IN WHICH I WALK AND TALK WITH HELENA
It was nine of as fine a winter morning as the South ever saw when at
last, having passed without pause all intervening ports, we found
ourselves at the city of New Orleans. Rather, in the vicinity of that
city; for when we reached the railway ferry above the town, I ran
alongshore and we made fast the _Belle Helene_ at a somewhat
precarious landing place. I now called Peterson to me.
"It's a fine morning, Peterson," said I.
"Yes, sir, but I think 'tis going to rain." (Peterson was always
gloomy.)
"You must go down-town, Peterson," said I. "The through train from the
West is late and just now is coming into the ferry. You can take it
easily. We have got to have still more gasoline, for there is a long
trip ahead of us, and I am not sure what may be the chance for
supplies below the city."
"Are you going into the Gulf, Mr. Harry?"
"Yes, Peterson. You will continue to navigate the boat; and, meantime,
you may be quartermaster also. I shall be obliged to remain here until
you return."
The old man touched his cap. "Very good, sir, but I'm almost sure not
to return."
"Listen, Peterson," I went on, well used to his customary depression
of soul, "go to the ship's furnisher, Lavallier and Thibodeau, toward
the Old Market. Tell them to have all our supplies at slip K, below
the railway warehouses, not later than nine this evening. We want four
drums of gasoline. Also, get two thousand rounds of ammunition for the
twelve gages, ducking loads, for we may want to do some shooting. We
also want two or three cases of grapefruit and oranges, and any good
fresh vegetables in market. All these things must be ready on the
levee at nine, without fail. Here is my letter of credit, and a bank
draft, signed against it--I think you will find they know me still."
The old man touched his cap again but hesitated. "I'm sure to be asked
something," he said somewhat nervously.
"Say nothing about any change of ownership of this boat, Peterson, and
don't even give the boat's name, unless you must. Just say we will
meet their shipping clerk at slip K, this evening, at nine. Hurry
back, Peterson. And bring a newspaper, please."
"Is any one else going down-town?" asked Peterson. "I may run into
trouble."
"No, we shall all remain aboard."
He departed mournfully enough, seeing that the ferry boat now was
coming across with the railway train. I continued my own moody pacing
up and down the deck. Truth was, I had not seen Helena for more than
twenty-four hours, nor had any word come from the ladies' cabin to
give me hope I ever would see her again of her own will. My surprise,
therefore, was great enough when I heard the after cabin door close
gently as she came out upon the deck.
When last I saw her she had been in tears. Now she was all smiles and
radiant as the dawn! Her gown, moreover, was one I had never seen
before, and she, herself, seemed monstrous pleased with it, for, by
some miracle, fresh as though from the hands of her maid at home, she
knew herself fair and fit enough to make more trouble for mankind.
"Good morning," said she, casually, as though we had parted but lately
and that conventionally. "Isn't it fine?"
"It is a beautiful picture," said I, "and you fit into it. I am glad
to see you looking so well."
"I wish I could say as much for you," said she. "You look like a
forlorn hope."
"I am nothing better."
"And as though you had not slept."
"I have not, Helena."
"Why not?" her eyes wide open in surprise.
"Because I knew I had either hurt or offended you; and I would do
neither."
"You have done both so often that it should not cost you your sleep,"
said she slowly. "But if you really want to be kind, why can you not
have mercy on a girl who has been packed in a hat box for a month? Let
me go ashore."
"Can you not breathe quite as well where you are, Helena?"
"But I can't walk."
"Oh, yes, you can; and I will walk beside you here on deck."
"But I would like to pick flowers, over there by the embankment."
"The train is too close," said I, smiling grimly.
Her color heightened just a little, but she did not answer my
suspicions. "Please let me walk with you over there," she said. "I
used not to need ask twice."
"Our situation is now reversed, Helena."
"Please, let me walk with you, Sir!"
"I dare not. We might both forget ourselves and go off to New Orleans
for a lark without Aunt Lucinda."
"Oh, I am going to call Aunt Lucinda, too."
"Pardon, but you are going to do nothing of the kind. Even with her as
chaperon, did we get down there in the old city once more, like the
children we once were, Helena, we would forget our duty, would,
perhaps, forget our purpose here. Mademoiselle, I dare not take that
risk."
"Please, Sir, may I walk with you over yonder for just a little time?"
she said, as though it were her first request. She was tying her
quaint little white bonnet strings under her chin now. I raised a
hand.
