The Merry Anne 8

The Merry Anne 8

"What is it, Dick?" he asked again.

 

There had been few secrets between them. So far as either knew, they

were the last two members of their family, and their intimacy, though

never expressed in words, had a deep foundation. Before the present

arrangement of Dick's work, which made it possible for them to meet

at least once in the month, they had seen little of each other; but at

every small crisis in the course of his struggle upward to the command

of a schooner, Dick had been guided by the counsel and example of the

older man. Now he spoke out his mind without hesitation.

 

"Sit down, Henry. When--when I told you about what I have been

thinking--about Annie--why did you look at me as you did?"

 

"How did I look?"

 

"Don't dodge, Henry. The idea struck you wrong. I could see that, and I

want to know why."

 

"Well," Henry hesitated, "I don't know that I should put it just that

way. I confess I was surprised."

 

"Haven't you seen it coming?"

 

"I rather guess the trouble with me was that I have been planning out

your future without taking your feelings into account."

 

"How do you mean,--planning my future?"

 

"Oh, it isn't so definite that I could answer that question offhand.

I thought I saw a future for myself, and I thought we might go it

together. But I was counting on just you and me, without any other

interests or impediments."

 

"But if I should marry--"

 

"If you marry, your work will have to take a new direction. Your

interests will change completely. And before many years, you will begin

to think of quitting the Lake. It isn't the life for a family man. But

then--that's the way things go. I have no right to advise against it."

Henry smiled, with an odd, half bitter __EXPRESSION__. "And from what I have

seen since my eyes were opened, I don't believe it would do any good for

me to object."

 

"You are mistaken there, Henry," the younger man replied quietly; "it

isn't going well at all. I've been pretty blue to-day."

 

"Well," said Henry, with the same odd __EXPRESSION__, "I don't know but what

I'm sorry for that. That future I was speaking of seems to have faded

out lately,--in fact, my plans are not going well, either. And so you

probably couldn't count on me very much anyway."

 

He paused. Pink Harper, who acted as cook occasionally when the _Anne_

was tied up and the rest of the crew were ashore, could be heard

bustling about on deck. After a moment Henry rose, and, with an

impulsive gesture, laid his hand on Dick's shoulder. "Cheer up, Dick,"

he said. "Don't take it too hard. Try to keep hold of yourself. And look

here, my boy, we've always stepped pretty well together, and we mustn't

let any new thing come in between us--"

 

"Supper's ready!" Pink called down the companionway.

 

Dick was both puzzled and touched; touched by Henry's moment of

frankness, puzzled by the reasons given for his opposition to the

suggested marriage. It was not like his cousin to express positive

opinions, least of all with inadequate reasons. Dick had no notion of

leaving the Lake; he could never do so without leaving most of himself

behind. Plainly Henry did not want him married, and Dick wondered why.

 

It was half-past seven, and night was settling over the Lake. Already

the pier end was fading, the masts of the two schooners were losing

their distinctness against the sky; the ripples had quieted with the

dying day-breeze, and now murmured on the sand. The early evening stars

were peeping out, looking for their mates in the water below.

 

On the steps, sober now, and inclined to dreaming as she looked out into

the mystery of things, sat Annie. A shadow fell across the beach,--the

outline of a broad pair of shoulders,--and she held her breath. The

shadow lengthened; the man appeared around the corner of the house.

Then, as he came rapidly nearer, she was relieved to see that it was

Beveridge.

 

He was in a cheerful frame of mind as he stepped up and sat beside her.

It was pleasant that the peculiar nature of his work should make

it advisable to cultivate the acquaintance of an attractive young

woman--such a very attractive young woman that he was beginning to

think, now and then, of taking her away with him when his work here

should be done.

 

"What do you say to a row on the Lake?" he suggested, after a little.

 

"I mustn't go away," said Annie. "I promised I would be here at eight."

 

"But it's not eight yet," Beveridge replied. "Let's walk a little

way--you can keep the house in sight, and see when he comes."

 

"Well," doubtfully, "not far."

 

They strolled along the beach until Annie turned. "This is far enough."

