The Lady and the Pirate by Emerson Hough (ebook reader library TXT) đ
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The old man touched his cap again, a trifle puzzled. I wondered if he recognized Davidsonâs waistcoatâhe asked no more questions.
âJohn,â said I to my Chinaman, âcarry this to the ladies;â and handed him a card on which I had inscribed: âBlack Bartâs compliments; and he desires the attendance of the ladies on deck for a parley. At once.â
John came back in a few moments and stood on one foot. âShe say, she say, Misal Hally, she say no come.â
âLetter have got, John?â
âLessah have got.â
âTake it back. Say, at once.â
âLessah. At wullunce.â
âLessah,â he added two moments later. âCatchee lettah, them lady, and she say, she say, go to hellee!â
âWhat! Whatâs that, John? She said nothing of the sort!â
âLessah, said them. No catchee word, that what she mean. Lady, one time she say, she say, go topside when have got plenty leady for come.â
âGo back to your work, John,â said I. And I waited with much dignity, for perhaps ten minutes or so, before I heard any signs of life from the after suite. Then I heard the door pushed back, and saw a head come out, a head with dark tendrils of hair at the white neckâs nape, and two curls at the temple, and as clean and thoroughbred a sweep of jaw and chin as the bows of the Belle HelĂšne herself. She did not look at me, but studiously gazed across the river, pretended to yawn, idly looked back to see if she were followed; as she knew she was not to be.
At length, she turned as she stepped out on the deck. She was fresh as the dew itself, and like a rose. All color of rose was the soft skirt she wore, and the little bolero above, blue, with gold buttons, covered a soft rose-colored waist, light and subtle as a spiderâs web, stretched from one grass stalk to another of a dewy morning. She was round and slender, and her neck was tall and round, and in the close fashion of dress which women of late have devised, to remind man once more of the ancient Garden, she seemed to me Eve herself, sweet, virginal, as yet in a garden dew-sweet in the morning of the world.
She turned, I say, and by mere chance and in great surprise, discovered me, now cap in hand, and bowing.
âOh,â she remarked; very much surprised.
âGood morning, Eve,â said I. âHave you used Somebodyâs Soap; or what is it that you have used? It is excellent.â
A faint color came to her cheek, the corners of her bowed lips twitched. âFor a pirate, or a person of no culture, you do pretty well. As though a girl could sleep after all this hullabaloo.â
âYou have slept very well,â said I. âYou never looked better in all your life, Helena. And that is saying the whole litany.â
âYou are absurd,â said she. âYou must not begin it all again. We settled it once.â
âWe settled it twenty times, or to be exact, thirteen times, Helena. The only trouble is, it would not stay settled. Tell me, is there any one else yet, Helena?â
âIt is not any question for you to ask, or for me to answer.â She was cold at once. âIâve not tried to hear of you or your plans, and I suppose the same is true of you. It is long since I have had a heartache over youâa headache is all you can give me now, or ever could. That is why I can not in the least understand why you are here now. Auntie is almost crazy, she is so frightened. She thinks you are entirely crazy, and believes you have murdered Mr. Davidson.â
âI have not yet done so, although it is true I am wearing his shoes; or at least his waistcoat. How do you like it?â
âI like the one with pink stripes better,â she replied demurely.
âSo thenâso then!â I began; but choked in anger at her familiarity with Cal Davidsonâs waistcoats. And my anger grew when I saw her smile.
âTell me, are you engaged to him, Helena?â I demanded. âBut I can see; you are.â She drew herself up as she stood, her hands behind her back.
âA fine question to ask, isnât it? Especially in view of what we both know.â
âBut you havenât told me.â
âAnd am not going to.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause it is the right of a middle-aged woman like myselfâââ
ââTwenty-four,â said I.
ââTo do as she likes in such matters. And she doesnât need make any confidences with a man she hasnât seen for years. And for whom she neverâshe neverâââ
âHelena,â said I, and I felt pale, whether or not I looked it, âbe careful. That hurts.â
âOh, is it so?â she blazed. âI am glad if it does hurt.â
I bowed to her. âI am glad if it gives you pleasure to see me hurt. I am. Habeo!â
âBut it was not so as to me,â I added presently. âYes, I said good-by to you, that last time, and I meant it. I had tried for years, I believe, with every argument in my power, to explain to you that I loved you, to explain that in every human likelihood we would make a good match of it, that weâweâwell, that weâd hit it off fine together, very likely. And then, I was well enough offâat first, at leastâââ
âOh, donât!â she protested. âIt is like opening a grave. We buried it all, Harry. Itâs over. Canât you spare a girl, a middle-aged girl of twenty-four, this resurrection? We ended it. Why, Harry, we have to make out some sort of life for ourselves, donât we? We canât just sit down andâandâââ
âNo,â said I. âI tried it. I got me a little place, far up in the wilderness with what remained of my shattered fortunesâa few acres. And I sat down there and tried that âandâandâ business. It didnât seem to work. But we donât get on much in our parley, do we?â
âNo. The most charitable thing I can think of is that you are crazy. Aunt Lucinda must be right. But what do you intend to do with us? We canât get off the boat, and we canât get any answer to our signals for help.â
âSo you have signaled?â
âOf course. Waved things, you know.â
âDelightful! The passing steamers no doubt thought you a dissipated lot of northern joy-riders, bound south on some rich manâs yacht.â
âInstead of two troubled women on a stolen boat.â
âAre you engaged to Cal Davidson, Helena?â
âWhat earthly difference?â
âTrue, none at all. As you say, I have stolen his boat, stolen his wine, stolen his fried potatoes, stolen his waistcoats. But, bear witness, I drew the line at his neckties. Nowhere else, however!â And as I added this I looked at her narrowly.
