The Lady and the Pirate by Emerson Hough (ebook reader library TXT) 📖

the world seemed a million miles away. Care did not exist. And—so intimate and swiftly comprehensive is the human soul, especially the more primal soul of woman—already and without words, this young woman seemed to feel the less need of conversation, to recognize the slackening rein of custom. So that a rug and a wrapper—granted always also an aunt—seemed to her not amiss as full equipment for reception of a morning caller.

“A very good orange,” said she at last.

“Yes,” said her aunt promptly; “I’m sure we ought to thank Mr. Davidson for them. He was such a good provider.”

“Except in waistcoats,” I protested, casually indicating his latest contribution to my wardrobe. “Quantity, yes, I grant that, but as to quality, never! But why speak ill of the absent, especially regarding matters of an earlier and bygone day? Yon varlet no longer exists for us—we no longer exist for him. We have passed, as two ships pass yonder in the channel. I know not what he may be doing now, unless carrying roses to Miss Sally Byington. Certainly he can not know that I, his hated rival, am safe from all pursuit behind the Timbalier Shoals, and carrying oranges to a young lady in my belief almost as beautiful as the beautiful Sally.”

Aunt Lucinda turned upon me a baleful eye. “You grow flippant as well as rude, sir! As though you knew anything of that Byington girl. I doubt if you ever saw her.”

“Oh, yes—last night. Miss Emory and I both saw her, last night, at Luigi’s. As for yon varlet’s providing, while I would not too much criticize a man whose waistcoats I wear even under protest, it is but fair to say that these oranges and all the fresh things taken on at New Orleans, are of my providing, and not his. He was so busy providing other things for Miss Sally Byington.”

“I don’t think she is so beautiful,” said Helena, ceasing with her orange. “Her color is so full. Very likely she’ll be blowsy in a few years.”

“How can you say so!” I rebuked, with much virtuous indignation. But at the time I felt my heart leap at sight of Helena herself, the lines of her slim graceful figure defined even under the rug she had drawn about her neck, the wind-blown little neck curls and the long fuller lock now plain against her fresh face, blown pale by the cool salt air that sang above us gently. I could no longer even feign an interest in any other woman in the world. So very unconsciously I chuckled to myself, and Helena heard me.

“You don’t think so yourself!” she remarked.

“Think what?”

“That she is so beautiful.”

“No, I do not. Not as beautiful as——”

“Look at the funny bird!” said Helena suddenly. Yet I could see nothing out of the ordinary in the sea-bird she pointed out, skimming and skipping close by.

“Sir,” demanded Aunt Lucinda, also suddenly, “how long is this to last?”

“You mean the orange-dish, Mrs. Daniver?” I queried politely. “As long as you like. I also am a good provider, although to no credit, as it seems.”

“You know I do not mean the oranges, sir. I mean this whole foolish business. You are putting yourself liable to the law.”

“So did Jean Lafitte, over yonder in Barataria,” said I, “but he lived to a ripe old age and became famous. Why not I as well?”

“—You are ruining those two boys. I weep to think of our poor Jimmy—why, he lords it about as though he owned the boat. And such language!”

“He shall own a part of her if he likes, if all comes out well,” said I. “And as for Jean Lafitte, Junior, rarely have I seen a boy of better judgment, cooler mind, or more talent in machinery. He shall have an education, if he likes; and I know he will like.”

“It is wonderful what a waistcoat will do for the imagination,” remarked Helena, wholly casually. I turned to her.

“I presume it is Mr. Davidson who is to be the fairy prince,” added Aunt Lucinda.

“No, myself,” I spoke quietly. Aunt Lucinda for once was almost too unmistakable in her sniff of scorn.

“I admit it seems unlikely,” said I. “Still, this is a wonderful age. Who can say what may be gained by the successful pirate!”

“You act one!” commented Aunt Lucinda. “It is brutal. It is outrageous. It is abominable. No gentleman would be guilty of such conduct.”

“I grant you,” said I, but flushed under the thrust. “But I am no longer a gentleman where that conflicts with the purpose of my piracy. I come of a family, after all, madam, who often have had their way in piracy.”

“And left a good useful business to go away to idleness! And now speak of doing large things! With whose money, pray?”

“You are very direct, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I mildly, “but the catechism is not yet so far along as that.”

“But why did you do this crazy thing?”

“To marry Helena, and with your free consent as her next friend,” said I, swiftly turning to her. “Since I must be equally frank. Please don’t go!” I said to Helena, for now, very pale, she was starting toward the cabin door. But she paid no heed to me, and passed.

“So now you have it, plainly,” said I to Mrs. Daniver.

She turned on me a face full of surprise and anger mingled. “How dare you, after all that has passed? You left the girl years ago. You have no business, no fortune, not even the girl’s consent. I’ll not have it! I love her.” The good woman’s lips trembled.

