IN WHICH IS MUCH ROMANCE, AND SOME TREASURE, ALSO VERY MUCH HAPPINESS
We walked on slowly up the hill together, my friend Calvin Davidson
and myself, following the parti-colored group now passing out of sight
behind the shrubbery. At last we paused and sat down on one of the
many seats that invited us. Around us, on the great lawn, were many
tropic or half-tropic plants, and the native roses, still abloom.
Yonder stood the old bronze sun-dial that I knew so well--I could have
read the inscription, _I Mark Only Pleasant Hours_; and I knew its
penciled shadow pointed to a high and glorious noon.... It seemed to
me that Heaven had never made a more perfect place or a more perfect
day; nor, that I am sure, was ever in the universe a world more
beautiful than this, more fit to swing in union with all the harmony
of the spheres.... I had fought so long, I had been so unhappy, had
doubted so much, had grown so sad, so misanthropic, that I trust I
shall be forgiven at this sudden joy I felt at hearing burst on my
ears--albeit a chorus of Edouard's mocking-birds hid in the oaks--all
the music of the spheres, soul-shaking, a thing of joy and
reverence.... So I spoke but little.
"But I say, old man," began Davidson presently, "it's all right for a
joke, but my word! it was an awfully big one, and an awfully risky
one, too,--your stealing your own yacht from me! I didn't think it of
you. You not only broke up my boat party--you see, Sally was going on
down with us from Natchez--Miss Emory said she'd be glad to have her
come, and of course she and Mrs. Daniver made it proper, all right--I
say, you not only busted that all up, but by not sending a fellow the
least word of what you were going to do, you got those silly
newspapers crazy, from New Orleans to New York--why, you're famous,
that is, notorious! But so is Miss Emory, that's the worst of it. I
don't just fancy she'll just fancy some of those pictures, or some of
those stories. Least you can do now is to marry Helena and the old
girl, too, right off!"
"In part, that is good advice," said I. "I wish I could wear your
clothes, Cal--but I remember now that Edouard and I can wear the same
clothes, and have, many a time."
"But I say, don't be so hoggish. There's other people in the world
beside you--_you'd_ never have thought of making that river cruise,
now would you?"
"No."
"Nor you couldn't have got Helena aboard the boat if you had, now
could you?"
"No."
"Let alone the old girl, her revered aunt!" He dug another thumb into
his own pink striped waistcoat. "She loves you a lot, I am not of the
impression!"
"No, I think she rather favored you!" I replied gravely.
"No chance! And I say, isn't Sally a humdinger? Just the sort for
me--something doing every minute. And a fellow can always tell just
what she's thinkin'----"
"I'm not right sure, Cal, whether that's safe to say of any woman,"
said I. "A ship on the sea, or a serpent on a rock has--to use your
own quaint manner of speech, my friend--so to speak, nothing on the
way of a maid with a man. But go on. I do congratulate you. Do you
know, old man, I almost thought, once--a good while ago--that you were
just a little--that is--_epris_ of Helena your own self?"
"Come again? 'Apree'--what's that?"
"--Gone on her."
"Oh, not at all, not at all--not in the least! Why, I can't see what
in the world--oh, well of course, you know, she's _fine_; but what I
mean is, why--there was Sally, you know. Say, do you know why I wanted
to get Sally away on that boat?--I was afraid you'd cut in somewhere,
run across her down at Mardi Gras, or something. And I just _figured_,
once you got a girl on a boat that way, away from all the other
fellows, you know, why even a plain chap like me would have a chance,
do you see? And I say now, I'll own it up--I was right down _jealous_
of _you_, too! Wasn't it silly? And I ask your pardon. You're an
awfully good sort, Harry, though you're so d----d serious--you get too
much in earnest, take things too hard, you know. Will you shake hands
with me, knowing what a fool I've been? I say, you're the best chap in
the world, old man--if only you were a little more _human_ once in a
while."
He put out his hand and I met it. "Will you shake hands with me, Cal?"
said I, "on precisely those same terms about having been an awful
fool? It's you who are the best chap in the world. And I'll admit
it--I was jealous of you!"
