"Hush!" said Conboy, sternly. "_Don't think_, Josephine! _Don't speak.
Don't even dream!_ Don't let your mind stray. You know that crew
couldn't have made port in fair weather together. The strongest man
won--that's all!"
"Then you believe--" my aunt began.
"Hush!" he said, and put his hand over her mouth. Then he laughed
suddenly and slapped his thigh. "God!" he said. "Deolda--Can you beat
her? She's got luck--by gorry, she's got luck! You got a pen and ink?"
"What for?" said my aunt.
"I want to write out a weddin' present for Deolda," he said. "Wouldn't
do to have her without a penny."
So he wrote out a check for her. And then in two months old Conboy died
and left every other cent to Deolda. You might have imagined him
sardonic and grinning over it, looking across at Deolda's luck from the
other side of the grave.
But what had happened wasn't luck. I knew that she had sent her Johnny
out informed with her own terrible courage. A weaker woman could have
kept him back. A weaker woman would have had remorse. But Deolda had the
courage to hold what she had taken, and maybe this courage of hers is
the very heart of romance.
I looked at her, stately, monumental, and I wondered if she ever thinks
of that night when the wallow of the sea claimed Mark Hammar instead of
Johnny Deutra. But there's one thing I'm sure of, and that is, if she
does think of it the old look of triumph comes over her face.