When Jean and François arrived that evening for dinner, however, although
they were intentionally a little late, they found that their hostess was
apparently conspicuous by her absence.
“However,” apologized their congenial host, “Virginia will be down any
minute, I suppose. You know how women are—always late—and everlastingly
adorning themselves.” Jean laughed politely, but could not help wondering
why this very simple witticism should cause his host and companion so
much mirth.
While waiting in the library Grymes and De Moulin began an apparently
interminable discussion of politics, of a particularly boring nature,
and both of them skillfully managed to convey to him the idea that they
had forgotten Lafitte’s very existence. For a while he looked from one
to the other puzzled. Suddenly, as he glanced idly around the room, he
became aware of the fact that the old negro butler, Rappahannock, was
standing in the door, and was undoubtedly trying to get his attention. He
glanced at his companions. They were oblivious of him. Getting up slowly,
he sauntered nonchalantly over to the door. Strangely enough, his two
companions were seemingly as unaware of the plainly discernible darky as
they were of his own actions.
He walked out into the hall—and did not see the smiles and winks of the
two in the library. Rappahannock stepped close and whispered.
“Marse Lafitte, dars a pusson would lak tuh mek tawk wif yuh, in de
gyarden, suh.”
“Some one wants to speak to _me_—in the garden?”
“Yassuh.”
“Who is it?”
“Hits a—lady.”
“Who is she?” Rappahannock shrugged his shoulders expressively.
Lafitte looked at him with suspicion.
“Did she send for me, herself?”
“Nossuh,” said the clever old darky, well instructed in his part, “she
didn’t sen’ me—dat is, she tol’ me not to.... Anyway, suh, ah’m pow’ful
shuah dat she wants tuh mek tawk wif yuh. Leastways, ah reckon dat she’s
pow’ful anxious, ’cause she done say—Lawd, man! I’se done gone an’ done
it!” And turning on his heel, he hurried away down the hall.
For a moment Jean stood still, thinking. He did not for a moment doubt
the sincerity of the darky, but was trying to adjust himself to the fact
that she had summoned him—clandestinely, as it were! Drawing a deep
breath, he silently slipped out of the front door and into the silvery
night.
To the left of the long piazza with its lofty Colonial pillars was one
end of the garden. Its other extremity was bounded by the Mississippi,
its broad surface sparkling like so many diamonds under the playful
shafts of moonlight.
At his back was the stately old mansion, half concealed in a grove of
ancient magnolias. Before him stretched a curving red-brick path, winding
through the length of the garden. On all sides was the balmy fragrance of
many flowers—flowers, for the most part, made invisible in the shadow of
huge thickets of acacia and pomegranate and orange trees. The mingling
scents of odorous jasmine, crimson-hued oleander, and roses of every
species, made the air actually heavy with their sweet fragrance as he
followed the path slowly.
Straight ahead of him was a long natural aisle formed by two rows of
palmettos, which terminated, almost abruptly, at the water’s edge. The
night was young—twilight had but just merged into a fragrant evening—and
the moon, beginning its lofty climb, could be seen rising, apparently,
out of the very waters of the Queen of Rivers; obese, golden, and
beautiful.
Somehow, instinctively, he knew he would find her at the end of that
aisle at the water’s marge. It was as if the hunted woman had fled as
far as was possible, down to the water’s edge—and the hunter, man, was
unerringly bringing his long hunt to an end.
Slowly he walked down the path, his eyes fixed on that magnificent moon;
and the intoxication of the glorious night permeated his every sense. At
last he reached its end—and there, as his intuition had told him, he
saw her. She was standing in the center of the little glade, clad all in
shimmery, silvery white; leaning with one arm on an old stone sun-dial,
staring at the soaring moon.
For a long moment he stood still, feasting his eyes and soul on the
picture of her exquisite loveliness. Then he stepped out of the shadow
into the drenching moonlight.
With a low cry, as she caught sight of him, she half turned as if to run.
Then, changing her mind, apparently, she drew herself up to her full
height and remained standing—motionless—silent.
He suddenly felt that he had to say something—and had nothing to say.
“Virginia—mademoiselle—I am here,” he said, somewhat awkwardly.
For a moment she did not answer.
