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 theSchmidtlay, 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 theMerry Annewere coasting along the bluffs above Grosse Pointe theCaptainwas 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 Icando 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?”
“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 theMerry 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 toyou, 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. TheMerry Annewas 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 theCaptain. 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—”
“Hashebeen 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—Ihaveheard 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.
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ONCE within the shadow of the lumber Annie paused. Not a sound came from the two schooners. She knew that theMerry Annelay to leeward, on the north side, and after a moment of listening and a glance behind she turned toward it, making her way by feeling the lumber until she found an opening. In another moment she stood at the edge of the pier, looking down on the schooner. At first she thought Dick must be asleep, for there was no light in the cabin; then she saw him sitting on the cabin trunk, his hands clasped about his knees, his pipe between his teeth, his eyes fixed on the dark water. The night was still, the lapping of the ripples was the only sound.
“Dick,” she whispered.
He turned with a start and removed his pipe. Though he looked directly toward her, he evidently could not see her, for her black dress blended with the shadows.
“Dick,” she said again.
This time he ducked under the boom and came across to the rail. “Who's there?”
“It's me, Dick. I'm coming down.”
“No, wait.” He stepped up beside her, and added, in a low, uncertain voice, “You might wake Pink; he's sleeping below.” And before she knew it, his pipe lay on a plank and he had taken both her hands. “You came out to see me, Annie?”
“Yes, but wait, Dick; I don't know how to tell you—I couldn't help coming—” He waited for her to go on, but she could not. She could not even withdraw her hands, but stood motionless, her wits fluttering. Finally he spoke:—
“You said you came to tell me—”
“Not that, Dick—not what you think. It's something else.”
He released her hands. He even, in his bewilderment, took up his pipe again.
“I've found something out, Dick. I couldn't let it go by without telling you. It's about—Mr. Beveridge.”
“Oh,” said Dick.
“Did you think he was a student?”
“Yes, I thought so.”
“Well, he isn't at all.”
“Oh,” said Dick again. And then, “Isn't he?”
“No, he has something to do with—don't you understand what I'm getting at, Dick?” He shook his head.
“Are you going to make me tell you?”
“You needn't tell me anything you don't want to, Annie.”
“O dear, I don't understand it myself, much of it; but I thought you would if what he says is true.”
“It's something about me, then?”
“Yes, Dick,—and the revenue cutter.”
“The revenue cutter?”
“Yes, theFoote. He has something to do with her.”
“He's a revenue officer, then?”
“Yes, or something. I don't know just what he is. But you understand it now, don't you?”
“Not a bit.”
“But you must, Dick. He says something is going to happen, right here.”
“On the pier?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Now—to-night. I was afraid it would be before I could get out here. And I had to wait till dark, you know.”
“But how do you know all this, Annie?”
“Mr. Beveridge—Mr. Beveridge told me more than he meant to, I guess. And then he talked with father. And father and mother both tried to make me go up to Aunt Lizzie's early this evening, so I wouldn't be here. It was to save me from something, they said.”
“But I don't see, Annie—”
“Why don't you go, Dick. I've come out here to tell you, so you can sail away before he comes. Then you won't have any trouble. There's a mistake, I know; and when they have found it out, you can come back.”
“Oh, I couldn't do that, Annie. I have no reason to go away. If anybody wants to see me, he knows where he can find me.”
This silenced Annie. She looked at Dick, and then looked away from him, out over the Lake, not knowing what to say or think.
“You came out just to warn me, Annie?”
She nodded.
“There must be something more then—something you haven't told me.”
“No—only he—Mr. Beveridge said a good deal—he tried to make me believe you were—dishonest, or something.”
“And you didn't believe it?”
She made no reply to this. She was beginning to think about getting back to the house. When Dick spoke again, it was in a gentler voice.
“I'm glad you came out, Annie, mighty glad. And I know you 'll be glad to find out that he is wrong.”
“Oh, I know that—”
“But there must have been some things I don't understand at all. I don't know but what it's a good thing he is here. If he can clear it up, it will be better for all of us. So I 'll stay right here, and if he wants me, he can have me. That's no reason why I should dodge any man living.”
“I knew it—I'm glad—”
Then Dick's reserve broke down. He caught her hands again. “But you can't tell me your coming out here doesn't mean anything, Annie. You've told me already what I didn't dare to ask you.”
“No, Dick, let me go. I'm going back.”
“But after this—you can't put me off now, Annie. Don't you see? It's no use trying to make me think you would have done this for anybody, because you wouldn't. I know it, and you know it.”
“Now, Dick, please! I'm afraid—”
“If you only knew how I've felt this trip,—what a regular hell it has been,—you wouldn't keep me waiting any longer. I know to-morrow's the time; and I wouldn't have said a word to-night if you hadn't come out here. But youarehere, and you have let me know so much that it's only a matter of saying a word. You can't blame me if I take your coming that way.”
Annie was struggling, and Dick in his eagerness was holding her tightly. But she got her hands free now and turned away.