“So do I,” said I gently. “That is why we all are here. It is because of this madness called love. Ah, Mrs. Daniver, if you only knew! If I could make you know! But surely you do know, you, too, have loved. Come, may you not love a lover, even one like myself? I’ll be good to Helena. Believe me, she is my one sacred charge in life. I love her. Not worthy of her, no—but I love her.”

“That’s too late.” But I saw her face relent at what she heard. “I have other plans. And you should have told her what you have told me.”

“Ah, have I not?” But then I suddenly remembered that, by some reversal of my logical mind, here I was, making love to Auntie Lucinda, whom I did not love, whereas in the past I had spent much time in mere arguing with Helena, whom I did love.

“I’m not sure that I’ve ever made it plain enough to her, that’s true,” said I slowly. “But if she gives me the chance, I’ll spend all my life telling her that very thing. That, since you ask me, is why we all are here—so that I may tell Helena, and you, and all the world, that very thing. I love her, very much.”

“But suppose she does not love you?” demanded Mrs. Daniver. “I’ll say frankly, I’ve advised her against you all along. She ought to marry a man of some station in the world.”

“With money?”

“You put it baldly, but—yes.”

“Would that be enough—money?” I asked.

“No. That is not fair——”

“—Only honor between us now.”

“It would go for to-day. Because, after all, money means power, and all of us worship power, you know—success.”

“And is that success—to have money, and then more money—and to go on, piling up more money—to have more summer places, and more yachts like this, and more city houses, and more money, money, money—yes, yes, that’s American, but is it all, is it right, is it the real ambition for a man! And does that bring a woman happiness?”

“What would you do if you had your money back?” asked Mrs. Daniver. “You had a fortune from your father.”

“What would I do?” I rejoined hotly. “What I did do—settle every claim against his honor as much as against his estate—judge his honor by my own standards, and not his. Pay my debts—pay all my debts. It’s independence, madam, and not money that I want. It’s freedom, Mrs. Daniver, that I want, and not money. So far as it would be the usual money, buying almost nothing that is worth owning, I give you my solemn oath I don’t care enough for it to work for it! So far as it would help me be a man, help me to build my own character, help me build manhood and character in my country—yes, I’d like it for that. But if money were the price of Helena herself, I’d not ask for it. The man who would court a girl with his money and not his manhood—the woman who marries for money, or the man who does—what use has God Almighty got for either of them? It’s men and women and things worth doing who make this world, Mrs. Daniver. I love her, so much, so clearly, so wholly, that I think it must be right. And since you’ve asked me, I’ve taken my man’s chance, just to get you two alone, where I could talk it over with you both.”

“It’s been talked over, Harry,” said she, rather uncomfortably. “Why not let the poor child alone? Has it occurred to you how terribly hard this is for her?”

“Yes. But she can end it easily. Tell me, is she engaged to Davidson?”

“What difference?”

“None.”

“Why ask, then?”

“Tell me!”

“Well then, no, not so far as I know.”

“You are sorry?”

“I had hope for it. It was all coming on so handsomely. At Natchez he was—he was, well, you know——”

“Almost upon the point?”

“Quite so. I thought, I believed that between there and——”

“Say between there and Baton Rouge——”

“Well, yes——”

“He would come to the main point?”

“Yes.”

“And he did not?”

“You can best answer. It was at Natchez that you and those ruffianly boys ran off with Mr. Davidson’s boat!”

“That’s all, your Honor,” I remarked. “Take the witness, Mr. Davidson!”

“But what right you have to cross-question me, I don’t know!” commented Mrs. Daniver, addressing a passing sea-gull, and pulling down the corners of her mouth most forbiddingly.

“My disused and forgotten art comes back to me once in a while, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” I answered exultantly. “Pray, do you notice how beautiful all the world is this morning? The sky is so wonderful, the sea so adorable, don’t you see?”

“I see that we are a long way from home. Tell me, are these sharks here?”

“Oodles,” said I, “and very large. No use trying to swim away. And yonder coast is inhabited only by hostile cannibals. Barataria itself, over yonder, is to-day no more than a shrimp-fishing village, part Chinese, part Greek and part Sicilian. The railway runs far to the north, and the ship channel is far to the east. No one comes here. It is days to Galveston, westward, and between lies a maze of interlocking channels, lakes and bayous, where boats once hid and may hide again. Once we unship our flag mast, and we shall lie so saucy and close that behind a bank of rushes we never would be seen. And we do not burn coal, and so make no smoke. Here is my chosen hiding ground. In short, madam, you are in my power!”

“But really, how far——”

“Since you ask, I will answer. Yonder, to the westward, a bayou comes into Côte Blanche. Follow that bayou, eighty miles from here, and you come to the house of my friend, Edouard Manning, the kindest man in Louisiana, which is to say much. I had planned to have the wedding there.”

“Your effrontery amazes me—I doubt your sanity!” said Aunt Lucinda, horrified. “But what good will all this do you?”

She had a certain bravery all her own, after all. Almost, I was on the point of telling her