The Lady and the Pirate, Emerson Hough [best time to read books TXT] 📗

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?”

CHAPTER XXIX IN WHICH IS SHIPWRECK

IT must be understood that our party on the Belle Helène was divided into two, or rather, indeed, three camps, each somewhat sharply defined and each somewhat ignorant of the other’s doings in detail. The combination of either two against the other, in organized mutiny, might very well prove successful, wherefore it was my task to keep all apart by virtue of the authority which I had myself usurped. The midship’s cabin suite, of three rooms, was occupied by myself and my two bold young mates—when the latter were not elsewhere engaged. We made what might be called the ruling classes. Forward of our cabin, and accessible only from the deck, was the engine-room where Williams worked, and off this were two bunks, well ventilated and very comfortable, occupied by Williams and Peterson. Forward of this, and also accessible only from the deck, lay the dining saloon, with its fixed table, its cupboards, dish racks and wine-room. In her bows and below the saloon was the cook’s gallery, a dumb-waiter running between; and the sleeping quarters of John, the cook, and Willy, the deck-hand, were in the forecastle below. This left the two captives all the after part of the ship pretty much to themselves, and as the after-suite of cabins was roomy and fitted with every modern nautical luxury, they lacked neither freedom nor comfort, so far as these may obtain on shipboard. Obviously, I said little to the ship’s crew, except to Peterson, and my two mates had orders to keep to their own part of the ship, under my eye.

Thus, like ancient Gaul, divided into three parts, we sailed on our wholly indefinite voyage; and all I could do was to live from day to day, or hour to hour. I was content, for Helena was there. Indeed, I question if, these last three years, her image had not been always present in my consciousness; such are the fevers of our unreasoning blood, such the power of that madness known as love.

But, thus divided as was our company, I had none such excellent opportunity for often seeing Helena, as might at first be supposed. She and her aunt refused to join us at any meal in the dining saloon; although, now and then, they came for breakfast to what Auntie Lucinda with scorn called the “second table”. It was not feasible for me, often, to do more than call of a morning to inquire if all was well with them; and conversation through a lead-glass transom is not what one would call intimate. Helena could bar her door if she liked in more ways than one; and against the fences that she raised against me one way or another, what with headaches, whims or Aunt Lucinda, I had now no chance to meet her alone save as she herself might dictate. So that, after all, though now I stood as commander of the Belle Helène in place of yon varlet, Cal Davidson, although I ate his ship’s stores, wore, indeed, his waistcoats and his neckties when that was humanly possible, I was his successor only and not his equal. He could—nay, had done so—meet Helena as he liked, at meals, on deck, on a thousand errands, whereas I was helpless to do so. He could talk with her all over the ship, take her alone on deck of a moonlit night, listen to her sing, gaze—oh, curse him!—on the little curls on Helena’s neck—but no! I could not endure that thought. The round white neck, the white shoulders, the soft curves beneath the peignoir’s careless irreverences—why, it was an intolerable thought that any man should raise eye or heart or thought to Helena, save myself. So, this morning, after that rare and unconventional meeting on the after deck, one easily may see how much I wished all Gaul were divided into but two parts, and that the occupants of the reserved after cabin would come to lunch in the saloon with their captors, Black Bart, Jean Lafitte and Henri L’Olonnois.

Now, ’tis an odd thing, but one of my superstitions, that when we wish much and fervently and cleanly for any certain thing, one day that thing is ours. Some day, some time, some hour or instant, our dear desire, our coveted thing, our wish, comes and flutters and alights at our side; if really we have deserved it and have wished long and deeply and honestly and purposefully. You ask proof? Well, then, hardly had we three, Black Bart, Jean Lafitte and Henri L’Olonnois, seated ourselves at table for luncheon that day before I became sensible of a faint shadow at the saloon stair. I saw a trim boot and a substantial ankle which I knew belonged to Aunt Lucinda; and then I looked up and saw on the deck Helena also, stooped, her clean-cut head, with its blown dark hair, visible against the blue sky.

“May I come in?” she asked gaily enough. And I reached up next to her to hand her down, and smooth down her skirt for her at the rather awkward narrow stair.

“You are always invited,” said I, and perhaps I flushed in my pleasure. “John,” I called down the tube, “two more—the ladies.” And I heard his calm “All lite.”

My young gentlemen had risen, politely, but Helena gently pushed them down into their places. “Be seated here, ladies,” said I. “These places are, as you see, always spread for you. Your covers wait. And all the ship’s silver shall see duty now. L’Olonnois, my hearty, you and I shall serve, eh? I am, indeed, delighted—greatly delighted—I shall not inquire, I shall only hope.”

“Well,” boomed the deep voice of Auntie Lucinda, “we came because we did not like the look of things.”

“To be sure, things are not looking bully,” I assented vaguely.

“I mean the weather. It’s getting black, and it’s colder. And after what you told me about the storms, and that lighthouse being blown down——”

“My dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, helping her to her chair while L’Olonnois served his Auntie Helena in like fashion, “you really must not take one too seriously. That lighthouse fell over of its own weight—the contractor’s work was done shamefully.”

“But you said it blew,” ventured Helena.

“It blows, a little, now and then, to be sure, but never very much, only enough to enable the oyster boats and shrimpers to get in. How could we have oysters without a sailing breeze?”

“It’s more than a breeze,” said Aunt Lucinda. “My neuralgia tells me——”

“It is fortunate that you honored us, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, “for I have here in the cooler a bottle of ninety-three. I had an inspiration. I knew you would come, for nothing in the world could have pleased me so much.”

I was looking at Helena, whose eyes were cast down. I observed now that she was in somewhat elegant morning costume, her bridge coat of Vienna lace, caught with a wide bar of plain gold, covering some soft and shimmering under-bodice which fitted closely enough to be formal. And I saw she had on many rings, and that her throat sparkled under a circlet of gems.

She must have caught my glance of surprise, for she said nervously, “You think we are overplaying our return call? Well, the truth is, we’re afraid.”

“So then?”—and I bowed.

“So then I fished out all my jewelry.”

“We are honored.”

“Well, I didn’t know what might happen. If one should be shipwrecked——” I caught her frightened gaze out an open port, perfectly aware myself of the swift weather change.

“There is nothing like dressing the part of the shipwrecked,” said I. “For myself, these same flannels will do.”

“Pshaw!” said young L’Olonnois, “suppose she does pitch a little—it ain’t any worse’n on the Mauretania when we went across. I ain’t scared, are you, John?”

“No,” replied Jean Lafitte shyly. He was almost overawed with the ladies. But I liked the