"You ask a man to put himself into the power of the woman he loves
most in all the world. When a man needs resolution, dare he look into
the eyes of that woman, feel her hand on his arm, have her walk close
to him as they promenade?"
"Dear me! Is it so bad as that?"
"Worse, Helena."
"Then I am to continue a prisoner in that hat box?"
"Until you love me, Helena, as I do you."
"As I told you, that would be a long time."
"Yes! For never in the world can you love me as I do you. I had
forgotten that."
"If only you could forget everything and just be a nice young man,"
said she. "It is such fun. This dear old town, don't you know? Now,
with a nice young man to go about with Aunt Lucinda and me----"
"How would a man like Calvin Davidson do?" I demanded bitterly.
"Very well. He is nice enough."
"I suppose so. He is rich, able to have his horses and cars--even his
private yacht. He can order a dinner in any country in the world, or
tell you the standing of any club, in either league, at any minute of
the day or night. Could I say more for his education? He has two
country places and a city house and a business which nets him a
hundred thousand a year. How can he help being nice? I do not resemble
Mr. Davidson in any particular, except that I am wearing one of his
waistcoats. Also, Helena, I am wearing a suit of flannels which I have
borrowed from John, his Chinese cook. You can readily see I am a poor
man. How, then, can I be nice?"
"No one would see us here," said she, sublimely irrelevant, as usual.
"There are some little yellow flowers over there on the bank. Maybe I
could find some violets."
There was a wistfulness in her gaze which made appeal. I could not
resist. "Helena," said I suddenly, "give me your parole that you will
not try to escape, and I will walk with you among yonder flowers. You
look as though just from a Watteau fan, my dear. It is fall, but seems
spring, and the world seems made for flowers and shepherds and love,
my dear. Do you give me your word?"
"If I do, may I walk alone?"
"No, with me."
"I'll not try to take the train. On my honor, I will not."
I looked deep into her eyes and saw, as always, only truth there--her
deep brown eyes, filled with some deep liquid light whose color I
never could say--looked till my own senses swam. I could scarcely
speak.
"I take your parole, Helena," I said. "You never lied to me or any
other human being in the world."
"You don't know me," said she. "I used often to lie to mama, and
frequently do yet to Aunt Lucinda. But not if I say I give my word--my
real word."
"When will you give me your real word, Helena? You know what I
mean--when will you say that you love me and no one else?"
"Never!" said she promptly. "I hate you very much. You have been
presumptuous and overbearing."
"Why then should you promenade with me?"
"Fault of anything better, Sir!" But she took my hand lightly, smiling
as I assisted her down the landing way.
"But tell me," she added as we made our way slowly up the muddy slope,
"really, Harry, how long is this thing to last? When are we going back
home?"
"How can you ask? And how can I reply, save in one way, after taking
the advice of yonder pirate captain, your blue-eyed nephew? He says
they always live happy ever after. Listen, Helena. Gaze upon this
waistcoat! Forget its stripes, and imagine it to be sprigged silk of a
day long gone by. Let us play that romance is not yet dead. These are
not cuffs, but ruffles at my wrists--for all Cal Davidson's
extraordinary taste in shirts. All the world lies before us, and it is
yesterday once more. The Mediterranean, Helena, how blue it is--the
Bermudas, how fine they are of a winter day! And yonder lies motley
Egypt and her sands. Or Paris, Helena; or Vienna, the voluptuous, with
her gay ways of life. Or Nagasaki, Helena--little brown folks running
about, and all the world white in blossoms. All the world, Helena,
with only you and I in it, and with not a care until, at least, we
have eaten the last of our tinned goods of the ship's supplies; since
I am poor. But if I could give you all that, would I be nice?"
"Would that suit you, Harry?" she asked soberly; "just gallivanting?"
"You know it would not. You know I want no vacation lasting all my
life, nor does any real man. You know it was yourself that forced me
out of my man's place and robbed me of my greatest right."
"Yes," said she, "a man's place is to fight and to work. It's the
same to-day. But," she added, "you ran away; and you lost."
"But am I not trying to recoup my fortune, Helena? You see, I have
already acquired a yacht, although but a few weeks ago I started in
the world with scarcely more than my bare hands. Could Monte Cristo
have done more?"
"It isn't money a woman wants in a man."
"What is it, then?"
