"Don't 'dear Mrs. Daniver' me! I'm not your dear Mrs. Daniver at all."
"Then whose dear Mrs. Daniver are you, my dear Mrs. Daniver?" I rejoined most impudently.
"If the poor dear Admiral were alive," said she, sniffing, "you should repent those words!"
"I wish the poor dear Admiral were here," said I. "I should like to ask an abler sailorman than Peterson what to do, with the glass falling as it is, and the holding ground none too good for an anchor.
I thought it just as well to come and tell you to prepare for the worst."
"The worst--what do you mean?" She now advanced three steps upward, so that her shoulders were above the cabin door. Almost mechanically she took my hand.
"The worst just now is nothing worse than an orange with ice, my dear Mrs. Daniver. And I only wanted you to come out on deck with--Miss Emory--and see how blue the sea is."
She advanced another step, being fond of an iced orange at eleven-thirty. But now she paused. "My niece is resting," said she, feeling her way.
"No, I am not," I heard a voice say. Inadvertently I turned and almost perforce glanced down the cabin stair. Helena, in a loose morning wrap of pink, was lying on the couch. She now cast aside the covering of eider-down, and shaking herself once, sprang up the stairs, so that her dark hair appeared under Auntie Lucinda's own. Slowly that obstacle yielded, and both finally stood on the after deck. The soft wind caught the dark tendrils of Helena's hair. With one hand she pushed at them. The other caught her loose robe about her softly outlined figure.
"Helena!" remarked her aunt, frowning.
"I want an orange," remarked Miss Emory, addressing the impartial universe, and looking about for John.
"And shall have it. But," said I, finding a soft rug at the cabin-top, "I think perhaps you may find the air cool. Allow me." I handed them chairs, and with a hand that trembled a bit put the soft covering over Helena's shoulders. She drew it close about her with one hand, and her dark hair flowing about her cheeks, found her orange with the other when John came with his tray.
It was a wondrous morning in early fall. Never had a southern sky been more blue, never the little curling waves saucier on the Gulf. The air was mild, just fresh enough for zest. Around us circled many great white gulls. Across the flats sailed a long slow line of pelicans; and out yonder, tossing up now and then like a black floating blanket, I could see a great raft of wild duck, taking their midday rest in safety. All the world seemed a million miles away. Care did not exist.
And--so intimate and swiftly comprehensive is the human soul, especially the more primal soul of woman--already and without words, this young woman seemed to feel the less need of conversation, to recognize the slackening rein of custom. So that a rug and a wrapper--granted always also an aunt--seemed to her not amiss as full equipment for reception of a morning caller.
"A very good orange," said she at last.
"Yes," said her aunt promptly; "I'm sure we ought to thank Mr.
Davidson for them. He was _such_ a good provider."
"Except in waistcoats," I protested, casually indicating his latest contribution to my wardrobe. "Quantity, yes, I grant that, but as to quality, never! But why speak ill of the absent, especially regarding matters of an earlier and bygone day? Yon varlet no longer exists for us--we no longer exist for him. We have passed, as two ships pass yonder in the channel. I know not what he may be doing now, unless carrying roses to Miss Sally Byington. Certainly he can not know that I, his hated rival, am safe from all pursuit behind the Timbalier Shoals, and carrying oranges to a young lady in my belief almost as beautiful as the beautiful Sally."
Aunt Lucinda turned upon me a baleful eye. "You grow flippant as well as rude, sir! As though you knew anything of that Byington girl. I doubt if you ever saw her."
"Oh, yes--last night. Miss Emory and I both saw her, last night, at Luigi's. As for yon varlet's providing, while I would not too much criticize a man whose waistcoats I wear even under protest, it is but fair to say that these oranges and all the fresh things taken on at New Orleans, are of my providing, and not his. He was so busy providing other things for Miss Sally Byington."
"I don't think she is so beautiful," said Helena, ceasing with her orange. "Her color is so full. Very likely she'll be blowsy in a few years."
