"That's what I say! What's charter money among friends? All right, if you can forgive half the charter fee, I'll forgive the other half, and----"
"What was in the letter from her?"
"It's none of your business, Harry--but still, I don't mind saying that Miss Emory wrote me and said that if I was still--oh! I say!" he roared, turning suddenly and poking a finger into my ribs, "if you haven't got on one of my waistcoats!"
"The one with pink stripes," said I still icily, "and deuced bad ones they all are. And these clothes I borrowed from my China boy. But then----"
"I see, you must have come in a hurry, eh?"
"Yes. But come now, old man, what's in that letter? I've got one of my own here, done in the same hand, hers. I am under sealed orders--until I shall have met you, which is now. So I suppose some sort of explanation is due on both sides. We might as well have it all out here, before we join the house party, so as to avoid any awkwardness."
"Oh, nothing in my letter to amount to anything," he replied. "Miss Emory only wanted to know if I'd please have her trunks shipped out here from New Orleans--only that; and she asked me please to bring her a box of marshmallows, as hers were all gone. She's polite, always, dear old Helena--she says, here, 'So pleasant is our journey in every way, and so kind have you gentlemen been, and so thoughtful in providing every luxury, that I can not think of a single thing I could ask for except some more marshmallows. Jimmy, the young imp, my nephew, you know, has found mine, though I hid them under both cushions in the stateroom.'"
I had my hat off, and was wiping my forehead. A sudden burst of glory seemed to me to envelope all the world. If there had been duplicity anywhere, I did not care.
"I suppose Jimmy is the one with two guns and a Jap sword, eh?" asked Davidson.
"No, the other one, God bless him! Is that all there was in the letter, Cal?"
"Yes. What's in yours? What's the game--button, button, who's got the girl? And can't you _open_ your letter now?"
"Yes," said I, and did so. It contained just two words (Helena afterward said she had not time to write more while Auntie Lucinda might be in from the other stateroom).[A]
"Well, what's it say, dash you!" demanded Cal Davidson. "Play fair now--I told, and so must you!"
"I'm damned if I do, Cal!" said I, and put it in my pocket. But I shook hands with him most warmly, none the less....
FOOTNOTE:
[A] (Those interested may find them later in the text.[B])
CHAPTER XLI
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."