The Merry Anne 19
"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."
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