The Lady and the Pirate by Emerson Hough (ebook reader library TXT) đ
- Author: Emerson Hough
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My cigar was excellent, I had my copy of Epictetus at hand, and all seemed well with the world save one thing. Here, at hand, was everything man could ask, all comforts, many luxuries; and I knew, though Helena did not, that the safe increase of my fortuneâthat fortune which some had called tainted, and which I myself valued little, soon as I had helped increase it by the exercise of my professionâwas quite enough to maintain equal comfort or luxury for us all our lives. But she was obstinate, and so was I. She would not say whether she loved Cal Davidson, and I would never undeceive her as to my supposed poverty. Why, the very fact that she had dismissed me when she thought my fortune goneâthat, alone, should have proved her unworthy of a manâs second thought. Therefore, ergo, hence, and consequently, I could not have been a man; for I swear I was giving her a second thought, and a thousandth; until I rebelled at a weakness that could not put a mere woman out of mind.
And then, I slowly turned my head, and saw her standing on the after deck. Her footfall was not audible on the rubber deck-mats, and she had not spoken. I resolved, as soon as I had leisure, to ask some scientific friends to explain how it was possible that with no sound or other appeal to any of the sensorial nerves, I could, at a distance of seventy-five feet, become conscious of the presence of a person no more than five feet five, who had not spoken a word, and was standing idly looking out over the shipâs rail, in quite the opposite direction from that in which I sat. And then the shipâs clock struck six bells, and recalled the appointment at eleven. Hastily I dropped Epictetus and my cigar, and hurried aft.
âGood morning again, Helena,â said I.
She stood looking on out over the water for a time, but, at length, turned toward me, just a finger up as to stifle a yawn. âReally,â said she, âwhile I am hardly so situated that I can well escape it or resent it, it does seem to me that you might well be just a trifle less familiar. Why not âMiss Emoryâ?â
âBecause, Helena, I like âHelenaâ better.â
A slow anger came into her eyes. She beat a swift foot on the deck.
âDonât,â I said. âDonât stamp with your feet. It reminds me of a Belgian hare, and I do not like them, potted or caged.â
âI might as well be one,â she broke out, âas well be one, caged here as we are, and insulted by aâaâââ
âA ruthless buccaneerâââ
âYes, a ruthless buccaneer, who has remembered only brutalities.â
âAnd forgotten all amenities? Why, Helena, how could you! And after all the cork-tipped cigarettes I have given you, and all the ninety-three I have given your Auntie Lucindaâwhy look at the empty message bottles she and you have thrown out into the helpless and unhelping bayouâa perfect fleet of them, bobbing around. Shanât I send the boys overboard to gather them in for you again?â
âA fine education you are giving those boys, arenât you, filling their heads with lawless ideas! A fine debt weâll all owe you for ruining the character of my nephew Jimmy. He was such a nice nephew, too.â
âYour admiration is mutual, Miss EmoryâI mean, Helena. He says you are a very nice auntie, and your divinity fudges are not surpassed and seldom equaled. It is an accomplishment, however, of no special use to a poor pirateâs bride; as I intend you shall be.â
She had turned her back on me now.
âBesides, as to that,â I went on, âI am only affording these young gentlemen the same advantages offered by the advertisements of the United States navy recruiting serviceâgood wages, good fare, and an opportunity to see the world. Come now, weâll all see the world together. Shall we not, Miss EmoryâI mean, Helena?â
âWe canât live here forever, anyhow,â said she.
âI could,â was my swift answer. âForever, in just this quiet scene. Forever, with all the world forgot, and just you standing there as you are, the most beautiful girl I ever saw; and once, I thought, the kindest.â
âThat I am not.â
âNo. I was much mistaken in you, much disappointed. It grieved me to see you fall below the standard I had set for you. I thought your ideals high and fine. They were not, as I learned to my sorrow. You were just like all the rest. You cared only for my money, because it could give you ease, luxury, station. When that was gone, you cared nothing for me.â
I stood looking at her lovely shoulders for some time, but she made no sign.
âAnd therefore, finding you so fallen,â I resumed, âfinding you only, after all, like the other worthless, parasitic women of the day, Miss EmoryâHelena, I meanâI resolved to do what I could to educate you. And so I offer you the same footing that I do your nephewâgood wages, good fare, and an opportunity to see the world.â
No answer whatever.
