Bindloss Harold
Thrice Armed

Jordan laid a hand on his companion's arm. "Jimmy," he said, "there's a thing you haven't mentioned to either of us – and I didn't expect you to – but I feel that by and by your sister is going to make trouble for you."

Jimmy looked at him steadily, and Jordan smiled. "You needn't trouble about making any disclaimer. I see how it is. Somehow you're going to get her. Merril's not likely to run us off. I guess there's no reason to worry about him. Still, I want you to understand that if I can't put a check on your sister – and that's quite likely – I'm going to stand by her. I just have to."

"Of course!" said Jimmy gravely. "Nobody would expect anything else from you. I don't mind admitting that I have been a little anxious about what Eleanor might do – but we'll change the subject. You suggested that Merril was getting into trouble?"

"He is," said Jordan, with evident relief. "They're making the road to the pulp-mill, and I don't quite know where he raised his share of the money, especially as he has just taken over a big old-type steamer. Had to face a high figure, played out as she is. Ships are in demand. Now, there are men like Merril whose money isn't their own; that is, they can get it from other people to make a profit on, as a general thing. But these aren't ordinary times; any man with money can make good interest on it himself just now, and I've more than a fancy that Merril's handing out instead of raking in. He has been at the banks lately, and when there's a demand for money everywhere you can figure what they're going to charge him. Anyway, we won't worry about him in the meanwhile. Get on your shore-clothes. As soon as you're ready you're coming up-town with me."

CHAPTER XXV
AN UNDERSTANDING

Jimmy went to Austerly's, and during the evening related his adventures in the north to a sympathetic audience. His companions insisted on this, and though there was one fact he would rather not have mentioned he complied good-humoredly with their request. The narrative was essentially matter-of-fact, but he had sufficient sense to avoid any affectation of undue diffidence, and the others appeared to find it interesting. Indeed, Nellie Austerly, at least, noticed the faint sparkle which now and then crept into Anthea's eyes as he told them how, in order to keep his promise to the miners that there should be no delay, he had come out of a snug anchorage and groped his way northward through a bewildering smother of unlifting fog. He also told them simply, but, though he was not aware of the latter fact, with a certain dramatic force, how, straining every nerve and muscle in tense suspense, they hove the steamer off just before the gale broke, and of the strenuous labor cutting wood for fuel on the southward voyage.

When he stopped, Nellie Austerly looked up with a little nod. "Yes," she said, "you took those miners in as you had promised, in spite of the fog, and you brought the Shasta down all that way with only a few tons of coal. Still, I don't think you should expect any particular commendation. There are men who can't help doing things of that kind."

Jimmy laughed, though his face grew slightly flushed. "I'm afraid I also put her ashore. One can't get over that." Then he looked at Jordan. "In fact, I scarcely think I'm out of the wood yet. There will be an inquiry."

"Purely formal," said his comrade. "They'll have a special whitewash brush made for you. Nautical assessors have some conscience, after all. Besides, it depends largely on the facts you supply them whether they consider it worth while to have one."

Austerly had a few questions to ask, and then the conversation drifted away to other topics, until some little time later Jimmy found himself sitting alone beside Nellie Austerly. She lay wrapped in fleecy shawls in a big chair near the foot of the veranda stairway, looking very frail, but she smiled at him benevolently.

"I am glad they have gone," she said. "You see, I wanted to talk to you, but the dew is commencing to settle and I must go in soon. That is insisted on, though I don't think it matters."

She smiled again. "It is a beautiful world, Jimmy, isn't it?"

Jimmy drew in his breath as he glanced about him, for he guessed part of what she was thinking, and it hurt him. He could see the dark pines towering against the wondrous green transparency which follows hard upon the sunset splendors in that country. The Inlet shone in the gaps amid that stately colonnade, and far off beyond it there was a faint ethereal gleam of snow. To him, filled as he was with the clean vigor of the sea, it seemed too beautiful a world to leave.

"Still," said his companion, "it has had very little to offer me, and perhaps that is why I feel one should never stand by and let any good thing it holds out go; that is, of course, when one has the strength to grasp it. It usually needs some courage, too."

