The Merry Anne

“Fi’ thousand, eh? An’ do you think we could make it?”

“If you have the evidence to convict this Whiskey Jim, we can. But now, before we go into this, what sort of an arrangement will you make with me if I steer it through for you?”

“What would you want?”

“Well – I should go at it something like this. I should go to the United States Treasury officials and tell them I could get them the evidence they want if they would agree not to prosecute us. It would take some managing, but it can be done. But I can’t do it for nothing.”

“What do you want?”

“Say one thousand. That’s twenty per cent.”

“Too much.”

“Not for the work to be done. Remember, I agree to get you off without any more trouble than just giving in your evidence.”

“But I don’t need to get off. I ain’t done nothin’.”

“No, I understand. Of course not.”

“Say five hundred, and it’s a go.”

“No, sir. I can’t do it for that. I might take seven hundred and fifty, but – ”

“It’s too much, a – sight too much. You’d ought to do it for less.”

“Couldn’t think of it.”

“Well – ”

“Is it a go?”

“I suppose so.”

“All right. That’s understood. If I can get the five thousand for you, you will hand me seven hundred and fifty. Now, I suppose the sooner we get at this, the better for both of us. When can I see you and talk it over?”

“You might come around this afternoon.”

“Say two o’clock?”

“That’s all right.”

“Where do you live?”

“I’m stoppin’ over on North Clark. Forty-two-seventy-two an’ a half, third floor. You ‘ll be around, then, will you, Mr. – Mr. – ”

“Bedloe’s my name. Yes, I ‘ll be there at two sharp.”

But at two o’clock, when Beveridge called at the boarding-house on North Clark Street he found that Roche was gone. “He only stopped here a day,” said the landlady. “This noon he paid me and said he was called out of town by a telegram.”

“Did he say when he would be back?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Did he leave his things?”

“No. What little he had he took along.” Beveridge turned thoughtfully away and walked around the corner, where Wilson was awaiting him. He had no means of knowing that Roche was already well on the way to Spencer, where Smiley saw him a few days later.

“Not there, Bill?” asked Wilson.

“No, – skipped.”

“Lost his nerve, eh?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, what now?”

“Nothing, until I see Madge to-night.”

“Do you really expect anything there?”

“I don’t know. It’s a chance, that’s all.”

“Do you think she ‘ll keep her promise?”

“Couldn’t say. I ‘ll give her a chance, anyhow.”

She did keep it. Very shortly after five, while Beveridge was riding slowly up and down near the meeting-place, he saw her coming, and his eyes lighted up with surprise. He could not know how much thought had been given to the effect which pleased him so; he only observed that she looked like a young girl in her short wheeling skirt and leggings, and with her natty little cap and well-arranged hair.

They found St. Paul’s Park gay with lights and music when they arrived. Dancing had been going on all the afternoon on the open-air platform. The ring-the-cane booth, the every-time-you-knock-the-baby-down-you-get-a-five-cent-cigar booth, were surrounded by uproarious country folk, with only here and there a city face among them. A little way down the slope, through the grove, ran the sluggish North Branch, a really inviting spot in the twilight; and to this spot it was that Beveridge led the way after checking the wheels.

“The boats don’t amount to much,” he said to Madge, as he helped her down the bank, “but I guess we can have a good time, anyhow.”

She did not reply to this, but there was a sparkle in her eyes and a flush on her cheek, as she stepped lightly into the boat, that drew an admiring glance from Beveridge.

He took the clumsy oars, and pulled upstream, under the railroad bridge, past all the other boats, on into the farming country, where the banks were green and shaded.

“Pretty nice, isn’t it?” said he.

She nodded. They could hear the music in the distance, and occasionally the voices; but around them was nothing but the cool depths of an oak copse. She was half reclining in the stern, looking lazily at the dim muscular outlines of her oarsman. “You row well,” she said.

“I ought to. I was brought up on water.”

“You don’t know how this takes me back,” said Madge, dreamily. “I couldn’t tell you how long it is since I have been out in the country like this.”

He pulled a few strokes before replying, “Didn’t McGlory ever take you out?”

“I don’t like to think about him now. Let’s talk of something else.”

“I’m glad you don’t like to. That’s the only thing that bothers me.”

“What – Joe?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, he needn’t bother you.”

“I can’t help it. You see, you’re – ”

“His wife? Yes, so I am. But I’m – ”

“What, Madge?”

“I don’t know what you would think if I said it.”

“Say it, please.”

She glanced into his face. He saw with surprise that her eyes were shining. “Well – I was – going to say – that – that – I’m about through with him.”

“Do you mean that, Madge?”

She was silent; perhaps she had not meant to say so much.

“Has he been ugly to you?”

“It isn’t his meanness altogether. If that were all, I could have stood it. I have tried hard enough to love him all the while. Even after he first struck me – ”

“You don’t mean – ”

She smiled, half bitterly, and rolled her sleeve up above her elbow. Even in that faint light he could see the discoloration on her forearm. “He meant it for my head,” she said.

