[Illustration: 0076]
DICK and Henry did not go directly back, and it was mid-afternoon when
they reached the pier. As they walked down the incline from the road,
Dick's eyes strayed toward the house on stilts. The _Captain_ lay with
nose in the sand, and beside her, evidently just back from a sail, stood
Annie with two of the students who came on bright days to rent Captain
Fargo's boats. They were having a jolly time,--he could hear Annie
laughing at some sally from the taller student,--and they had no eye for
the two sailors on the pier. Once, as they walked out, Dick's hand went
up to his hat; but he was mistaken, she had not seen him. And so he
watched her until the lumber piles, on the broad outer end of the pier,
shut off the view; and Henry watched him.
Dick hardly heard what his cousin said when they parted. He leaped down
to the deck of the _Merry Anne_, and plunged moodily into the box of
an after cabin. His men, excepting Pink Harper, who was somewhere up
forward devouring a novel, were on shore; so that there was no one
to observe him standing there by the little window gazing shoreward.
Finally, after much chatting and lingering, the two students sauntered
away. Annie turned back to make her boat fast; and Dick, in no cheerful
frame of mind, came hurrying shoreward.
She saw him leap down from pier to sand, and gave him a wave of the
hand; then, seeing that he was heading toward her, she turned and
awaited him.
“Come, Dick, I want you to pull the _Captain_ higher up.”
Dick did as he was bid, without a word. And then, with a look and tone
that told her plainly what was to come next, he asked, “What are you
going to do now?”
“I guess I 'll have to see if mother wants me. I've been sailing ever
since dinner.”
“You haven't any time for me, then?”
“Why, of course I have,--lots of it. But I can't see you all the while.”
“No, I suppose you can't--not if you go sailing with those boys.”
Annie's mischievous nature leaped at the chance this speech gave
her. “They aren't boys, Dick; Mr. Beveridge is older than most of the
students. He told me all about himself the other day.”
“Oh, he did.”
“Yes. He was brought up on a farm, and he has had to work his way
through school. When he first came here, he got off the train with only
just three dollars and a half in his pocket, and he didn't have any idea
where he was going to get his next dollar. I think it's pretty brave of
a man to work as hard as that for an education.”
Dick could say nothing. Most of _his_ education had come in through his
pores.
“I like Mr. Wilson, too.”
“He is the other one, I suppose?”
Dick, his eyes fixed on the sand, did not catch the mirthful glance
that was shot at him after these words. And her voice, friendly and
unconscious, told him nothing.
“Yes, he is Mr. Beveridge's friend. They room together.”
“Well, I hope they enjoy it.”
“Now, Dick, what makes you so cross? When you are such a bear, it
wouldn't be any wonder if I didn't want to see you.”
He gazed for a minute at the rippling blue lake, then broke out: “Can
you blame me for being cross? Is it my fault?”
She looked at him with wondering eyes.
“Why--you don't mean it is _my_ fault, Dick?”
“Do you think it is just right to treat me this way, Annie?”
“What way do you mean, Dick?”
He bit his lip, then looked straight into her eyes and came out with
characteristic directness:--
“I don't like to think I've been making a mistake all this while, Annie.
Maybe I have never asked you right out if you would marry me. I'm not
a college fellow, and it isn't always easy for me to say things, but
I thought you knew what I meant. And I thought that you didn't mind my
meaning it.”
She was beginning to look serious and troubled.
“But if there is any doubt about it, I say it right now. Will you marry
me? It is what I have been working for--what I have been buying the
schooner for--and if I had thought for a minute that you weren't going
to say yes sooner or later, I should have gone plumb to the devil before
this. It isn't a laughing matter. It has been the thought of you that
has kept me straight, and--and--can't you see how it is, Annie? Haven't
you anything to say to me?”
She looked at him. He was so big and brown; his eyes were so clear and
blue.
“Don't let's talk about it now. You're so--impatient.”
“Do you really think I've been impatient?”
She could not answer this.
“Now listen, Annie: I'm going to sail in the morning, away around to a
place called Spencer, on Lake Huron; and I could hardly get back inside
of ten or twelve days. And if I should go away without a word from
you--well, I couldn't, that's all.”
