[Illustration: 0178]
THE eleven days Dick had given her for considering were going faster
than any other days Annie had known. To make it worse, she had to pass
them alone, for Beveridge, who was always diverting, hardly appeared
after Dick sailed away. It was now the afternoon of the tenth day, a
bright, cool afternoon with a southerly breeze and a rippling lake. She
was in her room, looking out at the pier, where the _Schmidt_ lay, when
a voice caught her ear. She stepped nearer to the window and then could
see Beveridge and his friend Wilson standing on the beach. While
she looked, Wilson said good-by, and strolled over to the pier; and
Beveridge turned irresolutely toward the house on stilts, looking up at
the flowering balcony.
Annie remembered that she had not watered her flowers. She always waited
until the shadows crept around to the eastern side of the house; they
were here now, so, filling her pitcher, she stepped out. Beveridge,
fully recovered from the odd sensations of his evening with Madge,
raised his cap, but found that she had turned her back on him and was
absorbed in her forget-me-nots. “Annie,” he called, “aren't you going to
speak to me?”
“Oh,”--she came to the railing,--“oh, how do you do?”
“Won't you come out?”
“Why--I suppose I might.”
“All right. I 'll wait down here.” When she appeared on the steps, he
suggested a sail.
“I don't mind--if the wind holds. It's not very strong, and it may go
down with the sun.” She was looking about from lake to sky with the easy
air of a veteran mariner; and he was looking at her.
“Let's chance it.”
So they pushed out; and at the moment when Dick and the _Merry Anne_
were coasting along the bluffs above Grosse Pointe the _Captain_ was
skimming out on a long tack for the Lake View reef.
Little was said until they were entering on the second mile, then this
from Beveridge, lounging on the windward rail, “Have you been thinking
about our talk that evening, Annie?”
“Oh, dear!” thought she; but she said nothing.
“You haven't forgotten what I said?”
“Oh, the evening you came up for me?”
“Yes, and Smiley came later.”
“But you don't--you don't want me to think that you meant--”
“But I did, Annie. Do you remember I told you I thought I had a fair
chance to be something in the world? Well, I'm nearer it than I thought,
even then. There are a good many things I'm going to tell you some
day,--not just yet,--but when you know them, you 'll understand why I've
dared to talk this way. If I didn't believe I was going to be able to
do for you all you could want, and more; if I didn't feel pretty sure I
could help you to grow up away from this beach, to get into surroundings
that will set you off as you deserve, I'd never have said a word. But
I _can_ do these things, Annie. And if I could only know that I had the
right to do them for you--I want to take you away from here.”
“But I don't want to leave the beach.”
“I know--I think I understand just how you feel. It's natural--you were
born here--you've never seen anything else. But I can't stay here, and I
can't go without you. I can't get along anywhere without you.”
“But--”
“What, Annie?”
“You've got along very--very well, lately.”
“No--that's just it, I haven't. My work has kept me out of town.”
“Your work?”
“Yes, I've--”
“Mr. Beveridge, are you a student, or aren't you?”
“I--”
“Tell me, please. Some of the things you have said I don't understand.”
“Well--no, I'm not.”
“Then what you have said hasn't been true?”
“No--some of it hasn't.”
“And yet you--” She hesitated.
“In a very little while, Annie,--maybe only a day or two,--some
surprising things are going to happen. I wish I could tell you, but I
can't. I have been perfectly honest with you,--no, don't look at me that
way; it is true,--and if I have misled you in one or two little things,
it was only because I couldn't honestly tell you the whole truth yet.
A few days more, and you shall know everything. I'm not a student. If I
were, I could never offer you what I do offer you now.” He straightened
up, his eyes lighted, and an eager note in his voice compelled her
attention. “I have made a big strike, Annie, or so near it that it can't
get away from me now. I have no earthly business to tell you this,--I
never talked so to any one before,--but I have offered you everything,
myself and all I have, and it would be poor business not to trust you
with part of my secrets, too. I want you to know, because I trust you;
and because I--I'm going to be able to spare you some disagreeable
scenes.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, Annie, when does Dick Smiley come
back?” She turned and looked up the Lake. His eyes followed hers; there,
on the horizon, were the white sails of the _Merry Anne_.