“Why, he’s a brute.”

She smiled again. “Didn’t you know that a woman can love a brute? It wasn’t that. Even when he made me live in the saloon, and when I found out what his business really was – ” she paused. “I was brought up a little better than this, you know.”

“Yes, I have always thought that.”

“And when I learned that he wasn’t – well, honest, I don’t believe I should have cared very much.”

“Oh, I guess he is not dishonest, is he?”

“He is bad enough, I’m afraid. He – I don’t know – I don’t believe it would do any good to tell you – ”

“No, don’t, if you’d rather not, Madge.”

“I don’t care – I’d just as soon. You don’t know what a relief it is to have somebody I can talk out with. I have guarded my tongue so long. And I suppose, even after all that is past, that if he hadn’t left me – ”

“You don’t mean that he has gone?”

She nodded. “It comes to the same thing. He will drop in once in a while, I suppose. But he has gone back to the Lake with Captain Smiley, and that means that he wants to see – ” she turned toward the shadow of the oaks – “there’s somebody up in Michigan that – that he – ”

“Oh,” said Beveridge.

“Yes, I have known it a long while.” She turned, looked at him, and spoke impetuously: “Do you think I haven’t been fair to him? Do you think he – anybody – could say I hadn’t stood all a woman ought to stand?”

Her real emotion caught Beveridge off his guard. For an instant he hesitated; then he said gently: “Don’t let it disturb you now, Madge. I don’t think he can bother you much more. There is no reason why that shouldn’t all slip into the past.”

“I wish it could.”

Beveridge was silent for a moment. He wished to lead her into telling all she knew about McGlory and his ways, yet he hesitated to abuse the confidence so frankly offered. But, however – “There is one thing about it, though, Madge,” he said quietly. “If he is on the Lake, he will have to go where his boat goes, and there isn’t much chance for him to get into bad ways. Even if, as you think, he is dishonest, he will have to behave himself until he gets back to town.”

“You don’t understand,” she cried. “It is just there, on the water, that he can do the most harm. I’m going to tell you, anyway. I don’t care. He is a smuggler, or a moonshiner, or something, – I don’t know what you would call it.”

“A moonshiner – here in Chicago!”

She nodded nervously. “He is only one of them. I have known it for a long time, and sometimes I have thought I ought to speak out, but then he – oh, you don’t know what a place he has put me into – what he has dragged me to! There is one thing I will say for Joe, – he is not the worst of them. The rest are smarter than he is, and I believe they have used him for a cat’s-paw. But he is bad enough.”

“You don’t know how hard this is to believe, Madge. That a man sailing on a decent lumber schooner can manage to do enough moonshining – or even smuggling – to hurt anybody – ”

“But that is just it! It is in the lumber.”

“In the lumber!” He had stopped rowing, and was leaning forward. Had her own excitement been less, she could hardly have failed to observe the eager note in his voice.

“Yes – oh, I know about it. But it’s no use saying anything. They will never catch the head man – he is too smart for them – ” Beveridge took her hand, and held it gently in both his own. “Don’t let’s think any more about any of them, Madge. I don’t wonder it excites you – it would anybody. But you are through with them all now.” She sat up, rigid, and looked at him. “Are you sure I am?”

“Yes.”

“But how? Joe is my husband. Tell me what you mean. What am I to think? You see what I have done. I have let you bring me out here; I have – I have told you things that could put Joe in prison. Do you – do you mean that you can help me – that I can get free from him?”

For a moment Beveridge thought of turning and rowing back. But he was not yet through. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but he would not retreat now.

“You are willing to be free?” he whispered. “Oh – yes.”

“To leave him forever?”

“Yes.”

“Then we understand each other, Madge. It may take some time.”

“I don’t care – I don’t care for anything now.”

“I shall have to do some thinking.”

“Do you think it will be hard?”

“No, but we shall see. Shall we start back – I’m afraid you won’t get home till pretty late, now.”

“It doesn’t matter; I’m alone there now, you know. But still, perhaps we’d better.” As they rowed down the stream, and later, on the ride back to the city, Beveridge could not but be fascinated by Madge, in the flow of spirits that had come with the freedom of this evening. She liked to look at him and to laugh at his little jokes. She caressed him in a hundred ways with her voice and her eyes. She rode her wheel with the lightness of youth, and led the way flying down the paved streets of the city. And when at last she dismounted at “The Teamster’s Friend,” and unlocked the side door, she was in a merry glow.

“Come in,” she said.

“Don’t you want to get to sleep? It is late.”

“I’m not tired. We must have something to eat after that ride. Wasn’t it fine?”

So he went in with her, and they sat down to a cold lunch in the dining room.