“You don't mean--you don't want me to say before to-morrow?”
“Yes, that's just what I mean. You haven't anything to do to-night, have
you?”
She shook, her head without looking at him. “Well, I 'll be around after
supper, and we 'll take a walk, and you can tell me.”
But her courage was coming back. “No, Dick, I can't.”
“But, Annie, you don't mean--”
“Yes, I do. Why can't you stop bothering me, and just wait. Maybe
then--some day--”
“It's no use--I can't. If you won't tell me to-night, surely ten--or,
say, eleven--days ought to be enough. If I went off tomorrow without
even being able to look forward to it--Oh, Annie, you've got to tell
me, that's all. Let me see you to-night, and I 'll try not to bother you.
I 'll get back in eleven days, if I have to put the schooner on my back
and carry her clean across the Southern Peninsula,”--she was smiling
now; she liked his extravagant moods,--“and then you 'll tell me.” He
had her hand; he was gazing so eagerly, so breathlessly, that she could
hardly resist. “You 'll tell me then, Annie, and you 'll make me the
luckiest fellow that ever sailed out of _this_ town. Eleven days from
to-night--and I 'll come--and I 'll ask you if it is to be yes or no--and
you 'll tell me for keeps. You can promise me that much, can't you?”
And Annie, holding out as long as she could, finally, with the slightest
possible inclination of her head, promised.
“Where will you be this evening?” he asked, as they parted.
“I 'll wait on the porch--about eight.”
For the rest of the afternoon Dick sat brooding in his cabin. When, a
little after six, he saw Henry coming down the companionway, his heart
warmed.
“Thought I'd come over and eat with you,” said his cousin. “What's the
matter here--why don't you light up?”
Dick, by way of reply, mumbled a few words and struck a light. Henry
looked at him curiously.
“What is it, Dick?” he asked again.
There had been few secrets between them. So far as either knew, they
were the last two members of their family, and their intimacy, though
never expressed in words, had a deep foundation. Before the present
arrangement of Dick's work, which made it possible for them to meet
at least once in the month, they had seen little of each other; but at
every small crisis in the course of his struggle upward to the command
of a schooner, Dick had been guided by the counsel and example of the
older man. Now he spoke out his mind without hesitation.
“Sit down, Henry. When--when I told you about what I have been
thinking--about Annie--why did you look at me as you did?”
“How did I look?”
“Don't dodge, Henry. The idea struck you wrong. I could see that, and I
want to know why.”
“Well,” Henry hesitated, “I don't know that I should put it just that
way. I confess I was surprised.”
“Haven't you seen it coming?”
“I rather guess the trouble with me was that I have been planning out
your future without taking your feelings into account.”
“How do you mean,--planning my future?”
“Oh, it isn't so definite that I could answer that question offhand.
I thought I saw a future for myself, and I thought we might go it
together. But I was counting on just you and me, without any other
interests or impediments.”
“But if I should marry--”
“If you marry, your work will have to take a new direction. Your
interests will change completely. And before many years, you will begin
to think of quitting the Lake. It isn't the life for a family man. But
then--that's the way things go. I have no right to advise against it.”
Henry smiled, with an odd, half bitter expression. “And from what I have
seen since my eyes were opened, I don't believe it would do any good for
me to object.”
“You are mistaken there, Henry,” the younger man replied quietly; “it
isn't going well at all. I've been pretty blue to-day.”
“Well,” said Henry, with the same odd expression, “I don't know but what
I'm sorry for that. That future I was speaking of seems to have faded
out lately,--in fact, my plans are not going well, either. And so you
probably couldn't count on me very much anyway.”
He paused. Pink Harper, who acted as cook occasionally when the _Anne_
was tied up and the rest of the crew were ashore, could be heard
bustling about on deck. After a moment Henry rose, and, with an
impulsive gesture, laid his hand on Dick's shoulder. “Cheer up, Dick,”
he said. “Don't take it too hard. Try to keep hold of yourself. And look
here, my boy, we've always stepped pretty well together, and we mustn't
let any new thing come in between us--”
“Supper's ready!” Pink called down the companionway.