âDo you remember the Bay of Naples, at sunset, as we saw it when we first steamed in on the old City of Berlin, Helena?â
No answer.
âAnd do you recall Fuji-yama, with the white topâremember the rickshaw rides together, Helena?â
No answer.
âAnd then, the fiords of Norway, and the mountains? Or the chalk cliffs off Dover? And those sweet green fields of Englandâas we rode up to London town? And the taxis there, just you and I, Helena, with Aunt Lucinda happily evadedâjust you and I? Yes, I am thinking of forcing Aunt Lucinda to walk the plank ere long, Helena. I want a world all my own, Helena, the world that was meant for us, Helena, made for usâa world with no living thing in it but yonder mocking-bird thatâs singing; and you, and me.â
âCould you not dispense with the mocking-birdâand me?â she asked.
âNo,â (I winced at her thrust, however). âNo, not with you. And you know in your heart, in the bottom of your trifling and fickle and worthless heart, Helena Emory, that if it came to the test, and if life and all the world and all happiness were to be either all yours or all mine, Iâd go anywhere, do anything, and leave it all to you rather than keep any for myself.â
âGo, then!â
âIf I might, I should. But male and female made He them. I spoke of us as units human, but not as the unit homo. Much as I despise you, Helena, I can not separate you from myself in my own thought. We seem to me to be like old Websterâs idea of the Unionââone and indivisible.â And since I can not divide us in any thought, I, John Doe, alias Black Bart, alias the man you once called Harry, have resolved that we shall go undivided, sink or swim, survive or perish. If the world were indeed my oyster, I should open it for us both; but saying both, I should see only you. Isnât it odd, Helena?â
âIt is eleven-thirty,â said she.
âAlmost time for luncheon. Do you think me a âgood provider,â Helena?â
âHumph! Mr. Davidson was. While your stolen stores last in your stolen boat, I suppose we shall not be hungry.â
âOr thirsty?â She shrugged.
âOr barren of cork-tips of the evening? Or devoid of guitar strings?â
âI shall need none.â
âAh, but you will! It belikes me much, fair maid, to disport me at ease this very eve, here on the deck, under the moon, and to hear you yourself and none other, fairest of all my captives, touch the lute, or whatever you may call it, to that same air you and I, fair maid, heard long ago together at a lattice under the Spanish moon. A swain touched then his lute, or whatever you may call it, to his Dulcinea. Here âtis in the reverse. The fair maid, having no option, shall touch the lute, or whatever you call it, to John Doe, Black Bart, or whatever you may call him; who is her captor, who feels himself about to love her beyond all reason; and who, if he find no relief, presently, in musicâwhich is better than drinkâwill go mad, go mad, and be what he should not be, a cruel master; whereas all he asks of fate is that he shall be only a kind captor and a gentle friend.â
Her head held very high, she passed me without a word and threw open the door of her suite.
... And that night, that very night, that very wondrous, silent, throbbing night of the Sabbath and the South, when all the air was as it seemed to me in saturation, in a suspense of ecstasy, to be broken, to be precipitated by a word, a motion, a caress, a note ... that night, I say, as I sat on the forward deck alone, I heard, far off and faint as though indeed it were the lute of Andalusia, the low, slow, deep throb of a guitar!... My whole heart stopped. I was no more than a focused demand of life. Reason was gone from me, not intellect but emotionâthat is its basic thing after all, emotion born on earth but reaching to the stars.... I listened, not hearing.... It was the air we had heard long ago, a love song of old Spain, written, perhaps, before DeSoto and his men perished in these very bayous and forests that now shielded us against all tumult, all turmoil, all things unhappy or unpleasant. The full tide of life and love swept through my veins as I listened.
I rose, I hastened. At her door I paused. âHelena!â I called raucously. âHelena.â And she made no reply. âHelena,â I called again. âIt was the same old air. This is Spain again! Ah, I thank you for that same old air. Helena, forgive me. May I come inâwill you come out?â
I halted. A cold voice came from the companionway door. âYou have a poor ear for music, John Doe. It is not the same. Do you think I would take orders from you, or any other man?â
I stood irresolute a moment, and then did what I should not have done. I pulled open her door. âCome out,â I demanded. But then I closed the door and went away. She was sitting, her head bowed on the instrument she had played. And when she looked up, startled at my rudeness, I saw her eyes wet with tears.
CHAPTER XXI IN WHICH WE MAKE A RUN FOR ITâGADZOOKS! Black Bart,â
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