But in a few moments I heard a faint sound at my door. I opened. There stood Partial in the dusk, gravely wagging his tail, looking at me without moving his head. And I saw that he held daintily in his mouth a dainty note, addressed to me in the same handwriting as that on the note I had sent out from the heartless jade to yon varlet. And it was sealed, and marked with instructions for its opening.... "When You Two Varlets Meet." No more.

"Peterson," said I, advancing to the forward deck, where I found him smoking, "I've been getting up some correspondence, since we'll be ashore by to-morrow noon——"

"—I don't know as to that, Mr. Harry."

"Well, I know about it. So, tell Williams that, even if he has to work all night, we must be moving as soon as it's light enough to see. I've got a very important message——"

"By wireless, Mr. Harry?" chuckled the old man.

"Yes, by wireless," (and I looked at Partial, who wagged his tail and smiled). "So I must get into Manning Island the first possible moment to-morrow. And Peterson, as we've had so good a run this trip, with no accident or misfortune of any kind, I don't know but I may make it a month or two extra pay—double—for you and Williams, and even John. And as to Willy, please don't fire him, Peterson, for his deserting the ship's cook the other night. In fact, I'm very glad, on the whole, he did. Give him double pay for doing it, Peterson!"

"Ain't this the wonderful age!" remarked Peterson to a star which was rising over the misty marsh. "Especial, now, that wireless!"

I only patted Partial on the head, and we smiled pleasantly and understandingly at each other. Of course, Peterson could not know what we knew.



CHAPTER XL

IN WHICH LAND SHOWS IN THE OFFING

Before the white sea mists had rolled away I was on deck, and had summoned a general conference of my crew.

"'Polyte," I demanded of our pilot, "how long before your partner will be at the lighthouse, below, there?"

"'Ow long?"

"Yes."

"Oh, maybe thees day sometam."

"And how long before he'll start back with the mail?"

"'Ow long?"

"Yes."

"Oh, maybe thees same day sometam."

"And how long will it take him to get back to some post-office with those letters?"

"'Ow long?"

"Yes."

"Oh, maybe those nex' day sometam."

"And then how long to the big railroad to New Orleans?"

"'Ow long?"

"Yes."

"Oh, maybe those nex' day too h'also sometam, heem."

"Then it will be three days, four days, before a letter could get from the lighthouse to New Orleans?"

"'Ow long?"

"Three or four days?"

"Oui, maybe so."

"And how long will it take us to get in to the plantation of Monsieur Edouard, above, there?"

"'Ow long?"

"Yes."

"H'I'll could not said, Monsieur. Maybe three four day—'sais pas."

"Holy Mackinaw!" I remarked, sotto voce.

"Pardon?" remarked 'Polyte respectfully. "Le Machinaw—que-est-que-ce-que-est, ca?"

"It is my patron saint, 'Polyte," I explained, and he crossed himself for his mistake.

"Suppose those h'engine he'll h'ron, we'll get in four five h'our h'all right, on Monsieur Edouard, yass," he added. "H'I'll know those channel lak some books."

By now Williams—who, judging by certain rappings, hammerings and clankings heard through the cabin walls back and above the engine-rooms, had been at work much of the night—had reported, and much to my pleasure had said he thought we could make it in at least to the Manning dock before further repairs would be needed. To prove which, he went down and "turned her over a time or two," as he expressed it. Whereupon I gave orders to break out the anchor, and knowing that any Cajun market hunter and shrimp fisher like 'Polyte can travel in any mist or fog before sunup by some instinct of his own, I took a chance and began to feel our way out to the mouth of the Manning channel before the morning mists were gone; so that we were at breakfast by the time the wide and gently rippling bay broke clear below us, and by magic, we saw the oak-crowned heights of the island dead ahead.

Thence on, within the walls of the deep dredged channel, all we had to do was to go sufficiently slow and follow the curves carefully, so that the heavy waves of our boat, larger than any intended for that channel, might not too much endanger the mud walls, or threaten wreckage to the frail stagings leading to the cabins of the half-aquatic trappers and fishers who dwell here in the marshes.

So, at last, after many windings and doublings, we came in at the rear of the timbered slopes, and could see the mansion houses and the offices of the stately old plantation, where dwelt my friend, Edouard Manning, who knew nothing of my coming.

After custom, I signaled loud and often with the boat's whistle, so that the men might come to the landing for us; and, in order that Edouard himself might be warned, I gave orders to my hardy mates to make proper nautical salute of honor.

"Cast loose the stern-chaser, Jean Lafitte," said I: "and do you and L'Olonnois load and fire her often as you like until we land; or until you burst her."

Gleefully they obeyed, and soon the roar of our deck gun echoed formidably along the slopes, as had no gun since the salt-seeking Union navy, in the Civil War, had pounded at the gates of Edouard's father: and until scores of coots and rail chattered in excited chorus for answer, and long clouds of wild ducks arose and circled over the marsh. Again and again, my bold mates loaded and fired: and now, turning back by chance from my own place at the wheel, I saw that they had assumed full character, and each with a red kerchief bound about his brow, was armed with, I dare not say how many, pistols, dirks, swords and cutlasses thrust through his belt or otherwise suspended on his person.

I saw now the two ladies, their fingers in their ears, also on deck, protesting at this cannonading at their cabin door; and so I raised my hat to a very radiant and radiantly appareled Helena, for the first time that day; and heard the answer of L'Olonnois to the dour protest of Auntie Lucinda.