“Then I can tell you sooner than I thought--to-morrow. To-morrow night
I 'll tell you everything. And maybe you will tell me too--everything.
Will you, Annie? If I come for you to-morrow night and tell you all
about myself, will you give me your answer?”
She was still looking northward; to-morrow was Dick's eleventh day. “I
can't,” she said slowly; “I have an engagement for to-morrow evening.”
“Not--not with him?”
She nodded.
“Break it, Annie, break it. Or no, wait--I won't say that. We 'll just
leave it. I'm willing to let it work itself out. I think, maybe, when
to-morrow comes, you won't want to see him any more than I want you
to. I won't tell you he's a rascal; I'd rather let you find it out for
yourself. I want you to know why I've spoken out this way, and how hard
I have tried to save you from doing something you would regret all your
life.”
She was bewildered.
“Tell me this, Annie,--haven't you an aunt or anything here in town?”
“Yes,”--her voice was hardly audible,--“Aunt Lizzie lives up by the
waterworks.”
“Do you go up there much?”
“Sometimes.”
“Won't you go to-day, and stay over till to-morrow about this time?”
“Why?”
“It may save you annoyance. I think some disagreeable things are going
to happen here--I'd rather not have you at home. It's only on your own
account.”
“I don't see what can happen to me at home.”
“Nothing will happen to _you_, but don't ask me to tell you now.
To-morrow evening I 'll come up for you and bring you down, and then I 'll
tell everything. You see, I must have your answer to-morrow. I shall
probably have to go right away, and I couldn't go thinking I had left
this--the one thing of all that I care about--unsettled. I want you to
know that everything in the world I have to offer you is yours forever.
I want you to know this, and then, when you've thought it over and
realized what it means for both of us, I want you to come to me and give
me your hand and tell me that--that it's all right--that you give me
everything, too.” A long silence. “Let's sail up toward the waterworks
now, Annie. I can drop you off there at the pier, and bring the Captain
down alone.”
She looked again toward the Merry Anne.
He read her thoughts. “We needn't pass near her. We 'll run in close to
the shore.”
She shook her head. “I'm going to turn back.”
And back they turned. In vain he urged her, reproached her, pleaded with
her; hardly a word could he get during all the run back to the beach. He
pulled up the boat for her, and walked by her side to the steps. There,
with an odd pressure of the lips, she shook her head at him, as if
afraid to trust her voice, and mounted the steps.
“Annie, you haven't told me. Will you go?”
She shook her head again, and entered the house. Beveridge, motionless,
looked after her. Finally he turned, and glanced with a troubled air at
the approaching schooner, then at the sleepy pier, where he could see
Wilson stretched out flat holding out a bamboo fishpole over the water.
Behind the house Captain Fargo was mending his nets. Beveridge heard him
humming a song as he worked, and after hesitating a moment longer walked
around and greeted him.
“How do you do, Captain.”
“How are you?” The fisherman straightened his spare old figure and
looked at the young man. His face was brown above the beard, and
crisscrossed with innumerable fine wrinkles. Beveridge knew, in meeting
those faded blue eyes with their patient, subdued expression, that he
was facing a man whom he could trust.
“I have something to say to you, Captain, that may be a surprise,--I
want Annie.”
“You want her?”
“Yes. You may think I've not known her very long, but it has been long
enough to show me that I can't go on any longer without her.”
Captain Fargo stood for a moment without replying, then asked simply,
“What does she say?”
“It isn't settled; I have told her how I feel, and asked her for an
answer to-morrow night.”
“Isn't she a little young?”
“I don't think so.”
“And you--you're a student?”
“No, I'm not.”
“Do you think you could support her? I'm afraid we have taught her to
expect more than our position would seem to make right.”
“Yes, I can support her comfortably. You see, I--”
“Hasn't Annie told me you were a student?”
“Yes, I told her that, myself. There was a reason for it, Captain. The
situation is unusual, and my only chance of keeping her out of what is
to come lies in talking it out plainly with you.” He swept the beach
with a swift glance, stepped close to the older man, and spoke rapidly
and eagerly in a subdued voice.