"I'm afraid it does;" and Jimmy looked down at her gravely, for since this was not quite the first time she had suggested the same thing he commenced to understand where she was leading him. "One might, perhaps, manage to muster enough if one could only be sure – "

He stopped somewhat awkwardly, and the girl laughed. "One very seldom can. You have to reach out boldly and clutch before the opportunity has gone."

"In the dark?"

"Of course! One can't always expect to see one's way. You were not afraid of the fog, Jimmy?"

"I was. It got hold of my nerves and shook all the stiffening out of me. In fact, in the sense you mean, I'm afraid of it still."

He checked himself for a moment, and his face was furrowed when he turned to her again. "You understand, of course. The clogging smother of uncertainty now and then gets intolerable when a man wants to do the right thing. He can't see where he is going. There is nothing to steer by."

"If you had sat down and tried to think of every reef and shoal, and what would become of the Shasta if she struck them, would you ever have reached your destination when the fog shut down?"

"No," said Jimmy; "I should in all probability have turned her round, and steamed south again."

Nellie Austerly laughed. "Instead of that you went on – and got there – as they say in this country. That, as I think you will recognize, is the point of it all."

"I also got ashore."

"In spite of the lead. It wasn't much service, Jimmy. It really seems that one is just as safe when going full-speed ahead. Besides, you got off again, and brought the Shasta back undamaged. Well, perhaps it may occur to you by and by that there must always be a little uncertainty, and in the meanwhile I dare say you won't mind giving me your arm. I must go in, and these steps seem to be getting steeper lately."

Jimmy gravely held out his arm, and when he handed her one of the shawls as they reached the veranda, she smiled at him again.

"Now you are released, and I see Anthea is all alone," she said.

She disappeared into the house, and Jimmy's heart beat a good deal faster than usual when he went down the stairway. Though he did not know what he would say to her, he had been longing all evening for a word or two with Anthea, and now the desire was almost overwhelming. He had, of course, seen the drift of Nellie Austerly's observations, and it scarcely seemed likely that she would have offered him the veiled encouragement unless she had had some ground for believing that it was warranted. He also remembered what he had twice seen in Anthea's face; but he was a steamboat skipper with no means worth mentioning, and she the daughter of a man who was in one sense responsible for his father's death. That was certainly not her fault, but Jimmy felt that even if she would listen to him, of which he was far from certain, he could not expose her to her father's ill-will and the scornful pity of her friends. Still, Nellie Austerly's words had had their effect, and he strode straight across the lawn, with the same curious little thrill running through him of which he had been sensible when he drove the Shasta full-speed into the fog.

Anthea stood waiting for him beneath the dark firs, very much as she had done when he had last seen her, with a smile in her eyes.

"I suppose it is Nellie's fault, but I was commencing to wonder whether you wished to avoid me," she said.

Jimmy stood silent a moment, trying to impose a due restraint upon himself, until she lifted her eyes and looked at him. Then he knew the attempt was useless, and abandoned it.

"The fault was not exactly mine," he said, with a faint hoarseness in his voice. "For one thing, how could I know that you would be pleased to see me?"

"Still," said Anthea quietly, "I really think you did. Were your other reasons for staying away more convincing?"

Then Jimmy flung prudence to the winds. The fog of which he had declared himself afraid was thicker than ever, but that fact had suddenly ceased to trouble him. Again he felt, as he had done when he crouched in the Sorata's cockpit one wild morning, that he and Anthea Merril were merely man and woman, and that she was the one he wanted for his wife. That was sufficient, for the time being, to drive out every other consideration; but he answered her quietly.

"A little while ago I believed they were, but I can't quite think that now," he said. "Something seems to have happened in the meanwhile – and they don't appear to count."

They had as if by mutual consent turned and followed a path that led into the scented shadow of the firs, but when a great columnar trunk hid them from the house Jimmy stopped again.

"Yes," he said, "after that morning when we watched the big combers from the Sorata's cockpit, I think I should have known you were glad to see the Shasta back; but the trouble was that I dared not let myself be sure of it. There were, as you said, reasons for that. I suppose I should be strong enough to recognize and yield to them still, but – while you may blame me afterward for not doing so – I can't."

