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."