The Captain removed his hat, and looked out over the water with a
distressed expression. “Are you sure you are right about this?” he
asked, when Beveridge had finished.
“Perfectly.”
“You know, it is generally easy to prove a thing when your mind's set on
it.”
“There is no doubt whatever. My mind is set on nothing but carrying out
my orders. Do you think I would tell you this if I didn't have the whole
case right in my hands--cold? I tell you, I've got it. It's the end of
one of the worst cases in fifty years.”
“Well, I don't know. I hate to think it.”
“In my business we learn not to think anything. I always thought Maxwell
would live and die in the work. If there was a clean man and a good
friend to me anywhere on earth, it was Tommy Maxwell. But he had this
work before me, and they paid him I don't know how much to cover the
scent and skip to Mexico. After all his experience, Tommy couldn't walk
by that offer, and now he must end up in Mexico for it. If I told you
about the men and the methods that I have had to fight in this business,
you would find it hard to believe me. In some ways it has been even
a dangerous case.” This was Beveridge's first opportunity to free his
mind, and his tongue was threatening to run loose. He was speaking with
a certain pride. “You know there is one of us shot, on the average,
every year, in this work.”
“I don't know,” said Fargo again. “Maybe you are right about her going.
It wouldn't be pleasant for her. I 'll speak to her mother about it.”
“Of course, the sooner the better.”
“Yes. I 'll go in now.”
“One minute, Captain. You understand, don't you, my putting it before
you? It's just to spare Annie. There may be rough work.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“You 'll hardly find it necessary to tell Mrs. Fargo what I have told
you.”
“No, I suppose not. Though it would be perfectly safe with her.”
“If you don't mind, I'd rather not.”
“Very well.”
The Captain went into the house; and Beveridge walked away. The _Merry
Anne_ was at the moment coming slowly in toward the north side of the
pier.
When he had nearly reached the pier, Beveridge turned and stood frowning
and snapping his fingers. A glance told him that Wilson had just hauled
out a fine perch and was baiting his hook for another. He turned toward
the house, and found that the Captain was approaching him.
“Well,” said Beveridge, “will she go?”
“I haven't said anything yet. I thought I'd turn it over in my mind.
Aren't you pretty young for this work, Mr. Beveridge?”
“Not so very. Do as you like about it. I have said all I can.”
“Oh, it's all right, of course; well, I 'll step in and see how Annie
feels about going.”
A second time they parted, and a second time Beveridge walked away.
He looked over his shoulder, and saw Annie running down the beach for
something she had left in the _Captain_. He hurried back and intercepted
her.
“Annie.”
“Yes.”
“I don't know if you understand--you see, I have gone a good way in
telling you what I have--”
“Oh, of course, if you want to take it back--”
“But I don't. Not a word of it. I was only going to say--” he hesitated
again. She waited. “It isn't what I have asked you for myself; that
stands, Annie, and always will. It's the other. Don't you see how I have
put myself in your hands? I never did such a thing before in my life.
Just by letting you know that there's going to be something going on
here to-night, and by asking you to be away, I have put a lot of power
in your hands. You won't mind--you won't be offended--if I ask you not
to breathe a word of it to a soul?”
He waited, hoping for some reassuring word or sign, but she only looked
at him with wide eyes.
“You see a chance word might undo everything. If--” he glanced out
toward the two schooners--“if a hint of the facts gets out there to
him--don't you see? It simply can't happen. You know why I've told
you. It was because I love you, because I want to save you from it
all,--that's why I've put myself in your hands.”
But all she said was, “Don't say any more; I must go in.”
He was silent. But with one foot on the first step, she turned. “Wait,
tell me--”
“Yes?”
“Tell me--have you anything to do with that revenue cutter that was in
here the other day?”
“Oh, dear Annie, you mustn't ask me that.” Then she hurried into the
house.
In the kitchen Captain Fargo was trying to tell his wife some
half-truths, never an easy thing for him to do.
“But what is it? What's the trouble? I don't see that anything could
happen here that it would hurt her to see.”
“It wouldn't hurt her, but it really would be better to take her up to
Lizzie's. You and she could come back together to-morrow.”
“Oh, it's me too! Now what is all this about, anyway?”
