer.
"No," she said, "there is nothing that could make me wish to do that."
"Well," said the man, with a dry smile, "we will try to avoid offending
each other, and I should have been sorry had you gone away. In fact, it
is a relief to know that you will be with me. My affairs have not been
going well lately."
This was sufficiently matter-of-fact, but in spite of the vague
shrinking from him of which she was still sensible, Anthea was touched.
She could not, however, concretely realize what she felt, and wisely
made no attempt to express it. Instead, she spoke of something else,
seizing on an immaterial point that casually occurred to her.
"I fancied you were a prosperous man," she said.
"So do many people," said Merril dryly. "It was by leading them to
believe it that I've done what I have done. My operations are for the
most part conducted with other people's money. Still, one has to face
reverses now and then, and when two or three of them come together the
people who support one commence to doubt their wisdom. Then they are apt
to back down and become virtuously scrupulous, while the men with a
grudge against one waken up and fancy their turn has come. In my case
there are evidently quite a few of them."
He laughed softly, but in a fashion that jarred on the girl. "Still, it
is very probable that I shall keep ahead of them, after all. In any
case, I won't offend you by suggesting that the odd chance of your
having to dispense with what I have been able to offer you so far would
count for very much."
"Thank you for that," said Anthea softly.
Merril turned to the papers before him. "Well," he said, "now we
understand, and, as you see, I am busy."
Anthea went out, not reassured, but more tranquil. She realized what her
duty was, and purposed to do it; but while there was still a tenderness
for the man in her, there was also something about him besides his
avowed point of view and the actions it led to, that repelled her. He
had, it seemed, an intellect that was unhampered by the usual passions
and affections of humanity.