Dick was both puzzled and touched; touched by Henry's moment of
frankness, puzzled by the reasons given for his opposition to the
suggested marriage. It was not like his cousin to express positive
opinions, least of all with inadequate reasons. Dick had no notion of
leaving the Lake; he could never do so without leaving most of himself
behind. Plainly Henry did not want him married, and Dick wondered why.
It was half-past seven, and night was settling over the Lake. Already
the pier end was fading, the masts of the two schooners were losing
their distinctness against the sky; the ripples had quieted with the
dying day-breeze, and now murmured on the sand. The early evening stars
were peeping out, looking for their mates in the water below.
On the steps, sober now, and inclined to dreaming as she looked out into
the mystery of things, sat Annie. A shadow fell across the beach,--the
outline of a broad pair of shoulders,--and she held her breath. The
shadow lengthened; the man appeared around the corner of the house.
Then, as he came rapidly nearer, she was relieved to see that it was
Beveridge.
He was in a cheerful frame of mind as he stepped up and sat beside her.
It was pleasant that the peculiar nature of his work should make
it advisable to cultivate the acquaintance of an attractive young
woman--such a very attractive young woman that he was beginning to
think, now and then, of taking her away with him when his work here
should be done.
“What do you say to a row on the Lake?” he suggested, after a little.
“I mustn't go away,” said Annie. “I promised I would be here at eight.”
“But it's not eight yet,” Beveridge replied. “Let's walk a little
way--you can keep the house in sight, and see when he comes.”
“Well,” doubtfully, “not far.”
They strolled along the beach until Annie turned. “This is far enough.”
“I don't know whether I can let your Captain come around quite so
often,” said he, as they sat down on the dry sand, in the shelter of a
clump of willows. “It won't do--he is too good looking. I should like to
know what is to become of the rest of us.”
This amused Annie. They had both been gazing out towards the schooners,
and he had read her thoughts. He went on: “You know it's not really
fair. These sailor fellows always get the best of us. He named his
schooner after you, didn't he?”
“Oh, no, I don't believe so.”
“Sailors and soldiers--it's the same the world over! There's no chance
for us common fellows when they are about. Tell you what I shall have
to do--join the militia and come around in full uniform. Then maybe you
would be looking at me, too. I don't know but what I could even make you
forget him.”
She had to laugh at this. “Maybe you could.”
“I suppose it wouldn't do me any good to try without the uniform, would
it?”
She tossed her head now. “So that's what you think of me--that I care
for nothing but clothes?”
“Oh, no, it's not the clothes. His red shirt would never do it. But it's
the idea of a sailor's life--there is a sort of glitter about it--he
seems pluckier, somehow, than other men. It's the dash and the
grand-stand play that fetches it. I suppose it wouldn't be a bit of use
to tell you that you are too good for him.”
She made no reply, and the conversation halted. Annie gazed pensively
out across the water. He watched her, and as the moments slipped away
his expression began to change; for he was still a young man, and the
witchery of the night was working within him.
“Do you know, I'm pretty nearly mean enough to tell you some things
about Dick Smiley. I don't know but what I'm a little jealous of him.”
She did not turn, or speak.
“I'm afraid it is so. I would hardly talk like this if I were not. I
thought I was about girl-proof,--up to now, no one has been able to keep
my mind off my work very long at a time,--but you have been playing the
mischief with me, this last week or so. It's no use, Annie. I wouldn't
give three cents for the man that could look at you and keep his head.
And when I think of you throwing yourself away on Smiley, just because
he's good-looking and a sailor--you mustn't do it, that's all. I have
been watching you--”
“Oh,--you have?”
“Yes, and I think maybe I see some things about you that you don't see
yourself. I wonder if you have thought where a man like Smiley would
lead you?” She would have protested at this, but he swept on. “He can
never be anything more than he is. He has no head for business, and even
if he works hard, he can't hope to do more than own his schooner. You
see, he's not prepared for anything better; he's side-tracked. And if
you were just a pretty girl and nothing more,--just about the size of
these people around you,--I don't suppose I should say a word; I should
know you would never be happy anywhere else. Why, Annie, do you suppose
there's a girl anywhere else on the shore of Lake Michigan--on the whole
five Lakes--living among fishermen and sailors, as you do, that could
put on a dress the way you have put that one on, that could wear it the
way you're wearing it now?
