IN WHICH IS NO RAPPROCHEMENT WITH THE FAIR CAPTIVE
"Harry!" I heard her call, and turned quickly. "Harry, wait!"
She came hurrying up toward me. I felt my color rise. Awkwardly, I
stood waiting, and did not greet her. I cast a quick glance the other
way down the beach. It would be a hundred yards before the first bend
of the shore-line would carry us behind the tall rushes. Meantime, we
were in full sight of all.
Partial, who had followed me when I whistled, now greeted her more
joyously than did his master.
"Yes?" said I dully; "I suppose you came to take away my dog from me,
didn't you? It was all that was left."
"Of course," said she coloring. "I didn't know but what Partial might
be hungry."
"It is I who am hungry, Helena," said I. "I have long been hungry--for
a look, a word."
She did not smile, showed not any trace of coquetry in her mien, but
paced on with me now down the beach. I suppose she knew when we had
turned the point of rushes, for now she laid her hand on my rough
canvas sleeve. It must have cost her effort to do that.
"Harry, what's wrong with you?" said she after a time, since I still
remained moodily staring ahead. I did not answer, would not look at
her for a time, but at length she turned. She stood, I say, with her
hand on my arm, her chin raised fully, her serious eyes fixed on me.
The dark hair was blown all about her face. She had on over her long
white sweater a loose silk waterproof of some sort, which blew every
way, but did not disturb the lines of her tall figure, nor lessen the
pale red and white which the sea breeze had stung into her cheeks. She
did not smile, and her eyes, I say, looked steadily and seriously into
mine.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked, frowning slightly, as it seemed to
me.
"Everything in the world is wrong with me, as you know very well,"
said I. "Am I not a poor man? Am I not an unsuccessful lover? Am I not
a failure under every test which you can apply? Am I not a coward--did
you not tell me so yourself?"
Her eyes grew damp slowly. "I didn't mean it," said she.
"Then why did you say it?"
"It was long before--that was before last night, Harry. You forget."
"What if it was?" I demanded. "I was the same man then that I was last
night."
"I didn't mean it, Harry," said she, her voice low. Her hand was still
on my arm. Her eye now was cast down, the tip of her toe was tracing a
circle on the wet sand where we stood.
"I didn't think," said she, after a little while.
"I presume not," said I coldly. "Sometimes women do not stop to think.
You have not stopped to think that there is a limit even to what my
love would stand, Helena. Now, much as I love you--and I never loved
you so much as I do now--I'll never again ask you for what you can not
give me. I've been rubbed the wrong way all I can stand, and I'll not
have it any more. I've brought you here, yes, and I'm sorry enough for
it. But I'm going to fix all that now, soon as I can."
"What do you mean, Harry?" she asked quietly.
"Yonder, across the bay," said I, pointing, "runs a channel. That's
the Cheniere. I presume the lighthouse boats come from in there. Maybe
there'll be one down after the storm in a day or so. He'll take out a
message, and get it on some boat bound for Morgan City, perhaps."
"And what then?"
"Why, I shall send out any message you like, beside my own message to
the parents of these boys of mine. And I'll send a message, too, to my
friend, Manning."
She turned her eyes where I pointed once more, this time seemingly
northward across the bay. "Yonder is still another channel," said I,
"not twenty miles from where we stand. It runs back to the live-oak
islands where my friend Manning has his plantation. If the tide serves
and we can get the yacht afloat, it won't take us long to get in
there. Once there, you are safe; and once there, I say good-by. Judge
for yourself whether or not this is the last time."
"And when will that be, Harry?" she demanded, still tracing some
figure on the sand with the toe of her little boot.
"That, I have said, is something I can not tell. But as soon as
possible, rest assured."
She was silent now, confused, a little abashed, a mood entirely new to
her in my recollection of her many moods. Her hand still lay upon my
coarse canvas sleeve as though she had forgotten it. I bent now and
kissed it. "Harry," said she in a whisper, "don't you care for me any
more?"