He roared at this. "Well," said he, "as George Cohan says, 'All's well
that ends well', and I guess we couldn't beat this for a championship
year, now could we? Now say, about Dingleheimer----"
"Oh, hang Dingleheimer, Cal!" I exclaimed. "What I want to know is,
did you ever talk any to Miss Emory about--well, about me, you
know?--say anything about my affairs, or anything, you know? I mean
while you were there on the boat together."
"No. She wouldn't let me. Besides, the truth is, I was so full of
Sally all the time, I mostly talked about _her_. By Jove! that was a
measly trick you played us, running off with the boat from under my
nose! But I proposed to Sally in Natchez that night, and she came on
down to the city the next day by rail--while _I_ ran down in that
dirty little scow you left behind. And I never tumbled for days that
it was _you_ had run off with the boat--though I found a photo of
Helena and your cigarette case in the boat you left. Never tumbled
till that story of the taxi driver came out. Then I said, 'Well, of
all things! Wonder if that old stick has really come to life after
all!' And you sure had! What's in _your_ letter? Say, ain't a boat the
place----"
"But how did you happen to be here?"
"Oh, I've known Ed Manning years, in New York, Paris, all around. He
asked me to visit him some time. I wired and asked him if I could come
out for our honeymoon--you know, Harry, I'm such a d----d romantic son
of a gun, and once before I was out here at Ed's, and those d----d
nightingales, catbirds, what d'ye call 'ems----"
"--Mockers."
"Yes, mockers, they sung so sweet, especial in the evenings, you
know--and I'm so d----d romantic--_always_ was thataway--and you know,
why, a fellow _can_ be romantic on his honeymoon, can't he?--he can
just cut loose then an' be as big a d--n fool as he likes then--an'
get away with it, what? Say, can't he?"
--"Yes."
--"So that's why I came."
--"But--honeymoon? Are you going to be married?"
--"Naw! I ain't goin' to be married--I _am_ married! Day before
yesterday, in New Orleans. And I don't believe in dandlin' an' foolin'
around about a little thing like that. Ain't you married yet?"
"No. Impossible. No preacher on Cote Blanche Bay or on our boat. I've
got Aunt Lucinda Daniver along, to take care of the proprieties. If I
should leave it to her, I never would be married."
"Why?"
"She thinks I'm broke."
"Yes, too bad about that! I wish I could swap bank rolls with you. Why
didn't you tell her the truth--and Helena, too? Why didn't you tell
'em it was your own yacht? Why didn't you tell 'em you're worth a few
millions and don't have to work?"
"I don't know--maybe I'm like you, Cal, foolish about nightingales and
things. But tell me--you never did tell them anything about that Sally
M. mine business, did you?"
"No, I should say not! Didn't you tell me you didn't want it to get
out? It was bad enough, the way old Dan and your--sainted father
handed it to each other over that mine, wasn't it? I know about it,
for I promoted that mine myself, and the name'll prove that--Sally M.
Byington, with the Byington left off! There wasn't a blasted thing in
it then. But when you--like a blame quixotic fool--after she was good
for six thousand a month velvet, and ore blocked out to last a
thousand years--why, then you fool around in Papa's records, and think
Papa wasn't on the square with old Dan. So on the quiet you get it all
made over, back to old Dan's daughter; and take a sneak into the
hazelbrush when she turns you down! Say, you know what _I'd_ a-done?"
"No."
--"I'd a-held on to the mine and told the girl how much it was
bringin' in--that's _my_ system. Then I'd a-got the mine and the girl
both, maybe!"
--"Maybe."
"Well, that's the system I'd a-played. I wouldn't a-took to the tall
grass, me."
"On the other hand, I played a system invented by myself and Henri
L'Olonnois."
"I never heard of him. Well, anyhow, you were rich enough to afford to
do what you liked. But as to keeping it secret, you can't do that any
longer. Those newspaper fellows are the devil to get hold of things.
Since all this stuff came out about you running away with your own
boat--I can see now why you did it, and I'm glad you did--why, your
whole life history has been printed, including all that restitution
business about the Sally M. Fellows came to me and asked me about you,
asked if I knew you. Said, yes, I knew you--said you were a romantic
chap, and a good business man, too--and the best old scout in the
world--what?"