âWill you put us ashore?â she asked, her color rising.
âNo.â
âWeâre coming to a town.â
âBaton Rouge. The capital of Louisiana. A quaint and delightful city of some sixty thousand inhabitants. The surrounding country is largely devoted to the sugar industry. But we do not stop. Tell me, are you engaged?â
But, suddenly, I saw her face, and on it was something of outraged dignity. I bent toward her eagerly. âForgive me! I never wanted to give you pain, Helena. Forget my improper question.â
âIndeed!â
âIâve been fair with you. And thatâs hard for a man. Always, always,âlet me tell you something women donât understandâthereâs the fight in a manâs soul to be both a gentleman and a brute, because a woman wonât love him till heâs a brute, and he hates himself when he isnât a gentleman. Itâs hard, sometimes, to be both. But I tried. Iâve been a gentlemanâwas once, at least. I told you the truth. When they investigated my father, and found that, acting under the standard of his day, he hadnât run plumb with the standards of to-day, I came and told you of it. I released you then, although you never had promised me, because I knew you mightnât want an alliance withâwell, with a front page family, you know. It blew over, yes; but I was fair with you. You knew I had lost my money, and then youâââ
âI remained âreleasedâ.â
âYes, it is true.â
âAnd am free, have been, to do as I liked.â
âYes, true.â
âAnd what earthly right has a man to try both rĂŽles with a womanâthat of discarded and accepted? You chose the first; and I never gave you the last. It is horrible, this sort of talk. It is abominable. For three years we have not met or spoken. Iâve not had a heartache since I told you. Donât give me a headache now. And it would make my head ache, to follow these crazy notions. Put us ashore!â
âNot till I know the truth,â said I.
âAbout what?â
âWell, for instance, about the waistcoat with pink stripes.â
âYou are silly.â
âYes. How do you like my suit?â
âI never saw Mr. Davidson wear that one,â said she.
âFor good reasons. It is my own, and four years old. You see, a poor man has to economize. And you know, since I lost my fortune, Iâve been living almost from hand to mouth. Honestly, Helena, many is the time when Iâve gone out fishing, trying to catch me a fish for my supper!â
âSo does a poor girl have to economize,â said she.
âYou are most sparing of the truth this morning, Helena, my dear,â I said.
âHow dare you!â she blazed now at the tender phrase. âFine, isnât it, when I canât get away? If I could, Iâd go where Iâd never see or hear of you again. I thought I had.â
âBut you have not. You shall hear and see me daily till I know from your own lips the truth about you andâand every and any other man on earth whoâwell, who wears waistcoats with pink stripes.â
âWeâll have a long ride then,â said she calmly, and rose.
I rose also and bowed.
CHAPTER XVII IN WHICH IS HUE AND CRYWE ran by the river-front of Baton Rouge, and lay to on the opposite side while our dingey ran in with mail. I sent Peterson and Lafitte ashore for the purpose, and meantime paced the deck in several frames of mind. I was arrested in this at length by LâOlonnois, who was standing forward, glasses in hand.
âHere they come,â said he, âand a humpinâ it up, too. Look, Jean Lafitte is standinâ up, wavinâ at us. Somethingâs up, sure. Mayhap, we are pursued by the enemy. Methinks âtis hue and cry, good Sir.â
âIt jolly well does look like it, mate,â said I, taking his glasses. âSomethingâs up.â
I could see the stubby dingey forced half out the water by Petersonâs oars, though she made little speed enough. And I saw men hurrying on the wharf, as though about to put out a boat.
âWhatâs wrong, Peterson?â I shouted as he came in range at last.
âHurry up!â It was Lafitte who answered. âClear the decks for action. Yon varlet has wired on ahead to have us stopped! Theyâre after us!â So came his call through cupped hands.
I ran to the falls and lowered away the blocks to hoist them aboard, even as I ordered speed and began to break out the anchor. We hardly were under way before a small power boat, bearing a bluecoated man, puffed alongside.
âWhat boat is this?â he called. âBelle HelĂšne, of Mackinaw?â
In answerâwithout order from me,âmy bloodthirsty mate, LâOlonnois, brought out the black burgee of the Jolly Rover, bearing a skull and cross-bones. âHave a look at that!â he piped. âShall we clear the stern-chaser, Black Bart?â
âHold on there, wait! Iâve got papers for you,â called the officer, still hanging at our rail, for I had not yet ordered full speed.
âHe hollered to me he
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