“Really?” she said, rather scornfully.
He felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. And then it was that he
suddenly realized that she had never sent for him—never would have. He
suddenly remembered the strange actions of Grymes, François, and old
Rappahannock, and a great fury welled up within him. He half turned on
his heel, with an apology on his lips, when another thought struck—and
overwhelmed him. Jean Lafitte was a great believer in Fate. Was this not
Fate—this strangely contrived meeting? He would make the most of it—to
justify himself. Then he would take himself out of her life forever.
“Miss Grymes, I have something to tell you—something to explain.”
She did not answer, but remained motionless, her eyes fixed on him. He
could not know that _she_ was in a crucible of emotion—that she was
fighting fiercely for control of herself.
“Miss Grymes—once, on just such a night as this, you asked me to do
something, for your sake—and I refused. You asked me to drop my piratical
life—for I _was_ a pirate—and for reasons you know—I refused. But I wish
to tell you this, mademoiselle, that, in consequence of what later took
place”—he faltered—“I almost betrayed my comrades, because—I loved you. I
loved you then, and since, and now. And I shall love you, ma’mselle, till
the end of time.” She started perceptibly but made no answer.
“But, because I wished to protect my men, who trusted me, I refused, and
you told me—that you but flirted with me. Later, when I became, of my
own volition, a patriot, I was able to go to you, but I did not. For I
believe that you really did not flirt.”
Still she was silent. Jean rushed on.
“And still later, when I was convinced that you did not flirt”—she
started again—“in honor I could not go to you, for I believed ... was led
to believe ... that you loved—Pierre.”
She half turned from him.
“I know. Father Chambertin told me.” So low was her voice that he could
hardly hear her. A meandering breeze fitfully wandered thru the garden,
rustling thru the bushes in gentle reproof.
“Still,” he went on, hurriedly, “when I learned that this person—had
not told the truth—it made no difference. For I still did not know
whether or not you were—flirting—and so, after much thought, I have
come to the conclusion that you _were_—and I have decided to sail for
France—to-morrow. Of course, this cannot interest you, but I merely
wished to let you know—that when a _man_ loves once—really loves—he can
never again love another in the same way. And no doubt it will interest
you to know that I have always loved you, ma’mselle, and always—will.
But—ma’mselle will, in the future, no longer be troubled with the odium
of my presence!”
Then, turning, he began to go back toward the house, but suddenly
stopped, for she was speaking.
“Captain—Lafitte,” she was saying, “you have forgotten one thing in your
elaborate plan. What of me, sir?”
He stared at her.
“What of _you_, ma’mselle?”
“Yes. Aren’t you taking too much for granted, sir?”
He trembled ... his brain was whirling.
“What do you mean?”
“For the sake of argument, sir, answer me this. You say that you learned
that Pierre—that this person—had lied. Yet, how could you know that _I_
was not—lying—that night—at Grande Terre?”
He thought this over for a brief moment, puzzled.
“But how could I know?”
“Then why didn’t you—ask—sir?” Very low. Why _were_ men so dull-witted?
But he did not answer—he was stupefied.
She stamped her foot—and he suddenly saw that she was both laughing and
crying—together. He stared at her wonderingly.
“Why don’t you ask me—sir?”
And then he knew.
“Virginia!” He stepped uncertainly toward her.
“Yes—Jean.” How unutterably sweet his name sounded on her lips!
“You _weren’t_ telling the truth!”
But it was altogether unnecessary for her to answer this, for they were
already in each other’s arms....
The breeze grumbled in the trees. It had all been such a meaningless
performance—to the breeze.
* * * * *
John Grymes and François de Moulin, arm in arm, came down the garden
walk, and they were laughing and talking—in low voices. Suddenly rounding
a curve, they stopped, and the Virginian, excitedly clutching his
companion’s arm, pointed toward the foot of the winding path.
There, silhouetted in the moonlight against the bright silver of the
river, were two figures, unmistakably in a close embrace.
The head of the man bent downward for an equally unmistakable purpose.
But although the lovers were ignorant of the presence of intruders,
their friend and ally, the Lady in the Moon, was not—for she indignantly
proved her friendship again by retiring forthwith into a quilted bed of
clouds....