The Captain, instead of replying, spoke to himself: “I can't believe it.
There has been a mistake made. They never should have sent a boy of his
age to do such work.”
“What work? Is there something you have promised not to tell me?”
“Yes, there is. Don't ask me what it is. Just talk it over with Annie,
and see if she won't go with you up to Lizzie's.”
Mrs. Fargo threw a glance at her husband, hesitated, then went up to
Annie's room.
“Let me in, dear.” Annie obeyed. “I want you to put on your things and
go out with me.”
“Not to Aunt Lizzie's?”
“Yes. Your father thinks--”
“Has _he_ been talking to father, then?”
“Your father and I have been talking it over. He hasn't told me just why
he asks it--”
“But I know.”
“Oh, do you?” There was a note of burning curiosity in these three
words.
“Yes, I do. And I don't believe a word of it.”
“It's nothing very bad, I hope?”
“Oh, I don't mean that I understand it all, but I know something about
it. Mr. Beveridge had no right to go to father.”
“Oh, it was Mr. Beveridge?”
“Yes, it was. Tell me, mother, did he--do you know what else he said?”
“No, I haven't asked him. But he wants us to go very much, and I don't
think we had better say anything.”
“He wants you to go, too?”
“Yes.”
“Now, mother, you won't think I'm very bad if I--don't go?”
“I'm afraid your father--”
“Father doesn't understand it himself, I'm sure. It is all a mistake--”
“Your father thinks that, too.”
“Oh, does he? Then he won't mind if I don't go!”
“I don't know. I 'll tell him what you say.” The mother slipped out, and
returned to the kitchen. “She doesn't want to go, father.”
“But I have asked her to. I can't explain to you, or her--”
“She seems to know more than you do. She says it's a mistake.”
“It is; it must be. But I said--”
“Now, father, don't you think we'd just better not say anything more?
Nobody is going to hurt us in our own home.”
“No, he said that himself.”
“Well, now, suppose we just let her have her way. I could see something
was troubling her, and I think she'd best be let alone.”
The Captain had done what he could, so now he returned to his nets and
left his wife to begin getting supper.
Beveridge was standing at the shore end of the pier waiting for Wilson,
fish-pole on shoulder, to approach. “Well, what luck, Bert?”
Wilson held up a small string of perch. “Fair. It's too late in the day
to catch many.”
“Going up to the house?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
Then their voices dropped.
“Where will you be, Bill?”
“In the park here, by the road. You 'll be back early?”
“Yes, soon as I can make the arrangements.”
“You have spoken to them at headquarters?”
“Yes.”
“All right. So long.”
“So long.”
At seven o'clock, after supper, Captain Fargo was hailed by Henry
Smiley.
“How are you, Henry? Glad to see you. You haven't been around much
lately.”
“No, too busy.”
“On your way up-town?”
“No, just been. I ran out of tobacco and went up to get some. I
generally live on the schooner, you know. I have no other place to go
to. That's the devil of it, Cap'n, when you get to be my age without a
home or a near relation. There isn't a soul that cares anything about
me.”
“I guess you need some supper. Come in with us, 'tain't all cold yet.”
“That wouldn't help any. I've had enough to eat.”
“What do you mean by talking about your age? You're young yet.”
“Do you call forty-five young?”
“What do you think of me? I'm most sixty.”
“That's another story. When you go, you 'll leave something behind to
show that your life was worth living.”
“I wasn't much younger than you when I married.”
“None o' that for me,” said Henry, with a sort of smile. “I never was
minded to it. If you have seen anything worth while about living, you're
lucky. I never could.”
“Look here, Henry, I don't like to hear you talking that way. What's the
matter with you?”
Another questionable smile. “I 'll tell you how it looks to me. We have
to live with a pack of rascals, and heaven help the fools!”
“Henry, you're enough to give a man the blues.”
“I've had enough to-day to give 'em to me. To tell the truth, Cap'n, I
don't know what to make of Dick. I'm afraid he is one of the fools.”
“There isn't anything serious the matter, is there?” This was said
nervously.