He moved a pace forward, and laid a hand on her shoulder, holding her back from him, unresisting, while he looked down at her. "Since I carried you through the creek that evening up in the bush I have thought of nothing, longed for nothing, but you. It has been one long effort to hold the folly in check; but it has suddenly grown too hard for me – I can't keep it up. Now, at least, you know."

He let his hand drop to his side, and stood still with his eyes fixed on her. Anthea looked up at him with a smile.

"Ah!" she said, "I knew it all long ago. Was it very hard, Jimmy – and are you sure it was necessary?"

The blood surged to the man's forehead, but there was trouble as well as exultation in his face, for his senses were coming back, and it seemed to him that he must somehow muster wisdom to choose for both of them.

"My dear," he said a trifle hoarsely, "I think it was. I am a struggling steamboat skipper, and you a lady of station in this Province. That was a sufficient reason, as things go."

"If you had been the director of a steamship company, and I a girl without a dollar, would that have influenced you?"

"It would have made it easier. I should have claimed you on board the Sorata. Lord" – and Jimmy made a little forceful gesture – "how I wish you were!"

Anthea smiled at him curiously. "Well," she said, "I may not have very much money, after all – and, if I had, is there any reason why you should be willing to give up more than I would? Does it matter so very much that I may, perhaps, be a little richer than you are?"

The veins showed swollen on the man's forehead, and again he struggled with the impulses that had carried him away, for the discrepancy in wealth was, after all, only a minor obstacle. Anthea, too, clearly realized that, and she roused herself for an effort.

"Jimmy," she said, while he stood silent, "would it hurt you very much if I admitted that you were right, and sent you away? After all, you have scarcely said anything that could make one think you would feel it very keenly."

The man stooped a little, and seized one of her hands. "Dear, you are all I want, and to go would be the hardest thing I ever did; but there is your father's opposition to consider, and, if to stay would bring you trouble, I might compel myself."

"Ah!" said Anthea softly, "the trouble would come if you went away."

Then with a little resolute movement she drew herself away from him, and looked up with a flush in her face and a quickening of her breath, for there was something of moment to be said. "There is a reason you haven't mentioned yet, though your sister did. Does that count for so very much with you?"

"Eleanor!" said Jimmy, while a thrill of anger ran through him. "I might have known she would do this."

He stood quite still for several moments with a hand clenched at his side and his face furrowed, and when he spoke again it was hoarsely.

"What did she tell you?" he asked.

"I think she told me all that she knew about your father's ruin, and his death. It was very hard to listen to, Jimmy – but did it really happen that way?"

She stopped a moment, and cast a little glance of appeal at him. "I have tried to think that she must have distorted things. It would have been no more than natural. If I had borne what she has I would have done the same. One could not regard them correctly. Bitterness and grief must influence one's point of view."

The man turned his face from her, and moved away a pace or two as if in pain. Then once more he turned toward her with a compassionate gesture, for he knew that the blow would be a heavy one to her, and it was almost insufferable that his hand should be the one to deal it.

"Then anything I could say would not be more reliable. My views would as naturally be distorted too."

"Still, I should have an answer. You must realize that, and if it is one that hurts I should sooner it came from you than anybody else."

Jimmy drew in his breath. "Then, while I don't know exactly what Eleanor has said, or whether I can forgive her that cruelty, I think you could believe every word of it."

The color faded from Anthea's face, and she looked at him with a faint horror in her eyes and her lips tight set. She could not doubt him. If there had been no other reason, the pity she saw he had for her was proof enough, and for a moment or two she forgot everything but the grim fact to which Eleanor Wheelock had forced her to listen. She could make no excuses for her father now.

She saw him suddenly as she felt that he was a creature of insatiable greed, cunning, unscrupulous, and without pity, and then she commenced to feel intolerably lonely. It was almost as though he had died, and the longing for the love of the man who stood watching her with grave sympathy in his eyes grew so strong that for the moment she was sensible of nothing else. There was nobody but him to whom she could turn. It was, she felt, his part to comfort her; and then she shivered as she remembered that circumstances had placed that out of the question. The injury her father had done him must, it seemed, always stand between them, and she shrank back a pace from him.