"How can you say so!" I rebuked, with much virtuous indignation. But at the time I felt my heart leap at sight of Helena herself, the lines of her slim graceful figure defined even under the rug she had drawn about her neck, the wind-blown little neck curls and the long fuller lock now plain against her fresh face, blown pale by the cool salt air that sang above us gently. I could no longer even feign an interest in any other woman in the world. So very unconsciously I chuckled to myself, and Helena heard me.
"You don't think so yourself!" she remarked.
"Think what?"
"That she is so beautiful."
"No, I do not. Not as beautiful as----"
"Look at the funny bird!" said Helena suddenly. Yet I could see nothing out of the ordinary in the sea-bird she pointed out, skimming and skipping close by.
"Sir," demanded Aunt Lucinda, also suddenly, "how long is this to last?"
"You mean the orange-dish, Mrs. Daniver?" I queried politely. "As long as you like. I also am a good provider, although to no credit, as it seems."
"You know I do not mean the oranges, sir. I mean this whole foolish business. You are putting yourself liable to the law."
"So did Jean Lafitte, over yonder in Barataria," said I, "but he lived to a ripe old age and became famous. Why not I as well?"
"--You are ruining those two boys. I weep to think of our poor Jimmy--why, he lords it about as though he owned the boat. And such language!"
"He shall own a part of her if he likes, if all comes out well," said I. "And as for Jean Lafitte, Junior, rarely have I seen a boy of better judgment, cooler mind, or more talent in machinery. He shall have an education, if he likes; and I know he will like."
"It is wonderful what a waistcoat will do for the imagination,"
remarked Helena, wholly casually. I turned to her.
"I presume it is Mr. Davidson who is to be the fairy prince," added Aunt Lucinda.
"No, myself," I spoke quietly. Aunt Lucinda for once was almost too unmistakable in her sniff of scorn.
"I admit it seems unlikely," said I. "Still, this is a wonderful age.
Who can say what may be gained by the successful pirate!"
"You act one!" commented Aunt Lucinda. "It is brutal. It is outrageous. It is abominable. No gentleman would be guilty of such conduct."
"I grant you," said I, but flushed under the thrust. "But I am no longer a gentleman where that conflicts with the purpose of my piracy.
I come of a family, after all, madam, who often have had their way in piracy."
"And left a good useful business to go away to idleness! And now speak of doing large things! With whose money, pray?"
"You are very direct, my dear Mrs. Daniver," said I mildly, "but the catechism is not yet so far along as that."
"But why did you do this crazy thing?"
"To marry Helena, and with your free consent as her next friend," said I, swiftly turning to her. "Since I must be equally frank. Please don't go!" I said to Helena, for now, very pale, she was starting toward the cabin door. But she paid no heed to me, and passed.
"So now you have it, plainly," said I to Mrs. Daniver.
She turned on me a face full of surprise and anger mingled. "How dare you, after all that has passed? You left the girl years ago. You have no business, no fortune, not even the girl's consent. I'll not have it! I love her." The good woman's lips trembled.
"So do I," said I gently. "That is why we all are here. It is because of this madness called love. Ah, Mrs. Daniver, if you only knew! If I could make you know! But surely you do know, you, too, have loved.
Come, may you not love a lover, even one like myself? I'll be good to Helena. Believe me, she is my one sacred charge in life. I love her.
Not worthy of her, no--but I love her."
"That's too late." But I saw her face relent at what she heard. "I have other plans. And you should have told her what you have told me."
"Ah, have I not?" But then I suddenly remembered that, by some reversal of my logical mind, here I was, making love to Auntie Lucinda, whom I did not love, whereas in the past I had spent much time in mere arguing with Helena, whom I did love.
"I'm not sure that I've ever made it plain enough to her, that's true," said I slowly. "But if she gives me the chance, I'll spend all my life telling her that very thing. That, since you ask me, is why we all are here--so that I may tell Helena, and you, and all the world, that very thing. I love her, very much."