 

"I don't know whether I can let your Captain come around quite so

often," said he, as they sat down on the dry sand, in the shelter of a

clump of willows. "It won't do--he is too good looking. I should like to

know what is to become of the rest of us."

 

This amused Annie. They had both been gazing out towards the schooners,

and he had read her thoughts. He went on: "You know it's not really

fair. These sailor fellows always get the best of us. He named his

schooner after you, didn't he?"

 

"Oh, no, I don't believe so."

 

"Sailors and soldiers--it's the same the world over! There's no chance

for us common fellows when they are about. Tell you what I shall have

to do--join the militia and come around in full uniform. Then maybe you

would be looking at me, too. I don't know but what I could even make you

forget him."

 

She had to laugh at this. "Maybe you could."

 

"I suppose it wouldn't do me any good to try without the uniform, would

it?"

 

She tossed her head now. "So that's what you think of me--that I care

for nothing but clothes?"

 

"Oh, no, it's not the clothes. His red shirt would never do it. But it's

the idea of a sailor's life--there is a sort of glitter about it--he

seems pluckier, somehow, than other men. It's the dash and the

grand-stand play that fetches it. I suppose it wouldn't be a bit of use

to tell you that you are too good for him."

 

She made no reply, and the conversation halted. Annie gazed pensively

out across the water. He watched her, and as the moments slipped away

his __EXPRESSION__ began to change; for he was still a young man, and the

witchery of the night was working within him.

 

"Do you know, I'm pretty nearly mean enough to tell you some things

about Dick Smiley. I don't know but what I'm a little jealous of him."

 

She did not turn, or speak.

 

"I'm afraid it is so. I would hardly talk like this if I were not. I

thought I was about girl-proof,--up to now, no one has been able to keep

my mind off my work very long at a time,--but you have been playing the

mischief with me, this last week or so. It's no use, Annie. I wouldn't

give three cents for the man that could look at you and keep his head.

And when I think of you throwing yourself away on Smiley, just because

he's good-looking and a sailor--you mustn't do it, that's all. I have

been watching you--"

 

"Oh,--you have?"

 

"Yes, and I think maybe I see some things about you that you don't see

yourself. I wonder if you have thought where a man like Smiley would

lead you?" She would have protested at this, but he swept on. "He can

never be anything more than he is. He has no head for business, and even

if he works hard, he can't hope to do more than own his schooner. You

see, he's not prepared for anything better; he's side-tracked. And if

you were just a pretty girl and nothing more,--just about the size of

these people around you,--I don't suppose I should say a word; I should

know you would never be happy anywhere else. Why, Annie, do you suppose

there's a girl anywhere else on the shore of Lake Michigan--on the whole

five Lakes--living among fishermen and sailors, as you do, that could

put on a dress the way you have put that one on, that could wear it the

way you're wearing it now?

 

"Oh, I know the difference, and I don't like to stand by and let you

throw yourself away. You see, Annie, I haven't known you very long, but

it has been long enough to make it impossible to forget you. I haven't

any more than made my start, but I'm sure I am headed right, and if

I could tell you the chance there is ahead of me to do something big,

maybe you would understand why I believe I'm going to be able to offer

you the kind of life you ought to have--the kind you were made for. I

don't want to climb up alone. I want some one with me--some one to help

me make it. You may think this is sudden--and you would be right.

It _is_ sudden. I have felt a little important about my work, I'm

afraid, for I really have been doing well. But ever since you just

looked at me with those eyes of yours, the whole business has gone

upside down. Don't blame me for talking out this way. It's your fault

for being what you are. I expect to finish up my work here pretty soon

now, and then I 'll have to go away, and there's no telling where I 'll

be."

 

Annie was puzzled.

 

"Oh, you finish so soon? It is only September now."

 

"I have to move on when the work is done, you know. I obey orders."

 

"But I thought you were a student, Mr. Beveridge?"

 

He hesitated; he had said too much. Chagrined, he rose, without a word,

at her "Come, I must go back now," and returned with her to the house.

And when they were approaching the steps, he was just angry enough with

himself to blunder again.

 

"Wait, Annie. I see you don't understand me. But there is one thing you

_can_ understand. I want to go away knowing that you aren't going to