"Ah!" she said, "you must hate me for that, Jimmy."

It was half an assertion, and, though she had perhaps not consciously intended the latter, half a question, and the man recognized the dismay in it. He strode forward, and seizing both her hands laid them on his shoulders, and drew her to him masterfully. For a moment he used compulsion, and then she clung to him quivering with her head on his breast.

"Dear," he said, "it is not your fault. You had no part in it, and, even had it been so, I think I could not have helped loving you. As it is, there is nothing in this world could make me hate you."

Anthea made him no answer, and Jimmy drew her closer still. He had flung prudence and restraint away. What he had said and done was irrevocable, and he was glad that it was so. At last the girl looked up at him again.

"Jimmy," she said, "if you can thrust into the background all that Eleanor told me, you cannot let money come between us. Besides, I haven't any now. Could I lavish money that had been wrung from your father and other struggling men upon my pleasures – or dare to bring it to you? Can't you understand, dear? I am as poor as you are."

Then she suddenly shook herself free from his grasp, and seemed to shiver. "But you can't forgive him – it will be war between you?"

"Yes," said Jimmy slowly, "I am afraid that must be so. If there were no other reason, I cannot desert the men who befriended me, and your father will do all he can to crush them."

"Ah!" said the girl, "it is going to be very hard. Still, I cannot turn against him; he has, at least, been kind to me. I have never had a wish he has not gratified."

Jimmy slowly shook his head. "No," he said; "that is out of the question – I could not ask it of you. There is also this to recognize: your father is a man of station, and would never permit you to marry a steamboat skipper. He will make every effort to keep you away from me."

Just then Austerly's voice reached them from the house, and Anthea turned to the man again. "Jimmy," she said, "I know that you belong to me, and I to you; but that must be sufficient in the meanwhile. We can neither of us be a traitor. You must wait and say nothing, dear."

Then she turned and, slipping by him swiftly, moved across the lawn toward the house, while Jimmy stood where he was, exultant, but realizing that the struggle before them would tax all the courage that was in him and the girl.

Before he left the house, Nellie Austerly contrived to draw him to her side when there was nobody else near the chair in which she lay.

"Well?" she said inquiringly.

Jimmy looked at her with a little grave smile. "I have rung for full-speed," he said. "Still, the fog is thicker than ever, and, when I dare to listen, I can hear breakers on the bow."

CHAPTER XXVI
ELEANOR HOLDS THE CLUE

Mrs. Forster had gone out with her daughters, and there was just then nobody else in the ranch, when Eleanor Wheelock and Carnforth sat talking in the big general room. This was satisfactory to the girl, for she desired to have the next half-hour free from interruption. She was aware that Mrs. Forster might come back before that time had elapsed; but, although she had a purpose to accomplish, any appearance of haste would spoil everything, for it was, as she recognized, advisable that Carnforth should be permitted to take her into his confidence in his own time and way, without her doing anything to suggest that she was encouraging him. He had not been very long in Vancouver, and though he had placed a good deal of money in Merril's hands, and was associated with him in some of his business ventures, she had reasons for believing that he did not know exactly what her relations with Jordan were, or that she had a brother in command of the Shasta. Carnforth, as it happened, had also come there with a purpose in his mind. Indeed, it was one he had been considering for some little time, though he had at length decided that it would have to be modified. This did not exactly please him, but he was prepared to make a sacrifice in case of necessity.

He was a tall, well-favored man, and his tight-fitting clothes displayed the straightness of his limbs as he leaned back in his chair, with his eyes which had a suggestive sparkle in them fixed on the girl. The fashion in which he regarded her would, in different circumstances, have aroused Eleanor's resentment, but she was quite aware that there were certain defects in his character, and she had taken some trouble to discover why he had left Toronto somewhat hastily. She sat in a canvas chair opposite him across the room, and, since she had expected him that afternoon, she was conscious that everything she wore became her well.