“Oh, I know the difference, and I don't like to stand by and let you
throw yourself away. You see, Annie, I haven't known you very long, but
it has been long enough to make it impossible to forget you. I haven't
any more than made my start, but I'm sure I am headed right, and if
I could tell you the chance there is ahead of me to do something big,
maybe you would understand why I believe I'm going to be able to offer
you the kind of life you ought to have--the kind you were made for. I
don't want to climb up alone. I want some one with me--some one to help
me make it. You may think this is sudden--and you would be right.
It _is_ sudden. I have felt a little important about my work, I'm
afraid, for I really have been doing well. But ever since you just
looked at me with those eyes of yours, the whole business has gone
upside down. Don't blame me for talking out this way. It's your fault
for being what you are. I expect to finish up my work here pretty soon
now, and then I 'll have to go away, and there's no telling where I 'll
be.”
Annie was puzzled.
“Oh, you finish so soon? It is only September now.”
“I have to move on when the work is done, you know. I obey orders.”
“But I thought you were a student, Mr. Beveridge?”
He hesitated; he had said too much. Chagrined, he rose, without a word,
at her “Come, I must go back now,” and returned with her to the house.
And when they were approaching the steps, he was just angry enough with
himself to blunder again.
“Wait, Annie. I see you don't understand me. But there is one thing you
_can_ understand. I want to go away knowing that you aren't going to
encourage Smiley any longer. You can promise me that much. I don't want
to talk against him; but I can tell you he's not the man for you; he's
not even the man you think he is. Some day I will explain it all.
Promise me that you won't.”
But she hurried on resolutely toward the house, and there was nothing
to do but follow. “Will you take my word for it, Annie,--that you 'll do
best to let him alone?”
She shook her head and hurried along.
On the steps sat a gloomy figure--Dick, in his Sunday clothes, white
shirt and collar, red necktie, and all. His elbows rested on his knees,
his chin rested on his hands, and the darkness of the great black Lake
was in his soul. He watched the approaching figures without raising his
head; he saw Beveridge lift his hat and turn away toward the bank; he
let Annie come forward alone without speaking to her.
She put one foot on the bottom step, and nodded up at him. “Here I am,
Dick. Do you want to sit here or--or walk?”
He got up, and came slowly down to the sand.
“So this is the way you treat me, Annie?”
“I'm not late, am I, Dick? It can't be much after eight.”
“So you go walking with him, when--when--”
“Now, Dick, don't be foolish. Mr. Beveridge came around early, and
wanted me to walk, and--and I told him I couldn't stay away--”
She was not quite her usual sprightly self; and the manner of this
speech was not convincing. Dick's reply was a subdued sound that
indicated anything but satisfaction.
“I'm mad, Annie,--I know I'm mad--and I don't think you can blame me.”
“I--I didn't ask you to come before eight, Dick.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? I suppose you told him to come at seven.”
“Now, Dick,--please--”
But he, not daring to trust his tongue, was angry and helpless before
her. After a moment he turned away and stood looking out toward the
lights of the schooner. Finally he said, in a strange voice, “I see I've
been a fool--I thought you meant some of the things you've said--I ought
to have known better; I ought to have known you were just fooling with
me--you were just a flirt.”
He did not look around. Even if he had, the night would have concealed
the color in her cheeks. But he heard her say, “I think perhaps--you had
better go, Dick.”
He hesitated, then turned.
“Good night,” she said, and ran up the steps.
“Say--wait, Annie--”
The door closed behind her, and Dick stood alone. He waited, thinking
she might come back, but the house was silent. He stepped back and
looked up at her little balcony with its fringe of flowers, but it was
deserted; no light appeared in the window. At last he turned away, and
tramped out to the _Merry Anne_. The men were aboard, ready for an early
start in the morning; the new mate was settling himself in the cabin.
To Dick, as he stood on the pier and looked down on the trim little
schooner, nothing appeared worth while. He leaped down to the deck, and
thought savagely that he would have made the the same leap if the deck
had not been there, if there had been fourteen feet of green water and a
berth on the scalloped sand below. But there was one good thing--nothing
could rob Dick of his sleep. And in his dreams Annie was always kind.