“Let me go back with you, Annie. I—I 'll try not to bother you. I didn't mean to just now. Hang it, I never can trust myself when—”
“No, you mustn't come.”
“Not even good night, Annie?”
But she hurried off without a word into the shadows, and felt her way nervously until she reached the central roadway, where it was lighter. It was now getting on toward nine o'clock, and nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing was going to happen, after all. What with her hope that it all might be a mistake, and her fear that she had come on a fool's errand, Annie was in a pretty state of mind. She did not know what to make of Beveridge; she did not know what to make of herself; the natural thing, apparently, was to get angry with Dick, and this she was rapidly doing.
When she was passing the last but one of the lumber piles, hurrying along with less caution than she had used in coming out, a man appeared out of the shadow and blocked the way. She stepped aside and tried to run by, but he, as quick as she, stepped aside too and caught her wrist. Then she saw that it was Beveridge.
“Let me go!” she said breathlessly.
“No, Annie, wait. You decided to warn him, did you?”
“Let me go. You have no right to hold me.”
“Yes I have, more right than you know. Now tell me, why did you do it?”
“Mr. Beveridge—”
“You must wait, Annie. No one is going to hurt you. If you had known what you were doing, you never would have come. It's no place for a woman. But now that you have done this, now that you are here, I think you had better stay and see with your own eyes what you have done. Then perhaps you will believe me.”
Poor Annie could say nothing more. Her head whirled. She let him lead her back along the roadway.
Close to the spot where she had turned off to reach the schooner Beveridge stopped. In a moment he was joined by another man.
“Bert?”
“Yes. What is it? Want me to take her home?”
“No. Wait here, in case I call. And have an eye on the other boat.”
“You aren't going to take her back there?”
“Never you mind what I'm going to do.”
“But look here, Bill! This is no place for—”
“Do what you're told and keep still.”
Annie heard this muttered conversation without taking it in. Beveridge still held her wrist, held it tighter than he knew, but she was hardly conscious of this either. She was caught up and whirled along on the high wind of events. She was conscious only of Beveridge, of a new side to his character. The young man she had known on the beach and aboard theCaptainhad vanished. This Beveridge was hard, irresistible; his manner, the atmosphere about him, spoke of some object that must be reached without regard to obstacles. Her Beveridge had been friendly, considerate; there was nothing considerate about this man. And yet, a part of his object was to convince her that he was right and that Dick was wrong; and she knew why.
Dick had gone back to his seat on the cabin trunk. Beveridge, gripping Annie's wrist, stood at the pier edge, and looked down.
“Smiley,” he said.
Dick crossed the deck. “I'm Smiley. What is it?”
“I shall have to ask you to come away with me.”
“Who are you?”
“Beveridge, special agent of the United States Treasury Department.”
“Well, what do you want me for?” Dick was peering forward, trying to make out the figure in the background.
“I guess it isn't necessary to tell you that; I 'll give you a minute to get what things you need.”
“Who have you got there?”
“It's me, Dick.”
“Annie!” Dick leaped up to the pier. “Have you dragged her out here to see—”
“Get back there on your schooner, Smiley. It won't be necessary to do any talking. Anything you say is likely to be used against you. Get back there.”
Dick looked at him a moment, then jumped down. Beveridge followed, helping Annie, none too gently.
“Where's your man Harper?”
“Pink,” called Dick. “Pink, come up here.”
In a moment the sleepy mate appeared.
“Harper,” said Beveridge, “get an axe. Be quick about it.”
Pink looked at Dick, who said, “Go ahead. Do whatever he tells you.”
The axe was brought and handed to Beveridge.
“Now, Smiley, you and your man go below, please.”
“Below?”
“To the hold. I 'll follow.”
“Pink,” said Dick, “get a lantern.”
They had to wait a minute, while Pink was lighting the lantern. There they stood, without speaking, each watching the other. Finally Pink led the way to the open hatch, and descended the ladder. Dick followed. Beveridge led Annie to the opening. “Wait,” he said; “I 'll go first, and help you down.”
Dick, standing below on the timbers, looked up like a flash. “I wouldn't try to bring her down here if I were you.”
“I'm not talking to you, Smiley.”
“No, but you will be if you bully her much longer. Just try to make her go down that ladder. Try it!”
Beveridge, without heeding, turned to Annie.
When he turned back, Dick, with itching fingers, stood on the deck beside him.
“What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to go below?”
“Annie,” said Dick, “just say the word—just look at me—if you want—look here, Mister Beveridge, I don't know much about law, but it seems to me you haven't shown me any papers, and, until you do, you can have your choice of letting go of her hand or losing your front teeth. Just whichever you like.”
But Beveridge did neither. “No, Smiley,” said he, “we won't get into that sort o' talk.” After which remark, he stooped over and looked down at Pink and his lantern, and at the timbers on which Pink was standing. “I guess maybe you can see without going down, Annie. Sit down here, and watch what I do. Go ahead, Smiley.”