The long, light-tinted skirt was no fuller than was necessary, but Eleanor could afford to wear it so, for both in man and woman the average Western figure is modeled in long sweeping lines, and the soft fabric emphasized her dainty slenderness. The pale-blue blouse that hung in filmy, lace-like folds heightened the color of her eyes and the clear pallor of her ivory complexion. Eleanor was, in fact, quite satisfied with her appearance, and aware that it suggested a Puritanical simplicity, which was in one respect, at least, not altogether misleading. There is a certain absence of grossness in the men and women of the West, and even their vices are characterized rather by daring than by materialistic sensuality. She felt that she loathed the man and the part circumstances had forced on her while she dressed herself in expectation of his visit; but, for all that, she was prepared to undertake it.

"And you are really thinking of going away?" she asked.

Carnforth did not answer hastily, but looked at her with the little sparkle growing plainer in his eyes while he appeared to reflect; and, though there was nothing to suggest that she was doing so, Eleanor listened intently as she marshaled all her forces for the task she had in hand. The afternoon was hot and still, and she could hear Forster and his hired man chopping in the bush. The thud of their axes came faintly out of the shadowy woods, but there was no other sound, and the house was very quiet. This was reassuring, for she had no wish to hear Mrs. Forster's footsteps just then. At last her companion spoke.

"Yes," he said, "I have been thinking over it for some time. In fact, I should have gone before, only I couldn't quite nerve myself to it. I guess I needn't tell you why I found that difficult."

Eleanor laughed. "Then if you don't wish to, why go away at all?"

"I think it would be nicer to tell you why I wish to stay."

"Well," said Eleanor thoughtfully, "I almost fancy you have suggested your reasons once or twice already. Still, it's evident they can't have very much weight with you, or you wouldn't go."

Carnforth leaned forward. "Anyway, my reasons for going would have some weight with most men."

"Then until I hear what they are, you are on your defense," said Eleanor, with a smile that set his blood tingling. "In the meanwhile, I am far from pleased with you. It is not flattering to find one of my friends so anxious to get away from me."

"That was by no means what I was contemplating," said the man, and there were signs of strain in his voice, while a trace of darker color crept into his face. "I guess you know it, too."

"Ah!" said Eleanor, "why should you expect me to? It wouldn't be reasonable in the circumstances. I was willing to allow you to excuse yourself for wishing to go away, and you don't seem at all anxious to profit by my generosity."

"You mightn't find my reasons – they're rather material ones – interesting."

"Then you are still on your defense, and far from being forgiven. As a matter of fact, I am interested in almost everything, as you ought to know by this time."

"I believe you are," and Carnforth made her a little inclination. "I guess you understand almost everything, too. Well, it seems I have to tell you."

Eleanor displayed no eagerness, though she was sensible of a little thrill of satisfaction, for the thing was becoming easier than she had expected. Instead, she moved with a slow gracefulness in her low chair, so that the narrow ray of sunlight which shone in between the half-closed shutters fell on one cheek and delicate ear. She knew that the pose she had fallen into was one that became her well, and would in all probability have its effect on her companion, and she meant to make the utmost of her physical attractiveness, though such a course was foreign to her nature. Eleanor Wheelock was imperious, and it pleased her to command instead of allure; but she could on due occasion hold her pride in check, and she would not have disdained to use any wile just then. It was with perfect composure that she watched the little glow kindle in Carnforth's eyes, though she could have struck him for it.

"There is no compulsion," she said indifferently. "It rests with yourself."

Carnforth laughed in a fashion that jarred on her. "The fact that you wish it goes a long way with me. Well, I am a man with somewhat luxurious tastes, which the money I possess would unfortunately not continue to gratify unless I keep it earning something. That is what induced me to take a share in one or two of Merril's ventures, and now makes it advisable for me to leave him. If I elect to remain, I must put more money into the concern than I consider wise."

"Then Merril's affairs are not prospering?"

"No," said the man, with a keen glance at her. "I believe you are as aware of that as I am. One way or another you have extracted a good deal of information out of me – the kind in which women aren't generally interested. I don't know why you have done so."

"I think I told you that I am interested in everything. You don't feel warranted in handing the money over to Merril?"