"We follow Black Bart the Avenger, an' let any seek to stop us at their per-rul! Jean, run up the flag, while I load her up again."

And Jean having once more hoisted the skull and cross-bones at our masthead, and assumed a specially savage scowl as he stood with folded arms on our bow deck, we made what a mild imagination might have called rather an impressive entry as we swept into the Manning landing.

I was not surprised to see Edouard himself there, and his wife, and some thirty odd dogs and as many blacks, waiting for us at the wharf. Nor was I surprised to see that all seemed somewhat to marvel at our manner of advent, though I knew that Edouard, through his field-glasses, had recognized both my boat and myself long before we made the last curve and came gently in to the wharf where the grinning darkies could catch our line.

What did surprise me—and perhaps for a time I may have shown surprise—was to see, in all this gay throng, two forms not usual on the Manning landing. One was the elegantly garbed and rather stunning figure of Sally Byington; and the other the robust, full-bodied, gorgeously arrayed form of my old friend, Cal Davidson! How or why they came there I could not for the moment guess.

"'Tis he—yon varlet!" I heard a stern voice hiss at my ear. "Beshrew me, but it shall go hard with him! I'm loading her up with marbles now!" But I had no more than time to persuade my two lieutenants to modify this purpose, and partially to disarm themselves, before the two groups were mingling, with much chattering and laughing and gay saluting.

Edouard, hat in hand, was on deck before our fenders touched the wharf, laughing and grasping my hands and looking up at my flag.

"I knew you were coming," said he. "Fact is, all the country's been looking for you. Davidson just got in a couple of hours ago—and you know his lady is an old friend of Mrs. Manning's. And——"

He was shaking the hands of Mrs. Daniver and Helena almost before I could present them. Auntie Lucinda bestowed upon him the gaze of a solemn and somewhat tear-stained visage (though I saw distinct approval on her face as she caught sight of the great mansion house among the giant oaks, and witnessed the sophisticatedness of the group on the landing, and the easy courtesy of Edouard himself).

"By Jove! old man!" the latter found time to say to me, "I congratulate you—she's away beyond her pictures." He did not mean Mrs. Daniver; and he never had seen Helena before. I could only press his hand and attempt no comment as to the congratulations, for part of that was a matter which yet rested in a sealed envelope in my pocket; and at best it must be three or four days.... But then, with a great flash of arrested intelligence, it was borne in upon me that perhaps, after all, it was not so much a question of the tardy United States mails! Because yon varlet, fat and saucy, and well content with life, already, by some means and for some reason, had outrun the mails. He was here, and we had met. It need not be four days before I could learn my fate.... I reached into my pocket and looked at my sealed orders. No matter what Davidson's letter held, here was Davidson himself.

"Oh, I say, there, you Harry, confound you!" roared Davidson to me in his great voice above the heads of everybody. "I say, what did I tell you?"

Now I had not the slightest idea what Davidson had told me, nor what he meant by waving a paper over his head. "They've signed Dingleheimer for next year! Now what do you think of that? World's championship, and good old Dingleheimer for next year—I guess that's pretty poor for them little old Giants, what?" And he smiled like one devoid of all care as well as of all reason.

I myself smiled just a moment later—after I had greeted the Manning ladies, had seen Helena step up and kiss Sally Byington fervently, directly on the cheek, whose too keen coloring I once had heard her decry; had slapped Edouard joyously on the shoulders and pointed to my pirate flag and gloomy black-visaged crew—I say I also smiled suddenly when I felt a hand touch me on the shoulder.

'Polyte, the pilot, stood, cap in hand, and asked me to one side.

"Pardon, Monsieur," said he, "but those gentilhommes—those fat one—ees eet she'll was Monsieur Davelson who'll H'I'll got letter on heem from those lighthouse, heem?"

"Why, yes, 'Polyte—the letter you said would take four days to get to New Orleans."

'Polyte smiled sheepishly. "He'll wouldn't took four days now, Monsieur! H'I'll got it h'all those letter here. H'I'll change the coat on the lighthouse, maybe, h'an H'I'll got the coat of Guillaume witt' h'all those letter in her, yass?" And he now handed me the entire packet of letters, which I had supposed left far behind us on the previous day!

I took the letters from him, and handed all of them but one to Edouard's old body servant to put in the office mail. The remaining one I held in the same hand with its mate: and I motioned Davidson aside to a spot under a live oak as the other began now slowly to move toward the path from the landing up the hill.

"This is for you," said I, handing him his letter; and told him how it came to him thus.

"It's from Helena—dear old girl, isn't she a trump, after all!" he said, tearing open the letter and glancing at it.

"She is a dear girl, Mr. Davidson," said I, stiffly, "yes."

"Why, of course—yes, of course I'd have done it, if I'd got this before I left the city," said he, "but how can I now?"—holding the letter open in his hand.

"Do you mean to tell me," I began, but choked in anger mixed with uncertainty. What was it she had asked of him, offered to him? And was not Helena's wish a command.

"Yes, I mean to tell you or any one else, I'd do a favor to a lady if I could; but——"

"What favor, Mr. Davidson?" I demanded icily.

"Well, why 'Mr. Davidson'? Ain't I your pal, in spite of all the muss you made of my plans? Why, I'm damned if I'll pay you the charter money at all, after the way you've acted, and all——"

"Mr. Davidson, damn the charter money!"

"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."

"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.

THE END