"But suppose she does not love you?" demanded Mrs. Daniver. "I'll say frankly, I've advised her against you all along. She ought to marry a man of some station in the world."
"With money?"
"You put it baldly, but--yes."
"Would that be enough--money?" I asked.
"No. That is not fair----"
"--Only honor between us now."
"It would go for to-day. Because, after all, money means power, and all of us worship power, you know--success."
"And is that success--to have money, and then more money--and to go on, piling up more money--to have more summer places, and more yachts like this, and more city houses, and more money, money, money--yes, yes, that's American, but is it all, is it right, is it the real ambition for a man! And does that bring a woman happiness?"
"What would you do if you had your money back?" asked Mrs. Daniver.
"You had a fortune from your father."
"What would I do?" I rejoined hotly. "What I did do--settle every claim against his honor as much as against his estate--judge his honor by my own standards, and not his. Pay my debts--pay all my debts. It's independence, madam, and not money that I want. It's freedom, Mrs.
Daniver, that I want, and not money. So far as it would be the usual money, buying almost nothing that is worth owning, I give you my solemn oath I don't care enough for it to work for it! So far as it would help me be a man, help me to build my own character, help me build manhood and character in my country--yes, I'd like it for that.
But if money were the price of Helena herself, I'd not ask for it.
The man who would court a girl with his money and not his manhood--the woman who marries for money, or the man who does--what use has God Almighty got for either of them? It's men and women and things worth doing who make this world, Mrs. Daniver. I love her, so much, so clearly, so wholly, that I think it must be right. And since you've asked me, I've taken my man's chance, just to get you two alone, where I could talk it over with you both."
"It's been talked over, Harry," said she, rather uncomfortably. "Why not let the poor child alone? Has it occurred to you how terribly hard this is for her?"
"Yes. But she can end it easily. Tell me, is she engaged to Davidson?"
"What difference?"
"None."
"Why ask, then?"
"Tell me!"
"Well then, no, not so far as I know."
"You are sorry?"
"I had hope for it. It was all coming on so handsomely. At Natchez he was--he was, well, you know----"
"Almost upon the point?"
"Quite so. I thought, I believed that between there and----"
"Say between there and Baton Rouge----"
"Well, yes----"
"He would come to the main point?"
"Yes."
"And he did not?"
"You can best answer. It was at Natchez that you and those ruffianly boys ran off with Mr. Davidson's boat!"
"That's all, your Honor," I remarked. "Take the witness, Mr.
Davidson!"
"But what right you have to cross-question me, I don't know!"
commented Mrs. Daniver, addressing a passing sea-gull, and pulling down the corners of her mouth most forbiddingly.
"My disused and forgotten art comes back to me once in a while, my dear Mrs. Daniver," I answered exultantly. "Pray, do you notice how beautiful all the world is this morning? The sky is so wonderful, the sea so adorable, don't you see?"
"I see that we are a long way from home. Tell me, are these sharks here?"
"Oodles," said I, "and very large. No use trying to swim away. And yonder coast is inhabited only by hostile cannibals. Barataria itself, over yonder, is to-day no more than a shrimp-fishing village, part Chinese, part Greek and part Sicilian. The railway runs far to the north, and the ship channel is far to the east. No one comes here. It is days to Galveston, westward, and between lies a maze of interlocking channels, lakes and bayous, where boats once hid and may hide again. Once we unship our flag mast, and we shall lie so saucy and close that behind a bank of rushes we never would be seen. And we do not burn coal, and so make no smoke. Here is my chosen hiding ground. In short, madam, you are in my power!"
"But really, how far----"
"Since you ask, I will answer. Yonder, to the westward, a bayou comes into Cote Blanche. Follow that bayou, eighty miles from here, and you come to the house of my friend, Edouard Manning, the kindest man in Louisiana, which is to say much. I had planned to have the wedding there."
"Your effrontery amazes me--I doubt your sanity!" said Aunt Lucinda, horrified. "But what good will all this do you?"
She had a certain bravery all her own, after all. Almost, I was on the point of telling her the truth; which was that I had during the long night resolved once more to offer my hand to Helena, and if she now refused me, to accept my fate. I would torture her no more. No, if now she were still resolute, it was my purpose to sail up yonder bayou, to land at the Manning plantation, and there to part forever from Helena and all my friends. I knew corners of the world far enough that none might find me.
But I did not tell Aunt Lucinda this. Instead, I made no answer; and we both sat looking out over the rippling gulf, silent for some time.
I noted now a faint haze on the horizon inshore, like distant cloud-banks, not yet distinct but advancing. Aunt Lucinda, it seemed, was watching something else through the ship's glasses which she had picked up near by.
"What is that, over yonder?" asked she--"it looks like a wreck of some kind."
"It is a wreck--that of a lighthouse," I told her. "It is lying flat on its side, a poor attitude for a lighthouse. The great tidal wave of the gulf storm, four years ago, destroyed it. We are now, to tell the truth, at the edge of that district which causes the Weather Bureau much uncertainty--a breeding ground of the tropical cyclones that break between the Indies and this coast."
"And you bring us here?"
"Only to pass to the inner channels, madam, where we should be safer in case of storm. To-night, we shall anchor in the lee of a long island, where the lighthouse is still standing, in its proper position, and where we shall be safe as a church."
"Sharks! Storms! Shipwrecks!" moaned she.
--"And pirates," added I gently, "and cannibals. Yes, madam, your plight is serious, and I know not what may come of it all--I wish I did."
"Well, no good will come of it, one thing sure," said Aunt Lucinda, preparing to weep.
And indeed, an instant later, my mournful skipper seemed to bear her out. I saw Peterson standing expectant, a little forward, now.
"Well, Peterson?" I rose and went to him.