The Merry Anne 21

The Merry Anne 21

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.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII--THE EVENING OF THE SAME DAY

 

 

[Illustration:0206]

 

ONCE within the shadow of the lumber Annie paused. Not a sound came

from the two schooners. She knew that the _Merry Anne_ lay 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?"