“Well, it’s my profession to find out things; and, naturally, if I do that for my paper, it is not likely I am going to be behindhand when it comes to myself. She denied it at first, but admitted it afterward, and then bolted.”
“You must have used great tact and delicacy.”
“See here, Renmark; I’m not going to stand any of your sneering. I told you this was a sore subject with me. I’m not telling you because I like to, but because I have to. Don’t put me in fighting humor, Mr. Renmark. If I talk fight, I won’t begin for no reason and then back out for no reason. I’ll go on.”
“I’ll be discreet, and beg to take back all I said. What else?”
“Nothing else. Isn’t that enough? It was more than enough for me—at the time. I tell you, Renmark, I spent a pretty bad half hour sitting on the fence and thinking about it.”
“So long as that?”
Yates rose from the fire indignantly.
“I take that back, too,” cried the professor hastily. “I didn’t mean it.”
“It strikes me you’ve become awfully funny all of a sudden. Don’t you think it’s about time we took to our bunks? It’s late.”
Renmark agreed with him but did not turn in. He walked to the friendly fence, laid his arms along the top rail, and gazed at the friendly stars. He had not noticed before how lovely the night was, with its impressive stillness, as if the world had stopped, as a steamer stops in mid-ocean. After quieting his troubled spirit with the restful stars he climbed the fence and walked down the road, taking little heed of the direction. The still night was a soothing companion. He came at last to a sleeping village of wooden houses, and through the center of the town ran a single line of rails, an iron link connecting the unknown hamlet with all civilization. A red and a green light glimmered down the line, giving the only indication that a train ever came that way. As he went a mile or two farther the cool breath of the great lake made itself felt, and after crossing a field he suddenly came upon the water, finding all further progress in that direction barred. Huge sand dunes formed the shore, covered with sighing pines. At the foot of the dunes stretched a broad beach of firm sand, dimly visible in contrast with the darker water; and at long intervals fell the light ripple of the languid summer waves, running up the beach with a half-asleep whisper, that became softer and softer until it was merged in the silence beyond. Far out on the dark waters a point of light, like a floating star, showed where a steamer was slowly making her way; and so still was the night that he felt rather than heard her pulsating engines. It was the only sign of life visible from that enchanted bay—the bay of the silver beach.