“He's young, and independent. He has no idea of easing off his own
notions so as to keep things running smooth with other people. I've
done everything a man could to help him get on, but it's no use; he
antagonizes the only people who can help him. He's bristling all the
time. A couple of weeks ago he just naturally got sick of his mate and
fired him. I smoothed things over and got the Cap'n to suggest another.
And now he's fired this one, and won't have him on his schooner at
all,--and I've had to take him in for the night.”
“Wasn't there any reason?”
“Reason--yes. I know he means to tell the whole story, but he has no
idea how hasty he is sometimes. McGlory's so ugly I could hardly trust
my own self with him. I thought the best thing would be to walk off for
a while, and maybe we'd both cool off.”
“Dick's all right, though, isn't he? No--no trouble, or anything?”
“Why? Been hearing anything?”
“I--I've thought he wasn't quite himself lately.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Oh, I couldn't say, exactly.”
“Why, no, I don't think he's in any trouble.” Henry smiled again. “I
suppose you know as much as I do what's bothering him.”
“No. What is it?”
“Well now, see here, if it's that way, I oughtn't to say anything. But
you don't quite follow. Surely, you know. Just about the little girl.”
“My Annie?”
“Yes. Of course we all know how Dick feels there.”
“Well, I've thought of it, of course.”
“That's another thing that's been bothering me. He's got no earthly
business to think of such a thing. I don't know what to make of him,
anyhow. I used to think I understood him, but Lord! he has new sides to
him every day--you might as well try to organize a volcano. It's kind of
discouraging. He's the nearest approach to something to care about I've
got, and if he would only let me, I'd like to sort o' push him along.
But I don't know--I don't know.”
“I'm afraid I misled you a little just now, Henry.”
“How's that?”
“What I said about not having heard--I _have_ heard something.”
“About Dick?”
“Yes. I can't tell you what. I know it isn't so, but it has bothered
me.”
“What sort of thing--about his character?”
“In a way--yes.”
Henry looked sharply at the Captain with an expression of doubt and
uncertainty. Then he half turned away.
“You aren't going, Henry?”
“Yes, guess I'd better, and see what Mc-Glory's up to. I'd let him go
back to the city, but I want to see Cap'n Stenzenberger before he does.
Good night.”
Henry walked out on the pier to his schooner.
The evening came slowly on and settled over the lake. The breeze,
instead of dropping with the sun, had freshened, and now was stirring
up little waves that lapped the two schooners and the piling under the
pier. Annie, sitting out on her balcony in an inconspicuous dress, her
arms on the railing, was listening and watching--and waiting. She had
heard Henry say good night to her father, and had seen him walk out on
the pier until he was lost among the lumber piles. She saw the afterglow
die in the north, the red-gold lake fade to amber, to gray-blue, almost
to black, while the twinkle of the lighthouse on the point grew into
a powerful beacon and sent an arrow of light deep into the water. She
watched the horizon line grow dimmer and dimmer until it disappeared,
and sky and lake blended in darkness. All was quiet on the pier. The
lights of the schooners swayed lazily; occasionally a voice floated in
over the water, a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. She looked up the beach,
down the beach; all was peaceful.
But there was no quiet in Annie's heart. She was rigid; her hands were
clasped; her eyes shifted nervously from point to point. Once she got up
and went into her room and tried to read; but in a few moments she was
back. And there she sat until the late twilight had darkened into night.
Then she rose, passed through the room, leaving the light burning,
stepped out into the hall, and softly, very softly, closed the door. She
stood motionless, still holding the knob. Her father and mother were
in the sitting room quietly talking. She went slowly down the stairs,
stepping cautiously over the one squeaky step, and slipped through the
hall. The sitting-room door was closed.
“Annie?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Is that you?”
“Yes, I'm out here.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I'm going out for a breath of air.”
“Where are you going?”
“Oh, not far.”
“Come in soon, won't you?”
“Yes, of course. I'm not going off anywhere.”
There was apparently no further need for quiet, yet she was half a
minute closing the front door after her. Again she looked up and down
the beach. She could see the street now on the low bluff; but no one
appeared within the light of the corner gas lamp. Then she hurried along
the beach, climbed up on the pier by some rough steps that she knew,
and walked rapidly out toward the schooner, stepping on the balls of her
feet, and avoiding loose planks.