When he rose to go, and they were both lingering in the dining-room door, he said, smiling, “By the way, Madge, while I think of it, I want an empty bottle.”

“Come out into the bar-room. You can help yourself.”

She lighted the gas for him, and he went in behind the bar and rummaged among some bottles and flasks that stood on the floor. At length he found one that seemed to suit him, and stood a moment looking intently at the label.

“Do you find what you want?”

“Yes, this will do first-rate.”

She followed him to the door, and said, as he stood on the step, “When am I to see you again?”

“In a few days.”

“Not to-morrow?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I expect to be out of the city over Sunday. I have to go where I’m sent, you know.”

“Do you know,” she said, with a smile, “you have not told me anything about your business? Why, I hardly think I know anything about you.”

“You will soon know enough.”

She smiled again. “Wait, you will have to be a little careful about coming. Mr. Murphy goes away about ten o’clock every night. You might come a little later, and then if Joe isn’t here, I will be down. If you don’t see me, you mustn’t ask any questions.”

“I won’t.”

“And you will be thinking about – ”

“Yes. We ‘ll talk it over next time. Good night.”

“Good night,” she replied. And when he had walked a little way, he heard her humming a tune to herself in the doorway.

Wilson was sitting in the shadow on the steps of the lumber office. He rose and came forward.

“Hello, Bill!”

“That you, Bert?”

“What’s left of me. If I’d known you were going to be gone half the night, I’d have brought a blanket.”

“Couldn’t help it.”

“I suppose not. Not even if she’d been fifty-five, with red hair and a squint, eh?” Beveridge, instead of laughing, made an impatient gesture. “Come out here in the light, Bert. Nobody around, is there?”

“No. Our friend the policeman went by ten minutes ago. Just as well he didn’t see you with your friend. They say he’s a chum of McGlory’s.”

“See what you think of this,” said Bedloe, drawing the bottle from under his coat.

“Hello, you don’t mean to say you’ve got it?”

“Take a good look.”

“Yes, sir. Well, I ‘ll be – ! There’s the red seal, and the left foot a little out of drawing, and the right hand turned out instead of in, and – is it? – yes, an imperfection in the capital C. Yes, sir, you’ve got it! I won’t say another word, Bill. You’re a wizard. You must have hypnotized her.”

“Well, I got it. No matter how. And I got something else, too. Here, step into the lumber yard before we’re seen. Stenzenberger doesn’t keep a private watchman, does he?”

“No. He doesn’t need it, with his friendly hold on the police.”

A board was loose in the rear fence. Within a very few minutes the two men were stepping cautiously between the piles of lumber, Beveridge peering eagerly into the shadows, his companion watching him and following close behind.

“Wish we’d brought a lantern, Bill.”

“I thought of it. But it would hardly be safe.”

“Come this way – over by the Murphy and McGlory shed. That’s where it would have to be handled.”

Silently they tiptoed forward, reaching out with their hands, to avoid a collision with the projecting timbers. Once Beveridge tripped and would have fallen if Wilson had not caught his arm. “Wait – keep still, Bert!”

“It’s all right. We’re way back from the street here.”

“It isn’t the street I’m watching. See that light?” He pointed up to a second-story window in the adjoining building. “She’s still up; and it’s awful quiet around here.”

A moment later Beveridge stopped and sniffed.

“What is it, Bill?”

“Don’t you smell anything?”

“Ye-yes, guess I do, a little. But there are a lot of old kegs and bottles on the other side of the fence.”

“There are no old kegs about this.” He moved forward, feeling and sniffing his way along a pile of twelve-by-twelve timbers. “Here, have you that big jack-knife on you, Bert?”

“Yes; here it is.”

Cautiously, very cautiously, Beveridge began prying at the end of one of the big sticks.

“Shall I lend a hand, Bill?”

“No; it’s got to be done without leaving any signs of our being here. It may take time – the thing is in for keeps, all right.”

During fully a quarter of an hour they stood there, Beveridge prying with the long blade of the knife, his companion watching him without a word. Finally Beveridge gave a suppressed exclamation.

“Fetched her?”

“Yes. Take hold – easy now.”

Together they pulled a long, circular plug from the end of the timber, and set it on the ground.

“Just put your arm in there, Bert.”

“Well, I ‘ll be – ! Did she tell you about this?”

“She certainly did.”

“But how did you do it, man, without letting on?”

“Never mind about that,” replied Beveridge, shortly.

“Yes, sir. It’s all there – no end of it.”

“All right now; that’s enough. Let’s put the plug back. Now’s the time for us to go slow.”

“You’re right there. Even with this it will be awful hard to bring it home. The next thing to get is the man. I wish we knew where that fellow Roche went. What do you think?”

“I’d be willing to buy him a new hat if he isn’t on the train for northern Michigan just about now. But we don’t need him very bad. We want a bigger man than him.”

CHAPTER VII – DRAWING TOGETHER

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.”