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.