"Go back to the camp, Helena," said I; "you know I do, but I've done
enough for you, and I'll do no more. All a coward can do to keep you
safe I have done, but I'm no such coward as to follow you around now
and dangle at your apron strings. It's good-by once more. What are
you," I demanded fiercely, once more, "that you should walk over my
soul again and again? Hasn't there got to be an end to that sort of
thing some time, and don't you think there is an end for me? Go back
and tell your aunt that you have won. And much joy may you both have
in your winning."
I kissed her hand, flung it off, turned and went down the beach. She
did not look about, but presently as I saw, turned and went back
toward the camp, her head hanging. And, as I had said to her, I never
loved her so much in all my life, though never was I so little
disposed to go one step in her pursuit.
Partial sat, looking after her also, his heart torn in the division
between us, for he loved us both.
"Partial," I called to him harshly, and he came, his ears down and
very unhappy. Silently, the dog at my heels, I strode on down the
beach, and so I saw her no more for some time.
I found for myself a driftwood log at the edge of the sea-marsh, and
here for a time I sat down, moodily staring out across the bay, as
unhappy, I fancy, as man gets to be in this world. I scarce know how
long I sat here, in the wind which blew salt across the bay, and for
some time, I paid no attention to the clamoring fowl which passed and
repassed not far from my point.
At length, a long harrow of great Canadian geese passed so close to me
that without much thought about it, I raised the gun and fired. I
killed two birds, and as I picked them up I found they were not a
brace, but a pair. The report of my gun started a clamoring of all
manner of fowl beyond the edge of reeds which hid the reef. A cloud of
ducks passed before me, and slipping in the shells once more, I fired
right and left. Again I killed my brace, and again when I picked them
up they were a pair. The head of one was green, the other brown. "Male
and female made He them!" said I. "If I had not killed these birds, in
the spring they would have gone northward, to the edge of the world in
their own love-making, thousands of miles from here." I looked at my
quarry with remorse, and not caring to shoot more, at length picked up
the birds and slowly started back to camp, not looking forward with
any too great pleasure, it may be imagined, to further meetings with
the woman whom, of all the world, I most cared to meet.
I found all the others of the party amiably engaged in camp affairs.
The tent now was up, the fire was arranged in more practical fashion,
and John was busy with his pans. Lafitte, ever resourceful and ever
busy, was out with Willy after more oysters. L'Olonnois, his partner,
seemed engaged in some sort of argument with his Auntie Helena.
"Jimmy, I can't!" I heard her say. "There isn't any sugar."
"Aw!" said he, "there's plenty of sugar, ain't there, John?" And that
worthy smiled as he pointed toward an open canister of that dainty.
"But I haven't any pan."
"Yes, you have, too, got a pan. Here's one a-settin' right here in
front of you. Come on now, Auntie. We're goin' to have duck and
terrapin and oysters and everything--all a fellow would want, besides
that, is just fudges."
Helena stood preoccupied and hesitant, hardly hearing what he said, as
I fancy. At once L'Olonnois' attitude changed. Folding his arms, he
turned toward her sternly.
"Woman!" said he, "are you not a captive to our band? Then who gives
orders here? Either you make fudges, or your life's blood stains these
sands!"
"Oh, all right, Jimmy," she said listlessly. "I'll make them, if you
like."
"You'd better," remarked that worthy sententiously. "Of course," he
added, seeking to mollify his victim, over whom he thus domineered,
"it ain't just like it is back home on the stove, but you'll have to
get used to that, because we're going to live here forever. And," he
added, casting a glance of his stern blue eyes upon her, "it is the
part of the captive maid ever to live happily with the chief of the
pirate band."
Whereupon Helena and Jimmy both looked up and saw me standing,
unwilling listener to all that had been said. Helena moved away and
pretended to be busy with the material for her confections.
"Aw, shucks, Black Bart," said Jimmy, turning to me--"ain't that just
like a woman?--They won't never play the game."