"I don't know," said she. "Oh, come, we mustn't go to arguing these
things all over again! I'm weary of it. And certainly Aunt Lucinda and
I both are weary of our hat box yonder. That's what I asked you, how
long?"
"As long as I like, Helena, you and your Aunt Lucinda shall dwell
there. What would you say to three years or so?"
She seemed not to hear. "I believe I've found a four leaf clover,"
said she.
"Much good fortune may it bring you."
"Let me try my fortune," said she, and began plucking off the leaves.
"He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not."
"There!" she said, holding up the naked stem triumphantly; "I knew
it."
"It would be a fairer test, had you a daisy, Helena," said I, "or
something with more leaves; not that I know whose has been this
ordeal. Suppose it were myself, and that you tried this one." I handed
her a trefoil, but she waved it aside.
"I will try to find you a four leaf clover for your own, after a
while," said she, and bobbed me a very pretty courtesy. Angered, I
caught at the stick I was carrying with so sudden a grip that I broke
it in two.
"I did not know your hands were so strong, Harry," said she.
"Would they were stronger!" was my retort. "And were I in charge of
the affairs of Providence, the first thing I would do would be to
wring the neck of every woman in the world."
"And then set out to put them together again, Harry? Don't be silly."
"Oh, yes, naturally. But you must admit, Helena, that women have no
sense of reason whatever. For instance, if you really were trying out
the fortune of some man on a daisy's head, you would not accept the
decree of fate, any more than you could tell why you loved him or
loved him not. Why does a woman love a man, Helena? You say I must not
be silly--should I then be wise?"
"No, you are much too wise, so that you often bore me."
"Nor should he be poor?"
"No."
"Nor rich?"
"Certainly not. Rich men also usually are bores--they talk about
themselves too much."
"Should he be a tall man?"
"Not too tall, for they're lanky, nor short, because they get fat. You
see, each girl has her own ideal about such matters. Then, she always
marries a man as different as possible from her ideal."
"Why does she marry a man at all, Helena?"
"She never knows. Why should she? But look--" she pointed out across
the water--"the train is leaving the ferry boat. Isn't that Captain
Peterson going aboard the train?"
"Yes, Helena, I've sent him down-town to get some light reading for
you and your Aunt Lucinda--_Fox's Book of Martyrs_, and the _Critique
of Pure Reason_--the latter especially recommended to yourself. I
would I had in print a copy of my _magnum opus_, my treatment on
native American _culicidae_. My book on the mosquito is going to be
handsomely illustrated, Helena, believe me."
She turned upon me with a curious look. "Harry," said she, "you've
changed in some ways. If I were not so bored by life in yonder hat
box, I might even be interested in you for a few minutes. You used
always to be so sober, but now, sometimes, I wonder if I understand
you. Honestly, you were an awful stick, and no girl likes a stick
about her. What do girls care which dynasty it was that built the
pyramids?--it's Biskra they want to see. And we don't care when or why
Baron Haussmann built the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris--it's the
boulevard itself interests us."
"It is the fate of genius to be cast aside," said I. "No doubt even I
shall be forgotten--even after my book on the _culicidae_ shall have
been completed."
"--So that," she went on, not noticing me, "there is that one point in
your favor."
"Then there is a chance?"
"Oh, yes, for me to study you as you once did me--as one of the
_culicidae_, I presume. But if you would listen to reason, and end this
foolishness, and set us all ashore, why, I would be almost willing to
forgive you, and we might be friends again,--only friends, Harry, as
we once were. Why not, Harry?"
"You wheedle well," said I, "but you forget that what you ask is
impossible. I am Black Bart the Avenger, and the hand of every man is
against me. I am too deep in this adventure to end it here. Why? I did
not even dare go down-town for fear I might be arrested. Nothing
remains but further flight, and when you ask me to fly and leave you
here, you ask what is impossible."
She stood for a time silent, a trifle paler, her flowers fallen from
her hand, clearly unhappy, but clearly not yet beaten. "Come," said
she coldly, "we must not be brutal to Aunt Lucinda also. Let us go
back."
"Yes," said I, "now you have back your parole."
"I think I should like an artichoke for luncheon," said she.
"Vinaigrette, you know." And she passed aft, her head hidden by her
white parasol, but I knew with chin as high as though she were Marie
Antoinette herself. Nor did I feel much happier than had I been her
executioner.