Carnforth shook his head. "The pulp-mill hit us hard; but before he quite knew that we would have to make the wagon-road, he had bound himself to take over the steamer we are sending up with the miners," he said. "She cost him a good deal."

"Still, freights and passage to the north are high."

"They won't continue to be when the C.P.R. and other people put on modern and economical boats. It is quite clear to me that Merril's boat can't make a living when she has to run against them."

Eleanor decided to change the subject for a while, though she had not done with it yet. "Well," she said languidly, "I really don't think it matters to me whether she does or not. What I gave you permission to do was to defend yourself for wishing to go away."

"Haven't I done it?" asked the man. "When I break with Merril I shall naturally have to discover a new field for my abilities. I think it will be in California."

"You are going to break with him because he is saddled with an unprofitable vessel? Now, there are tides, and fogs, and reefs up there in the north; don't they sometimes lose a well-insured steamer?"

Carnforth laughed, but the girl had seen him start. "Well," he said, "I don't mind admitting that if the one in question went north some day and didn't come back again, it would be a relief to one or two of us. Still, I'm 'most afraid that's too fortunate a thing to happen."

"Of course! There would always be a probability of the skipper's demanding money afterward? Besides, a mate or quartermaster or somebody who hadn't a hand in it might have his suspicions."

The man gazed at her, and this time his astonishment at her perspicacity was very evident for a moment. "A wise man wouldn't tamper with the skipper. Anyway, the people who try to get their money back by means of that kind 'most always involve themselves in difficulties."

It cost Eleanor an effort to conceal her satisfaction. Little by little she had, to an extent her companion did not realize, extracted from him information that enabled her to understand the state of Merril's affairs tolerably accurately, and she had decided that he would attempt some daring and drastic remedy. Now her purpose was accomplished, for she knew what that remedy would be, and it only remained for her to determine whether Carnforth could be used as a weapon against his associate or must be flung aside. The latter course was the one she would prefer, and she decided on it since he had practically answered the question.

"So you are going to leave him now that he is in difficulties?" she said with a sardonic smile. "It isn't very generous, but I suppose it's wise, and I almost think you have cleared yourself. Would you mind looking whether you can see Mrs. Forster?"

He had served his purpose, and she was anxious to get rid of him; but the man made no sign of moving.

"I would mind just now, and I hope she'll stay away," he said. "The fact is I have something to say to you, and don't know why I let you switch me off on to Merril. His affairs can't concern you."

"Then why did you tell me so much about them?"

The man gazed hard at her in evident bewilderment, and then rose to his feet with a little air of resolution. "I'm not to be driven away from the point again. I told you why I have to go, but that is less than half of it. I can't go alone; I want you to come with me."

"Ah!" said the girl very quietly, though a red spot which her brother and Jordan would have recognized as a warning showed in each cheek. "This is unexpected."

Carnforth crossed the room and leaned on a table not far from her chair, looking down at her with a look from which she shrank.

"No," he said, "I don't think it's unexpected; you knew what I meant from the beginning."

This was, as a matter of fact, correct, but the color grew plainer in Eleanor's cheek. She had known exactly what her companion's advances were worth, and at times it had cost her a strenuous effort to hold her anger in check. It was, however, characteristic of her that she had made the effort.

"After that, I think it would save both of us trouble if you understood once for all that I will not go," she said.

Carnforth laughed harshly, while his face flushed with ill-suppressed passion. "Pshaw! you don't mean it. For several months you have led me on, and now that I'm yours altogether, I'm not going to California without you. You know that, too; you have to go."

"You have had your answer," and Eleanor rose and faced him with portentous quietness. "Don't make me say anything more."

The man moved forward suddenly, and laid a hot grasp on her wrist. There was as yet no dismay in his face, and it was very evident that he would not believe her. There were excuses for him, and the fact that it was so roused the girl, who remembered what her part had been, to almost uncontrollable anger.

"You are going to say that you are willing and coming with me, if I have to make you," he said fiercely. "I mean just that, and I am not afraid of you, though at times one can see something in your eyes that would scare off most men. It's there now, but it's one of the things that make me want you. Eleanor, put an end to this. You know you have me altogether – isn't that enough? Do you want to drive me mad?"