I had arisen, and stood in some doubt. "What's the matter--let's go
on up to the house. I want to see Sally," he concluded.
"And I want very much to see Helena," said I. "Only, it's going to be
rather harder now to meet her--and Mrs. Daniver."
"Well, I don't know," said Cal Davidson; "every fellow plays his own
system. There's something in what you say about women having a good
poker face so far as tellin' what they think about a man is
concerned--yes. Frinstance, how much did Helena know I knew, or know
you knew or thought you knew--well, you get me? But the trouble with
you is, you ain't romantic in your temperament like me.... But if I
was you, I wouldn't be scared to tell Mrs. Daniver I had a dollar and
a quarter or so left! It'll soften the blow some to her, maybe. And as
for Helena----"
"And as for Helena, I can look her in the face, and she can me, now.
And--will you telephone to New Iberia for a minister--at once--for
this evening train? And will you tell Edouard to have his man lay out
his best evening clothes for me--tell him I'll trade him these of my
cook's for them--and a suit of traveling clothes? Because, oh! fellow
varlet----" (I paused here; we both did; for a mocker just now broke
into an extraordinary burst of song, so sweet, so throbbingly sweet,
that we could not help but listen, both of us being lovers)....
"What were you saying, old man?" Cal Davidson asked after a while,
musingly, as one awakening.... "Some bird, what?"
... "Because, to-night," I answered, "I am going to marry my fair
captive, yon heartless jade, Helena. I've loved her always, rich or
poor, and she loves me, rich or poor. And we shall live happy ever
after. And may God bless us, and all true lovers!"
"Amen!" I heard some one say; and have often wondered whether it was
yon varlet, the mocking-bird, or Cal Davidson himself, who spoke.... I
looked around for Partial. He had followed Helena.
FOOTNOTE:
[B] (The words in Helena's note, addressed to Henry Francis Drake,
Esquire, were, as I have said, but two: "Yes--Now". That was why I was
married that evening. It was curious about the wedding ring, for that
I would not borrow; so an old negro blacksmith took a gold ring
Edouard gave me, one found years ago by a Cajun treasure hunter in
some one of the few successful hunts for the treasure of Jean Lafitte;
and into this, in place of the gem long since missing, he clasped my
pearl, the one we got on the river far in the north; the great pearl
later known as the largest and most brilliant ever found in fresh
water. It was I who named it the "_Belle Helene_". So that our ring
pleased all but L'Olonnois and Jean Lafitte. These two pirates had set
at work that very afternoon, with 'Polyte (by Edouard's consent) and
dug behind the smoke-house. Wonderful enough, they did find old
bricks, enclosing a sort of hollow cavity, bricks of an ancient day;
and though they got nothing else ('Polyte said he knew who had beaten
them to this treasure--it was Achilles Dufrayne of Calcasieu, curse
him!) they both explained how easy it would be to deceive the fair
captive into thinking we really had found the ring's setting as well
as the ring itself, in a pirate treasure-box. I would not do that, on
the ground that already I had deceived the fair captive quite
enough.... But, though yon varlet, my friend dear old Cal Davidson,
spoke rather freely about his honeymoon, and all that, I can not do so
of mine with Helena.... I did not know that I could again be so happy.
Often I have wished I were a romantic man, like dear old Cal.... I
fear my book on the mosquitoes of North America never will be written
now.--H. F. D.)
THE END
Transcriber's Note
Minor typographic errors in spelling and punctuation have been
corrected without note.
The Table of Contents has been made consistent with the chapter
headers, as follows--"In Which I Have a Polite Conversation" amended
to "In Which I Have Polite Conversation"; "In Which Is Certain
Conversation" amended to "In Which Is Certain Polite Conversation".
This book contains some archaic spelling, and some dialect; this is
all reproduced here as in the original.
Illustrations have been moved slightly so that they are not in the
middle of a paragraph. The frontispiece illustration has been moved to
follow the title page.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Lady and the Pirate, by Emerson Hough