Part 42 (2/2)
”You did quite right,” Cherry warmly a.s.sured him.
”You see, I am not working for myself; I am doing this for another.”
It was the girl's turn to sigh softly, while the eyes she turned toward the west were strangely sad and dreamy. To her companion she seemed not at all like the buoyant creature who had kindled his courage when it was so low, the brave girl who had stood so steadfastly at his shoulder and kept his hopes alive during these last, trying weeks. It struck him suddenly that she had grown very quiet of late. It was the first time he had had the leisure to notice it, but now, when he came to reflect on it, he remembered that she had never seemed quite the same since his interview with her on that day when Hilliard had so unexpectedly come to his rescue.
He wondered if in reality this change might not be due to some reflected alteration in himself. Well! He could not help it.
Her strange behavior at that time had affected him more deeply than he would have thought possible; and while he had purposely avoided thinking much about the banker's sudden change of front, back of his devout thankfulness for the miracle was a vague suspicion, a curious feeling that made him uncomfortable in the girl's presence. He could not repent his determination to win at any price; yet he shrank, with a moral cowardice which made him inwardly writhe, from owning that Cherry had made the sacrifice at which Clyde and the others had hinted. If it were indeed true, it placed him in an intolerable position, wherein he could express neither his grat.i.tude nor his censure. No doubt she had read the signs of his mental confusion, and her own delicate sensibility had responded to it.
They remained side by side on the bridge while the day died amidst a wondrous panoply of color, each busied with thoughts that might not be spoken, in their hearts emotions oddly at variance. The sky ahead of them was wide-streaked with gold, as if for a symbol, interlaid with sooty clouds in silhouette; on either side the mountains rose from penumbral darkness to clear-cut heights still bright from the slanting radiance.
Here and there along the shadowy sh.o.r.e-line a light was born; the smell of the salt sea was in the air. Above the rhythmic pulse of the steamer rose the voices of men singing between decks, while the parting waters at the prow played a soft accompaniment. A steward summoned them to supper, but Boyd refused, saying he could not eat, and the girl stayed with him while the miles slowly slipped past and the night encompa.s.sed them.
”Two hours more,” he told her, as the s.h.i.+p's bell sounded. ”Then I can eat and sleep--and sing.”
Captain Peasley was pacing the bridge when later they breasted the glare of Port Townsend and saw in the distance the flas.h.i.+ng searchlights of the forts that guard the Straits. They saw him stop suddenly, and raise his night-gla.s.ses; Boyd laid his hand on Cherry's arm. Presently the Captain crossed to them and said:
”Yonder seems to be a launch making out. See? I wonder what's up.” Almost in their path a tiny light was violently agitated. ”By Jove! They're signalling.”
”You won't stop, will you?” questioned Emerson.
”I don't know, I am sure. I may have to.”
The two boats were drawing together rapidly, and soon those on the bridge heard the faint but increasing patter of a gasoline exhaust. Carrying the same speed as _The Bedford Castle_, the launch shortly came within hailing distance. The cyclopean eye of the s.h.i.+p's searchlight blazed up, and the next instant, out from the gloom leaped a little craft, on the deck of which a man stood waving a lantern. She held steadfastly to her course, and a voice floated up to them:
”Ahoy! What s.h.i.+p?”
”_The Bedford Castle_, cannery-tender for Bristol Bay,” Peasley shouted back.
The man on the launch relinquished his lantern, and using both palms for a funnel, cried, more clearly now: ”Heave to! We want to come aboard.”
With an exclamation of impatience, the commanding officer stepped to the telegraph, but Emerson forestalled him.
”Wait, they're after me, Captain; it's the Port Townsend police, and if you let them aboard they'll take me off.”
”What makes you think so?” demanded Peasley.
”Ask them.”
Turning, the skipper bellowed down the gleaming electric pathway, ”Who are you?”
”Police! We want to come aboard.”
”What did I tell you?” cried Emerson.
Once more the Captain shouted: ”What do you want?”
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