Chapter 28. In Which Is Certain Polite Conversation

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_ CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH IS CERTAIN POLITE CONVERSATION

My boy had ironed my trousers, that is to say, the trousers I had given him the year previous, and which he now had loaned to me, my extremity being greater than his own. He had laundered my collars--a most useful boy, my China boy. I had, moreover, delving in Cal Davidson's wardrobe, discovered yet another waistcoat, if possible more radiant even than the one with pink stripes, for that it was cross hatched with bars of pale pea green and mauve--I know not from what looms he obtained these wondrous fabrics. Thus bravely attired after breakfast, just before luncheon, indeed, it was, I felt emboldened to call upon the captive ladies once more. With much shame I owned that I had not seen Auntie Lucinda for nearly two days--and with much trepidation, also, for I knew not what new bitterness her soul, meantime, might have distilled into venom against my coming.

I knocked at the door of the ladies' cabin, the aftermost suite on the boat, and, at first, had no answer. The door, naturally, on a boat of this size, would be low, the roof rising above decks no higher than one's waist; and as I bent to knock again, the door of the companion stairs was suddenly thrust open against my face, and framed in the opening thus made, there appeared the august visage of Auntie Lucinda herself.

"Well, sir-r-r-r!" said she, after a time, regarding me sternly. I can by no means reproduce the awfulness of her "r's."

"Yes, madam?" I replied mildly, holding my nose, which had been smitten by the door.

She made no answer, but stood, a basilisk in mien.

"I just came, my dear Mrs. Daniver," I began, "to ask you----"

"And time you did, sir-r-r-r! I was just coming to ask you----"

"And time you did, my dear Mrs. Daniver--I have missed you so much, these several days. So I just called to ask for your health."

"You need not trouble about my health!"

"But I do, I do, madam! I give you my word, I was awake all night, thinking of--of your neuralgia. Neuralgia is something--something fierce, in a manner of speech--if one has it in the morning, my dear Mrs. Daniver."

"Don't 'dear Mrs. Daniver' me! I'm not your dear Mrs. Daniver at all."

"Then whose dear Mrs. Daniver are you, my dear Mrs. Daniver?" I rejoined most impudently.

"If the poor dear Admiral were alive," said she, sniffing, "you should repent those words!"

"I wish the poor dear Admiral were here," said I. "I should like to ask an abler sailorman than Peterson what to do, with the glass falling as it is, and the holding ground none too good for an anchor. I thought it just as well to come and tell you to prepare for the worst."

"The worst--what do you mean?" She now advanced three steps upward, so that her shoulders were above the cabin door. Almost mechanically she took my hand.

"The worst just now is nothing worse than an orange with ice, my dear Mrs. Daniver. And I only wanted you to come out on deck with--Miss Emory--and see how blue the sea is."

She advanced another step, being fond of an iced orange at eleven-thirty. But now she paused. "My niece is resting," said she, feeling her way.

"No, I am not," I heard a voice say. Inadvertently I turned and almost perforce glanced down the cabin stair. Helena, in a loose morning wrap of pink, was lying on the couch. She now cast aside the covering of eider-down, and shaking herself once, sprang up the stairs, so that her dark hair appeared under Auntie Lucinda's own. Slowly that obstacle yielded, and both finally stood on the after deck. The soft wind caught the dark tendrils of Helena's hair. With one hand she pushed at them. The other caught her loose robe about her softly outlined figure.

"Helena!" remarked her aunt, frowning.

"I want an orange," remarked Miss Emory, addressing the impartial universe, and looking about for John.

"And shall have it. But," said I, finding a soft rug at the cabin-top, "I think perhaps you may find the air cool. Allow me." I handed them chairs, and with a hand that trembled a bit put the soft covering over Helena's shoulders. She drew it close about her with one hand, and her dark hair flowing about her cheeks, found her orange with the other when John came with his tray.

It was a wondrous morning in early fall. Never had a southern sky been more blue, never the little curling waves saucier on the Gulf. The air was mild, just fresh enough for zest. Around us circled many great white gulls. Across the flats sailed a long slow line of pelicans; and out yonder, tossing up now and then like a black floating blanket, I could see a great raft of wild duck, taking their midday rest in safety. All 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 Cote 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 the truth; which was that I had during the long night resolved once more to offer my hand to Helena, and if she now refused me, to accept my fate. I would torture her no more. No, if now she were still resolute, it was my purpose to sail up yonder bayou, to land at the Manning plantation, and there to part forever from Helena and all my friends. I knew corners of the world far enough that none might find me.

But I did not tell Aunt Lucinda this. Instead, I made no answer; and we both sat looking out over the rippling gulf, silent for some time. I noted now a faint haze on the horizon inshore, like distant cloud-banks, not yet distinct but advancing. Aunt Lucinda, it seemed, was watching something else through the ship's glasses which she had picked up near by.

"What is that, over yonder?" asked she--"it looks like a wreck of some kind."

"It is a wreck--that of a lighthouse," I told her. "It is lying flat on its side, a poor attitude for a lighthouse. The great tidal wave of the gulf storm, four years ago, destroyed it. We are now, to tell the truth, at the edge of that district which causes the Weather Bureau much uncertainty--a breeding ground of the tropical cyclones that break between the Indies and this coast."

"And you bring us here?"

"Only to pass to the inner channels, madam, where we should be safer in case of storm. To-night, we shall anchor in the lee of a long island, where the lighthouse is still standing, in its proper position, and where we shall be safe as a church."

"Sharks! Storms! Shipwrecks!" moaned she.

--"And pirates," added I gently, "and cannibals. Yes, madam, your plight is serious, and I know not what may come of it all--I wish I did."

"Well, no good will come of it, one thing sure," said Aunt Lucinda, preparing to weep.

And indeed, an instant later, my mournful skipper seemed to bear her out. I saw Peterson standing expectant, a little forward, now.

"Well, Peterson?" I rose and went to him.

"I beg pardon, sir, Mr. Harry," said he somewhat anxiously, "but we've bent her port shaft on a cursed oyster reef."

"Very well, Peterson. Suppose we run with the starboard screw."

"And the intake's clogged again with this cursed fine sand we've picked up."

"After I warned Williams?"

"Yes, sir. And that's not the worst, sir."

"Indeed? You must be happy, Peterson!"

"We can't log over eight knots now, and it's sixty miles to our light back of the big key."

"Excellent, Peterson!"

"And the glass is falling mighty fast."

"In that case, Peterson," said I, "the best thing you can do is to hold your course, and the best thing I can do is to get ready for lunch."

"The best thing either of us can do is to get some sleep," said he, "for we may not get much to-night. She'll break somewhere after sunset to-night, very likely."

"Peterson," said I, "let us hope for the worst."

All the same, I did not wholly like the look of things, for I had seen these swift gulf storms before. A sudden sinking of the heart came over me. What if my madness, indeed, should come to mean peril to her? Swiftly I stepped back to the door of the ladies' cabin, where Mrs. Daniver now disappeared. "Helena!" I cried.

"Yes?" I heard her answer as she stepped toward the little stair.

"Did you say 'Yes'?" I rejoined suddenly.

"No, I did not! I only meant to ask what you wanted."

"As though you did not know! I wanted only to call you to get ready for luncheon. One of the owners of this waistcoat has provided a pompano, not to mention some excellent endive. And the weather is fine, isn't it?" _

Read next: Chapter 29. In Which Is Shipwreck

Read previous: Chapter 27. In Which We Reach The Spanish Main

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